Molten Rails

After some research I determined that the Dust Bowl ghost town of Deerfield would make for a great setting for golden hour. But even though the weather cooperated this evening, things can still go off the rails. Somehow, the vast plains and straight roads that ran off into the horizon were too confusing for me. I took a wrong exit (and probably the only exit I could screw up on), and didn’t realize my mistake for almost 40 miles, until I started to suspect I should have seen signs for the abandoned town by then.

I found the small, small farm town of Byers, CO to be a charming little cluster of buildings amid the vast prarie. With the sun getting low I started to look for a grain elevator or some such thing to shoot. I settled on an intersection where some train tracks were at. The angle was just right where the tracks led off into the horizon right where the sun was setting, so the metal tracks reflected this amazing gold light and looked as if they had just been forged and laid down without time to cool.

The telephoto lens can make out the Rockies far off in the distance.

Crimson and ember at the edge of a storm. Right around the time I took this, someone texted me and we talked about self-discipline in a world of modern abundance. This was the perfect place to have that conversation - my restless self couldn’t have been more content in the moment.

Rez Radio

I woke up at 6am in the Valley of the Monuments, almost the exact moment that the sun rose above the horizon. It was serene.

But, it was all clear skies and I didn't get any amazing colorful sunrise except a redder color. It lasted only a few moments before the desert filled up with yellow sunlight, so I drove on farther into the Navajo Nation. Once upon a time the Navajo were Alaskan and part of the Athabascan people, until a portion of them embarked on a migration south over generations. Many of the words between the two languages are similar, though Athabascan words like the one for canoe have disappeared from the Navajo language because they hardly have use for one here.

With the vibrant sunrise passed into history I headed south, listening to the rez radio which is a mix of Indian drumming and singing, health announcements, and… country music. They sure love their country music down here, and it’s common to hear a chant honoring a grandfather followed by Shania Twain.

After miles of endless featureless Arizona desert the itch to hike became unbearable, and I pulled over in Rough Rock at the first road that looked like a trailhead. It was a rez road and bumpy and bumpy as all hell and no place for cars. It winded along a mountainside and I pulled over at a small pull-off and concealed the Escape behind a huge rock so that the handful of people I saw on the road wouldn't screw with it. I made a blind hike to the top of a nearby mountain through dense shrubs, but the view at the top was obscured by other mountains around us. No vantage point here. Doh! I did hike naked though, which I haven't done since I was at Wildrose Peak in Death Valley many years ago. Even though the ground was bone dry, dusty, and covered in hellish cactus barbs that would stick into my skin, it was still a pretty good hike.

Content with my hike I returned to the empty highway and continued south. As I was driving through Chinle the graduating class of the local high school was all throughout the town decorating their cars. Awesome, way to go graduates.

And I encountered another thing in town that I’ve grown up hearing about but never seen first hand since Alaska doesn’t have reservations (except for one that’s a special case). Rez dogs. With their shared ancestry, I imagine that the Navajo have similar views to the Athabascan (or at least pre-contact Athabascan) where it’s considered unfair to an animal or anyone really to restrain them. So they wander, free.

A few hours past Gallup, New Mexico I heard the closing ceremony of another high school’s graduation on the rez and a student officer recited a blessing wishing all native Americans across all states well. They also said that those that leave the Forsaken Mountains and those that stay are both blessed by them. I’m glad I got to listen to the communities celebrate the achievements of their upcoming generation, though boy am I drained by this desert landscape. I miss the forests already and I’ve only been gone a day! I crossed the Colorado state line and entered the mountains again, stopping in Durango to stretch my legs again before heading north to Silverton. The landscape is chock full of verdant green grass and birch trees and it feels like I’m in Alaska all of a sudden. I’m blown away by the abrupt change in scenery and I can't believe sunbaked Arizona is just beyond these mountains.

Colorado is truly an island of mountains amid a desert of plains.

Avalanches

Christmas Eve. Left the town of Golden and headed to Lake Louise, listening to Canada Public Radio along the way. Bill Brycen, author of The Body Book, was talking about how there are 8,000 ways a human can die, and you survive all of them except for one. He also said humans have 650,000 hours to live - it made me think that maybe I was wasting my allocation in that moment, even as I drove through British Columbia to photograph the Canadian Rockies. The road was closed right ahead of me by a man wearing a hard hat and dressed like a construction worker. I thought it was an odd time to being doing construction in the middle of winter until I heard a thunderous BOOM! A huge rush of snow rolled down the mountain about a quarter of a mile in front of me before crossing the road ahead. I realized they were doing avalanche control, which I’ve never seen firsthand before. A helicopter buzzed overhead, surveying the work of the demo crew. Awesome to the max!

Continued on once the road reopened and got a park pass in Lake Louise before doubling back to the town of Field, where I had lunch at the Truffle Pig. The waitress was a cute brunette. She was super new but said she likes it and the job keeps her brain active. Strapped on the snowshoes and hit up Yoho National Park. Made it to the far side of Emerald Lake and hiked through waist deep snow to reach an amazing vista of frozen waterfalls.

The sun went down and I had a longggggg hike through the dark silence back to the lot. I was freaked out they were going to close the gate and lock me in for the night, but when I got back there were still a lot of cars there and the lodge looked open. It was such a relief to see that. Got checked into the Lake Louise Inn. Now this place has an interesting setup - there’s an indoor pool that the rooms all face and have windows to on one side, and on the other side of the pool its bordered by the front desk area and a restaurant above it. My bed and room on the first floor can be peered into from the pool, front desk, and restaurant when the blinds are open. Watched xmas night TV and it was a recap of Wayne Gretzky breaking the NHL scoring record from Gordie Howe. I love Canada. In the next day I’ll head to Calgary, Canada’s version of Denver. It takes its name from a Viking word meaning “cold garden”.

Drifting through the Ghost Forest

Went up to Boulder and did research at the library for my book before leaving. A massive snow storm had moved into the area and a severe weather advisory was in effect. This seems like a good time to go out, so I parked at Flatiron Vista and put the snowshoes on to meet it. And what a storm it was! Fog would wind through the forest, obscuring some trees while revealing others. The snow and wind were both so intense that even when standing still, the forest would move around me as parts came and went in the blizzard.

I was so enthralled by how basic snow and trees could combine together in such compelling ways that I spent 5 hours out there, just traipsing through it all on the snowshoes. I didn’t realize so much time had gone by until it started to get dark, and FAST. I ended up getting lost out there and wasn’t sure which way was which. My dramatic mind started to think of the Nahani, the Athabaskan legend of those that become lost in the forest and taken by the evil spirits of the woods, turning their victims into their kind. It didn’t help that the snowshoeing started to get real rough since my feet weren’t used to the new boots I had. With the last of the light fading I started to think I’d have to spend the night in the blizzard. But at last, I found a trail! And I saw lights far off in the distance. Civilization had not been erased by the storm.

I followed the trail and finally made it back to the lot, which by this time it was excruciating to pick up my feet as I walked with the snowshoes. There was another vehicle parked in the lot, and a young guy got out of it when I made it to the lot. He had just called 911 on me because he saw my empty car in the lot and thought someone was stranded out there. I was immensely grateful he did that for me and made a point of letting him know that, even though nothing had happened. I’d hate if someone had to go out in the storm to chase me down. I drove home in the storm at a slow pace and finally made it back late at night. It felt amazing to stop walking! Nothing feels better than the sudden absence of pain. I gave myself some huge blisters on this trip, but its good to break myself in for Calgary next month.

Apples of the American Side

Work was INSANE. It took all my patience and fortitude to not swipe the laptop off the hotel room’s desk and head out into the wilds and live wild. But I persevered and pulled through the crunch session. I logged off and left the Cour d’Alene hotel behind and stopped in Post Falls to have lunch with my boy, the future lawyer. He tells me he managed to get kicked out of Irvine Law School, one of the top schools in the country, over a damn foolish Instagram post he made about guns and asking if anyone wanted to come learn about the 2nd amendment in person. It went viral, showed up on the local news, and there was even talk about charging him as a domestic terrorist. So he's been contending with that for the past year and trying to figure out what to do with his life. He's frustrated that he's living with his parents while his younger peers are getting jobs starting at $200K. Poor bastard, that's tough and he alone is the cause of all that turbulence. After a long talk we said our goodbyes and I left confident that he’ll figure out his path.

The drive west to the Okanagan was stellar. I’ve always loved Washington State and I even lived here for a few years, a few years ago. As the wheels on the car continued to spin, open fields turned into apple orchards of which I’ve never seen in all my time here. How I would have loved to pick one of those apples straight off the branch!

Eventually the orchards turned into rolling hills and I made my way into Tonasket to meet my own source of turbulence (of which I’ve contributed to magnificently myself). Now wasn’t the time for antics though, and I worked alongside her setting up tables and chairs for her mom’s funeral in the next day. It seems like the natural condition is a sullen one, punctuated by brief moments of lightheartedness. As we finished up our work I said goodbye for now, and left my work laptop with her since I didn't want to take it north across the border (and doing so could cause an international incident; we had one happen just a few weeks earlier when some lad brought his laptop to Canada).

Right before I crossed the border I realized I had an open bottle of vodka in my bag so I hastily stopped at a patch of woods on the road right before customs to hide it. I crossed the border without issue and the customs officer had a strong Canadian accent that highlighted the “o’s”. I pulled into Osoyoos around 9pm and realized my phone didn't work on the local network, and I couldn’t pull up directions to the hotel. Luckily I was able to find a picture I had taken when I booked it of the hotel's address and then was able to navigate there by looking at street names throughout the small town. The guy at the front desk got excited when I handed him my Colorado ID and he saw that I was an American. He said he stayed at the 12 Tribes Casino in Omak the night before and somehow giddily explained that he didn't win much money there. I was happy to hear he didn’t lose any though, because I’d feel partly responsible as the local representative of some 300+ million Americans. I’m all about avoiding international incidents.

I got settled in the room and then went downtown to the local bar and then Boston's Pizza. There are typically nice Canadians everywhere, and it's cool to see TSN and all the hockey games on the screens. Some player got a huge 6-year deal in the NHL, and was grinning ear to ear on the TV. The other patrons looked just as happy as him too, even if they weren’t watching the TV. There’s a carefree attitude here tonight.

In the light of the next day I was able to take inventory of my surroundings, and saw that the rolling hills of the American side had reached a crescendo on the Canadian side. I visited the mountains for the afternoon before crossing the border and then on to the funeral. Perhaps this liminal land was where my brief moments of lightheartedness began and ended.

Storms of Fields and Heart

Cascading light jumped across cloud bellies as the dark sky grumbled. I could only listen under the thick blanket of clouds that blocked out moonlight, blind to it all. Then the storm crackled and lightning fell from the sky, and in a moment the Nebraska plains materialized from jet night. A nearby barn I hadn’t seen was lit up like high noon before disappearing into the black again. Another bolt tears across the eastern sky and it looks like early morning for a moment with the angle of the shadows. I watched with eyes wide like a child’s, awed by lightning tearing through different parts of the sky and casting shadows at different angles and lengths, as if the storm’s intensity had broken the structure of time and the same farm kept appearing but at different times of day, yet always in the 18th-century Baroque style of painting with ultra-high contrasts of light and dark. Boris Brejcha’s Tomorrowland set was erupting from the speakers, and the electric rush from the skies and the music was on par with any line I’ve ever done. I watched and listened raptly and my neck began to ache as the flashes of light pulsed from moment to moment across hours, showing me the intensity and stamina of the electric storms of the plains that I’ve heard of but never seen first-hand. My basic sloth-like photography skills were no match for the dynamic complexity of the storm, but it makes me want to go back when I know what I’m doing.

That night I parked in the empty lot of the White River Visitor Center and watched the storm play out over the rest of the night. It was so strange - there was a constant barrage of light flashing across the sky yet never any thunder.

The next morning I woke up outside the White River visitor center on the rez. After a propane-cooked breakfast I headed west to the overlook, driving through terrain so muddy and atmosphere so muggy that it felt like Costa Rica again. Now Cesaria Evora is playing through the Escape’s speakers and she’s adding to the tropical vibes.

I loved this overlook not only for the views, but it was a peculiar little meeting ground of adventurers and wanders. I encountered a young guy I had seen earlier at the visitor center and he asked me to take his picture, explaining while I did so that he was from Indiana and moving to Cali. He left after a few minutes to meet his future, and shortly after an old couple appeared and asked for their picture too. People always do this when they see a photographer nearby, but I don’t mind if they offer a good story for my time and these two did. They’ve been road tripping the last 2 weeks from New Mexico to Yellowstone and stopping at everything that interests them in between. Judging from the looks of them I thought they had been married for decades, but she had been married to another man for 47 years and he to another woman for 51. Both their partners had passed away in the last couple years though, and he explained that the woman with him now had been his first girlfriend back in the day and they had reconnected. They were both giddy like little kids as he told their story. Oh, how they shined! And I wonder what their first date half a century ago was like? I’m imagining a malt beverage while Ritchie Valens plays in the background and maybe a drive-in movie theater afterwards, if he played his cards right. Which I’m sure he did.

After leaving the overlook I went a bit north past the national park and took a grassy primitive road to where I thought there might be another overlook. The little Escape puttered through the soggy earth of the narrow trail. Get stuck here and I’d have to dig myself out and maybe wait for days for the road to dry out so I could reverse out of it. I started to get nervous until a creek barred the way farther, so I got out and hiked around the giant field that is North Dakota and soon found myself in some deep mud.

Eventually a 4-wheel cart with a family pulled up next to me and a guy asked if I knew I was on the rez. I said no (even though I knew I was) and he asked if I was picking up rocks with the others. I wasn’t sure what he was on about - maybe he was trying to bait me into a confession of taking pieces of the land? I told him I was alone and showed him the non-rock camera gear I was carrying. He took off.

I continued through rolling fields shining with the golden glow of the one type of plant that seems to have mastered the land. When evening rolled around I was able to back the Escape up to a section where the trail bifurcated and turn around on it and leave. I’ll admit that the whole time I was in the field I was thinking about whether I’d be able to leave or not.

Another storm rolled in at dusk as I headed west back towards my home base of the parking lot at the White River visitor center. The rain started and quickly turned into a torrential choking downpour of which even the most ardent pluviophile would have cowered from. I almost hit a duck that was sitting in the middle of the dark road and I questioned myself and whether I was seeing things, but then a few seconds later I saw two more doing the same thing. I've never seen them do that before. Made it to the home base and passed out for the night in the back of the Escape listening to water pound the metal roof.

When I woke up the next morning my eyes were crusted shut from my allergies and I had to pry them apart to see the clear skies. I gobbled more propane-heated oatmeal and set out for the badlands, passing the body of one of the ducks that had been on the road the night before. I realize now why they had been there - the center of the road was the highest elevation across the entire plains and they were taking refuge from the rising water.

A few friends had mentioned Custer State Park as a gorgeous must-see place, so I plugged the directions into the GPS and took a mountainous twisty road there for the adventure it offered. I didn’t realize what waited for me on en route though. I knew Mount Rushmore was in the state, and in my ignorance I ended up right in the dark heart of this awful place. I wouldn’t have thought I could hate a park so much, but this one proves me wrong.

Each of the men who’s likeness was carved into the face of the Six Grandfathers (what the mountain was originally by before its desecration) were part of Manifest Destiny, authorizing the destruction of Indian settlements, passing legislation to seize lands, and initiating the largest execution of indigenous their country had and has ever seen. The original sculptor shared the same sentiment as these men, too. Gutzon Borglum was a KKK-funded white supremacist who had come here from the South after carving the likenesses of Confederates Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson into another mountain during the KKK’s rebirth. And even the name “Rushmore” is a joke - a visiting lawyer from New York had joked that it was called Mount Rushmore after himself, and the name has remained since.

As I drove along the winding mountain road under the watch of the faces I made a conscious effort not to look at them as I continued south to Custer State Park. The name always bothered me, but in an era where Confederate statues are taken down and sports teams with indigenous mascots are reinvented, I figured I could look past it. But despite the enchanting beauty of the mountain sides that my friends were right about, my mood became even more sullen at the visitor center, which was affront to history. In their efforts to package and sell an experience they omitted anything non-white. No information on Wounded Knee, the Trail of Tears, or a single mention of the Sioux or Lakota was present, unless it was presented as background information on just another adversary/hardship the original settlers faced. Hanging on the wall near the entrance was a movie poser for How the West was Won.

I left there disheartened again, traveling to a nearby town where I realized that I hadn’t seen a single Indian since leaving the Pine Ridge rez. It wasn’t until stopping at a gas station that I saw another. Her long sable hair was draped over her shoulders and she looked down as she walked across the lot. She looked defeated, thought it could have been my mind’s eye that saw that. I wouldn’t blame her for feeling that way, living in sacred land yet under the ever-watching gaze of men that prosecuted Manifest Destiny. I hate how they treated the land and the people here, and how they treat them still.

This excursion has all been so confusing for me. Who am I angry at? The Park Service for continuing to gloss over history? Or the other visitors who come here to escape their own mundane worlds, as I do now? Or the original sculptor with his ties to the KKK that desecrated the mountain with his dynamite? Or the white supremacists whose faces are etched into the rock face? And further, what resolution could I want now? To take more dynamite to it? It still has value, and each visitor sees something different in it - some see beautiful art, some see men to aspire to, others just see they’re not in the office at work. To sate my misgivings would I destroy what brings families together?

Fuck, I just don’t know.

Right then I decided it was time to head home. I could have stayed a few more days but I felt defeated. I drove south across the plains and came across a little town in Nebraska next to a lake… with a lighthouse. I’m in my element with a camera in hand and golden hour on the other side of the lens, but I don’t feel the elation I usually feel with the marriage of these elements. For the first time in a long while I feel truly alone.

It Says Ford on the Front

I woke up at 11am feeling decent, despite having crashed out just before 5am. I licked my wounds during the afternoon and come evening, packed my gear into the little old Nissan in anticipation of another trip into the mountains. But when I turned the keys in the ignition nothing happened. Silence.

#^%@!!

#^%@#*@ $@^#!!!

I couldn't get the damn thing to start despite my best efforts, even going so far as to let the car roll into the middle of the parking lot to try to unlock the ignition system (eventually the 70-year old neighbor had to steer it back into the parking spot while another neighbor and one of his friends helped me push it). I'm so fucking tired of this car's drama. After this debacle I rushed back inside and Googled nearby car dealerships. Casey gave me a boost to a nearby one and we made it there 40 minutes before they closed. I did a nervous, yet studious, jog about the lot, looking like someone who had had too much coffee and needed to find a bathroom. In the corner I found something that said Ford on the front, and peering through the window it looked like I could sleep in the back. This is a life goal for me.

I ran to the office and made an offer to a salesman I found and we put it on the credit card. I rolled out, eager to make sunset. I’ll deal with life later.

Got to Chatfield in time for sunset! It was a great day after all.

Enter the sky.

Late for Golden Hour

Packed up the car and got ready for a trip out to the desert. Seeing all the gear in the trunk makes me realize how committed I’ve become to these little excursions. It’s good to have a hobby that doesn’t involve logging in to something (granted post processing requires software but the overall process still gets me out there).

The drive out ate up two and a half hours, plus time spent in my favorite watering hole in Alamosa for a late lunch before making it to my sandy destination. Great Sand Dunes National Park is home of the tallest sand dunes in North America, the result of a complex geological process that I’d need a chalkboard to explain it (and fully understand it myself). Essentially what happens is that the surrounding mountain ranges funnel converging winds together into this one pocket, where they deposit leftover sand from receding lakes that they had picked up, causing the dunes to grow vertically. It makes for an astounding dunefield at the foot of these mountains that one wouldn’t expect if they were just passing through. While gawking at the fields, I followed a primitive trail to the end of where 2-wheel vehicles are allowed and got out and stretched. Suddenly the ground was saturated in pink hues and I looked up to see that the cloud systems had caused golden hour to start ahead of schedule. All my gear is all in the trunk, I’m out of position, and my settings aren’t dialed in. Wait, WAIT!

Noooooooo!

I grabbed the camera and sprinted down the hill to try to make it past the trees, shooting frenzied pictures like a mad man as I descended. But it was too late. By the time I made it past the trees the light was gone.

I’ll forever be haunted by this picture and the knowledge of what could have been achieved.

I simply cannot believe how stellar this sunset was with its crimson and periwinkle and peach and golden hues, all coexisting at once over the gorgeous dunes. It was a hard lesson to learn about showing up early and scouting out an area for composition. I put so much time and effort into being here for it and I wasted it all.

Damn.

Well, life goes on. After sunset I went down to the creek and took long exposures and got a cool shot of people with flashlights hopping over the water and sand. I played around with the camera settings and while some effects were intentional, others I’m not sure what the hell I did. But I like ‘em, and I learned a bit about night photography. If at the end of the day I’ve emerged a better person than I was at the start of it, then I can say the day wasn’t wasted.

The Silenced City

Hung out at the house in the morning and tried to figure out if I should go North, East, South, or West for the day to shoot.  I ended up heading up towards Nederland and stopped at Golden Gate Canyon State Park, and picked up an annual state park pass for $120.  I can't wait to see all of these parks finally, especially Roxborough.  I drove around the park a bit but didn't find much photo-worthy from the side of the road at the middle of the day, save for a little red barn with a snowed-in courtyard area.  Spent the rest of the day at the ghost town north of Nederland, where the Nissan got stuck on an icy part of the road and I had to dig it out with rocks.  I noticed that half of my tread was missing when I was under the car, and it made me nervous about getting stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Would I become a ghost of this place too?

Eventually I got the car unstuck after much effort, and hiked to the top of the nearest mountain with the snowshoes.

I just barely missed the sunset but I did capture some amazing shots of foliage on the peak in dusk.

Ice Fog in Light and Dark

This is my first trip home since getting into photography, and I realize now what a different challenge this place is for a landscape shooter. The the local terrain is decidedly underwhelming with its rolling hills and lack of features, but the most contentious part is the lack of light. No other place I’ve traveled has winter days like these, where the sun skirts just briefly over the horizon. But there is so little light here that it in itself becomes profound. For most people the long dark is incredibly taxing, and Seasonal Affective Disorder is a real danger. But I altogether immune to it and even thrive in the dark. In the same way that some people are drawn to pineapple on a pizza, I am in love with the dark. I used to work north of the Arctic Circle at a little pipeline station where I did two weeks on, two weeks off. I was assigned night shift and worked from 7pm-7am each day, so during the winter rotations I wouldn’t see the sun the whole time. Being acclimated to the night shift it would take a few days to get back on to a regular schedule when I got home, so I’d only see daylight a few days a month. I absolutely loved it. And now, on these frigid winter days where it’s too cold to snow and the lingering clouds cloak the starlight, I thrive on the dark. In the frigid cold it sometimes feels like the distance between streetlights, neon signs, the glow of TVs through people’s windows, is no less than the distance between stars in the vast of night.

Not a soul around, but lights abound. At cold temperatures the humidity in the air freezes and forms ice fog.

Staying warm is a challenge though! It’s -45F and I had to keep the camera battery in my jacket next to my body to keep it warm so it doesn’t freeze. And any time I come in from the field I have to put the Canon in an airtight sandwich bag as it acclimatizes over a 115F temperature change. The last thing a photographer wants is condensation forming inside their camera. And worst of all are the trips going out into the field for nothing! One night I got up at 4AM and went out to Poker Flats for a vivid aurora the geophysical institute predicted. I waited alone in the dark and cold but turned in after 30. I got back to the hotel an hour later without having taken a single picture. But it is worth it for me, if only to see home first hand and experience this short life.

Pedestrian bridge by Alaskaland. This one made the local newspaper and I’m quite proud of that.

Overcast sky in the glow of the city’s old sodium lights.

Pure Vida

Brrrr… Costa Rica is cold! I could see my breath in the restaurant and the employees all had winter jackets on. As we were heading back to the BnB we found a lone cop car with the hazards on, lighting up alternating sides of the forest, one in red, the other in blue. It was surreal, like a scene from a Blade Runner sequel except set in Costa Rica. A utility truck was parked in the entry way to our place when we got back so we pulled up to a hill that overlooked the activity and saw a transformer had blown. After a while the truck left and went got into the BnB and there was no power, so we crashed out at 8PM with the sound of the winter storm howling across the rooftop.

But then the sun returns! The country looks like its straight out of the pages of a vacation brochure again. With warmth restored, we gathered our things and talked to the bnb owner on our way out, who explained that a cow had stomped on the power line last night. Suddenly I’m in the mood for a burger.

We took off in the rental car over country roads and through tropical jungle, occasionally punctuated by small villages where the sound of cheering football fans and scent of wood fires emerged from each. And everywhere the air is heavy with the fragrance of tropical flowers. The roads feel Alaskan, as does the traffic over them. There are so many pot holes here that it's like a video game trying to avoid them, and most of the vehicles here are either 4WD or old cars. My frugal ‘96 Nissan 200sx would fit in here since many of the cars are Sentras, the 4-door variant. My car’s generation must have died out in Colorado 15 years ago, but here it seems like every 4th car is one of the old Nissans. We’ve been rolling an absolute gem of a rental car ourselves: an early-2000’s Daihatsu 4x4 with 160,000 miles on it. It was one of the best the rental agency had, and a reminder that Costa Rica is very much a developing country.

After miles of dirt and rock we arrived at the national park where the rain forest is thriving and full of a never-ending chorus of chattering insects and singing birds. There is so much life in one place, and walking along the pathways under dense choking tree canopy reminds one how insignificant they are. Just hiking them feels like the Forest Temple from Ocarina of Time (I’ll lose a couple of you with that reference but it’s an accurate description). Stretches of dark shaded trail suddenly give way to a rickety bridge or exposed cliff, and one emerges into the light again as if they’ve been cave spelunking.

Bouts of rain and sunshine drifted over the rain forest and gorgeous arachnids that are absolutely enormous. Seriously, this is the Forest Temple.

It was all so therapeutic until a passing troupe of howler monkeys found us and one of them started to bomb me with nuts. At least it was only nuts…

But past the aerial assailants are cerulean waters with some of the bluest hues I have ever seen.

After leaving the eco farm we drove north to La Fortuna, stopping at a small restaurant on the way where a cute girl served me the pancakos her mom made.

The new place boasts the capacity for a couple hundred and sprawling manicured lawns with ornate tropical landscaping lay throughout the grounds. The landscape architect is an absolute devil of a genius and to be commended. But despite the new place’s capacity, there’s no one else here except the two of us and the staff. It feels like a tropical version of The Shining, complete with maddening landscaping. I poured myself drinks at the bar while the wind howls overhead.

After leaving the hauntingly empty massive hotel the next day we found a nearby hot springs where a hilarious Indian (the other kind - dot, not feather) guy got into our pool with his family. He told them it was a private pool that I had warmed for them and that he had paid me for access. Hah! Fucking guy, I love him. After the bubbling water, we head west to the Pacific coast and Tamarindo.

The beach across from the hotel was full of tourists, so I walked south on the beach and collected dentalium shells, the same kind of shells that were a currency in Alaska back when a Russian flag flew overhead. I didn't make it far before finding a cove and laying down and conking out after getting whipped by the beating sun. After a while a man showed up and from what I could tell, he was telling me not to sleep here. I thought he was a policeman, but realized he was just a local and that he only spoke Spanish. That minor inconvenience didn’t stop us from having a conversation for almost half an hour where we scrawled things in the sand. He taught me some Spanish and then pointed to the crowded beach and said “mucho Americanos”. Then he pointed the other way and said “tranquilo”. After saying goodbye to him I went towards tranquilo.

I took the chance to write on the beach, which made me think of how Hunter S. Thompson must have had a similar experience writing the Rum Diaries in Puerto Rico. There were French-speaking people here that made me want to go to some French-speaking Caribbean island next.

Next and last, the capital. Even in the main city of San Jose many of the streets are dark, yet they have services like Uber Eats. At night I head to a grungy bar where I wouldn’t presume to try to get them to understand English, so I acknowledge the bartender with a nod and hastily point at the first can I see on the shelf behind him and read the label.

“Smirnoff Ice.”

Ah, fuck. I settled in and watched bull wrangling on TV. Between rounds they have kiss-cam and show couples making out in the stands.

But this night there’s a wave of euphoria, cresting off a swell of downtown energy from a strange city, fireworks exploding outside our flat, a scandalous cocktail dress, and the always rejuvenating New Years holiday that wipes the slate clean and delivers a fresh start. The first night of the new year starts.

Window on China

The fork danced gingerly over the scales, hesitantly prodding and probing the remains, verifying the creature that watched me from the plate was really dead. I could see my unsure reflection in its bulging glassy eye. It was late in the night and I was out of options and I knew it though. We had scoured the nearby blocks for an eatery and this was the only one still open. I was absolutely famished after one airplane meal after another as the international flight flew counter to the Earth’s rotation, condensing two days into 36 hours. Borderline feral from hunger, I brought the dead fish to my lips, took a final breath, and let a soft chunk of its flesh swim down my throat and into my gullet.

Fuck, it’s going to be a long two weeks here.

We had met our first challenge right after getting settled in the Beijing hotel and heading out into the city for dinner. I can’t read Mandarin but after looking at the other tables around us, it didn’t seem like any of the characters on the menu indicated bacon cheeseburger. Luckily a tech-savvy guy in our group came in clutch and opened a translator app on his phone that translated in real-time the characters on the menu so that the video on the screen looked like we were filming a menu in English. The local Chinese in this hole-in-the-wall joint, already impressed by the presence of foreigners, oooh’d and ahhhh’d as they looked at us and our phone app (I’m claiming the phone for all of us). They all had phones with that could download apps like this too, but they had little reason to do so in this working-class neighborhood in the heart of China. They were evidently familiar with photo-editing technology though, because I ordered something called “The Big Fish” and it came out looking nothing like how it looked like on the menu. It looked like something that would be dredged out of the local reservoir back in Colorado, and gave me the evil eye the whole time I ate it.

After the Forbidden City and Tienanmen Square we visited the Museum of China, the flagship museum of the country. I’ve never seen such high ceilings before. In the museum I saw stone carvings from the Song Dynasty, depicting maids and servants in everyday life 1,000 years ago, doing things like holding makeup mirrors and wine jugs. I’m also told that they even had a corner on the Chinese Space Program. Damn! I was hung up on the stone carvings and I missed it.

But I didn’t come here to be just a tourist. Accompanying me are my grad school peers, MBA students that have come to witness a country advance itself into the world's economic forefront. To accomplish this, we take planes, trains, and automobiles across the country to see the emerging business climate under the guidance and tutelage of our professor who grew up here. To date, there has been nothing as horizon-expanding in my adult life as seeing the greatness of a capital city of another superpower. Days are spent visiting businesses and becoming individually more humble. I’m amazed by the technological evolution of this country, and this MBA trip has offered the perfect opportunity to see it. At IBM they talked about a project they’re working on to install video cameras for an agricultural company, which will monitor the color of the leaves and provide an early warning system that will indicate when growing conditions are sub-optimal. At a travel company they talked about their efforts developing electronic tour guides in the form of apps that can determine a traveler’s location down to the meter and use machine learning to develop hour-by-hour itineraries, guiding them and offering explanations and insight to attractions along their way. They’re working with car companies to integrate their technology and think that in 3-5 years the app could let an automated car take over as the travel guide.

Only cameras are watching the empty line.

At Bao Steel we only saw only a single man on the entire half-mile long production line. Everything was automated, from the transport of the steel along the line to the heating and cooling to the final product rolling out. A robotic arm tagged each completed steel role while a line of trucks waited outside to receive them. It wasn’t until this point that humans were involved, and I’m sure that will change soon too. Next, we visited a GM assembly line where robots all worked in rhythm to the sounds of electronic tones and beeping synthetic music playing in the warehouse’s speakers. The bots seemed happy while they cranked out the 1.2 million units that GM ships annually from this location. The company came here 21 years ago, which is about as old as the Chinese auto industry itself. Back then only government officials had cars, yet soon this factory will be producing EV’s with autonomous self-driving technology for the masses.

After a whirlwind of business and introductions we took the high speed rail out of Beijing’s smog, glimpsing farmers wading through rice paddies as we zipped by at 300km/h. A first trip to China wouldn’t be complete without a trip to the Great Wall, where in Badaling I learned that there is no such thing as personal space in this country. One guy reached past me while I was standing right at the urinal, business in hand, to point to a map on the wall in front of me. I wouldn’t expect much room to move around in a country of 1.3 billion though.

My professor is a mad lad and had the Uber Eats guy that delivered lunch sit down in the middle of us and talk about his job and experiences working with the new tech company.

In Nanjing a storm system rolled into the city and blanketed everything in a heavy layer of mist that eventually developed into rain. Climbing the steps to the shrine in the dense fog was a surreal experience. Being a 2nd-tier city, there aren’t as many foreigners around and the locals took note of our presence. One girl even stopped me and asked to take a picture with me. The top of the stairs led to a shrine that was much akin to the Lincoln Memorial and had a solitary figure seated and overlooking the hillsides below. After drying out in the bus afterwards, the ride felt suddenly solemn knowing I’ll never see these people again or know their stories.

At the Summer Palace we saw the old house of the emperor of the Qing Dynasty and the long covered walkway where he would walk, followed by his ministers and servants. I want a life like this one day, determining the fate of my subjects as I walk my palatial palace with servants in tow.

It’s not all hustle and bustle.

Then school is out, and I recuperate at the hotel bar. The TV has a channel dedicated to local car crashes using footage from traffic cams. I wonder if the city is a partner in the production?

Realizing that my time in China is quickly coming to an end I cashed out after a single drink and emerged into the Shanghai night, that bold beautiful neon playground sitting along the bottom of glass canyons. It was a legitimate cyberpunk reality and in a few moments, complete with rain.

Amid the hive of feverish activity we came upon a watering hole where the the bartender spoke English and was a huge fan of WWE. He knew all of the wrestlers including my favorite, Rikishi, the sumo guy that would suffocate his opponents with his huge belly. Afterwards we came across a Brooklyn-themed restaurant and I sunk my teeth into pizza. Sweet baby Jesus, it’s good to not be eating banana fungus soup or cow intestines for once. The owner is from California and came and hung out with us at the table. She showed us a couple card games that she kicked my ass at. This is clearly a reflection of her failure as a teacher and not on my capabilities as a student of course.

A friend pulled up a nearby tattoo shop on his phone. He had to run for minute so I took a pic of the map on my own phone (my phone didn’t have reception here). I was pretty wet by the time I found it, but when I did I finally in the midnight hour of this trip felt like I had acclimated to this country. Maybe it was the new ink I picked up that joined the rest of my collection, maybe it was navigating on my own, maybe it was just time.

My friend and another fellow student showed up to catch the last of the ink session. I love that - even these business-minded fellows are excited to see someone get tattooed. Afterwards we found a billiards bar where the next table over had a Swedish guy behind the cue and a couple big French guys sitting at the bar that looked like they were in a heavy metal band. They all spoke English and it was a worldly night in that little billiards room.

Mixed drinks aren’t popular in China and looked at like some sort of weird medieval apothecary, so no one in this country seems to know how to mix drinks or even had the reagents for them. When they do have both the cranberry juice and vodka that I’m fond of, they’re apprehensive about mixing them together. This place was no different and the server brought the mixers to me in separate containers and let me pour them myself.

At dusk we walked The Bund and found an old jazz bar where weordered drinks off an illuminated menu similar to an iPad. The musicians were all in their 90’s and had been playing for decades. What a melting pot of history for our final night! Even half-way through their careers the city across the river didn’t exist.