6/17/11

Somewhere along the Med.

2/18/12

M.

1/28/12

Downstream.

Back to the Cascades

Cars filled every parking space, designated or makeshift, in the Cascades Day Use Area parking lot.

Rushed as usual, M and I took the upper trail straight to the falls.

Do not pass "Go."

Do not collect $200.

Group after group passed us, both discouraged and encouraged by the clouds, as we hurried towards the falls.

With water levels high and puddles deep, waterproof footwear was in order.

M.

The Cascades

There's never enough time, but time here at all is always a gift.

First Light.

6:28 AM

Strips of light.

I left Pops' house, somewhere in northern Virginia, at 1:00AM, January 1, 2012.

I'd constructed the plan earlier that evening, not having any significant plans to attend to for the evening. It was a questionable move considering not my own sobriety, but other drivers' lack thereof.

Racing past Pea Island, I finally pulled over just outside Hatteras. After swapping Aldens for Bean Boots, I clumsily jogged toward the shore, already annoyed that a faint glow had begun to appear on the horizon. 

I hope everyone has had a great start to the new year.

Get Lost in Giles County

Thinking that my (increasingly) obsolete TomTom nicknamed "Gertrude" would have "The Cascades" stored in its memory bank, I didn't look up directions. It did. Sort of.

With three hours until sunset, there was just enough time to figure out where I was going, hike up to the falls, take some pictures, and head back. Wrong.

An hour later, likely distracted by the impressive foliage of Jefferson National Forest and an authoritative English accent, I blindly followed that deceitful Brit, Gertrude, off of 460 and onto a two-lane road winding its way up and into the forest.

Fifteen miles of asphalt leaves plenty of time to encounter a sign, another five miles of gravel does not.

Not near the Cascades.

Second attempt. Thinking back to the night before, I figured we had until 7:30 before it got dark. The sun's trajectory behind the mountains went unnoticed as we entered the park.

I frequently paused along the trail, recognizing my simultaneous desires to linger and return somewhere I'd only just arrived.

A lone fly fisherman stood along the far bank of the stream. Pulling line from the reel, he slowly drew the tip of the rod upwards. With a quick snap of his wrist, the tip shot downward, sending a loop of line rolling across the surface of the deep pool. The fly whipped around, briefly fluttering skyward before delicately landing.

Further upstream, a father waved as he watched his son skip stones.

Around the falls rose steep walls and our voices.

Taking our shoes off, we gingerly stepped into the cool water towards the center of the stream bed.

Setting up against the eastern wall, my tripod and I struggled to find steady footing in the stream, each with only one foot on dry ground. Perched only a foot above the water, I anxiously watched my camera, clicking the remote while the other hand remained open, ready to catch the tripod should it be swept downstream.

One minute and five frames later, I grabbed the whole setup and stood safely back on dry stone, unenthused with my results and the water level.

The fading light ushered us to put our shoes back on.

I paused briefly after crossing a bridge, remembering that I'd wanted to climb down to some fallen trees while hiking in. Resolving to just come back someday when we weren't rushed by the sun, I wearily continued onward.

"You don't know when you'll be back."

I turned around and climbed down from the trail in response to the frank words.

The following five minutes were expensive.

... and worth it.

It was dark at 7:15. Our eyes adjusted, reducing our surroundings to desaturated shades of grey. Just one mile down either trail separated us from the car. The lower trail, continuing just over a bridge, was essentially unnavigable in the dark and the easy upper trail was nowhere to be found. Oops.

Get outside. Get lost. It's good for you.

Crete

After nine identical mornings, I still awoke trusting the deceitful soft light creeping in from behind our curtains. Turning on the television, a bow-mounted camera fed us our first glimpse of natural light every morning. Opening the blinds quickly dispelled thoughts of the sun, instead revealing the "Promenade", the main artery of the floating hotel, yet today the scene on screen revealed no difference.

We awoke late and ran off the ship hoping to salvage the two and a half hours. The clouds darkening the cool day threatened rain, but we didn't have time to change. A shuttle took us from port to downtown Chania.

As we pushed our way through filled sidewalks, the crowds thickened. In admitted ignorance of our location, we blindly stumbled upon the heart of Chania, the Venetian harbor. My eyes were instantly drawn to the light house standing across the harbor and the small sailboat passing by. Waves violently crashed onto the rocks around the lighthouse's base; those successfully passing the narrow entrance spilled water onto the terrace and our feet.

True to form, a soaked golden retriever emerged from the harbor and enthusiastically returned to its owner who sat with his things against the western wall of the mosque. As we approached, we watched as the dog refused a meal offered by a passerby; the food sitting untouched as the dog looked back for approval. I continued on, amused and curious by the repeated burst of water battering a short section of the harbor wall. Spray exploded overhead, soaking a lonely bench.

With only forty five minutes before we needed to find our way back to the shuttle, we raced around the harbor passing waterfront restaurants and the Maritime museum without thought.

Well traveled.

Reminded of spaghetti a la carbonara.

Carpeting.

As we climbed around the rocks to the opposite side of the wall, a different side of the Mediterranean became apparent. Wm. and I stood in silence watching the surf crashing just feet in front of us, the mist landing delicately on the front of my camera.

I realized as we left the lighthouse that every step brought us closer to home.

We rushed back the way we came, getting lost in the streets beyond the harbor. Not knowing street names, but aware of a series of wrong turns, we retraced our steps to the last confirmable point. We couldn't ask for directions. There were ten minutes until the shuttle left.

Wm. spotted a familiar awning down a different alley.

As usual, he only remembered turns I'd forgotten. We sprinted towards the indoor market, up the stairs, and through the dusty building to the final shuttle that sat idling outside.

Away from Naples

Twelve days of awkward dinner company, free room service, guided "shore excursions", coerced relaxation, and (best of all) legitimate disconnection await onboard the "Mariner of the Seas." Any watch marked with "Get off the boat", "Dinner time", and "Meet everyone" would have been more useful than either my Easy Reader or Sub. Cruises are funny in that way. Days of the week become irrelevant, only to be replaced with concerns about whether or not one needs a tie for dinner that evening.

First port: Naples.

Leaving.

You don't need a numbered sticker designating your tour group to show you're a tourist while riding the ferry to Capri.

I woke up forty minutes after boarding. The hazy shadow in the distance now above us, our long shadows stood short at the foot of the mountainous isle.

There was a mixed party in the small harbor; yachts, fishing boats, and dinghies rocked gently alongside one another.

Our tour through the narrow streets of Capri took us past Kiton, Ferragamo, and Tod's. 

The beauty felt just beyond our reach.

Another nap, another ferry. Sorrento.

The streets of Sorrento.

Local treasure.

Reunited on the Riviera

My brother Wm. and I took off towards Gare St. Charles at 7:00am. I didn't look back as we left.

Company was nice and conversation was refreshing after three days without English in Marseille.

As the train followed the coast west towards the white and cerulean beaches of Cannes, I shared stories of my time in the cities prior. We watched tile roofs blur into streaks of red and shared a pair of headphones.

Cannes was quiet; I didn't mind.

We swam, read, and watched. We didn't dive and didn't worry.

Opposite the beach and nestled between restaurants and hotels sits a stretch of luxury boutiques. Gucci. Chanel. Prada. Louis V. [Insert name here]. Yawn now.

Polished- Mustang and Gucci.

McLaren SLRxNikon DSLR

Exotic sports cars, like their retail equivalents, don't do much for me. Pretty (sometimes), impractical, and incredibly expensive doesn't get me going; I'd much rather come home to a mid-century Mercedes 300SL (provided I could even fit in one) than some Italian fighter jet-wannabe. There's no denying that the SLR is a beautiful car when you see it parked on the street, though.

There's GTH, and then there's GFY. The latter done by JM Weston.

We shouted, "Mazel tov!" alongside twenty strangers as we watched the sun set behind a wedding on the beach.

Past full restaurants and empty sidewalks, we finally settled on watching the French sing karaoke (read: drunkenly butcher American pop songs) at the Irish pub outside the hotel before heading to bed.

Nice: Bigger, busier, and rockier than Cannes.

Present, past, and future.

There was a dense flea market in Old Town. I've never been partial to souvenirs unless they are found; recently this feeling has grown stronger, but this was a great place to buy old posters and prints.

Fans of silver (?)

Back to the beach.

Nice tires.

Forgetting towels was a big mistake.

Clarity after climbing.

One last look.

There is perfection in retrospect.

We paused for a moment to admire the beauty around us and acknowledge our existence in the present. As we turned to leave, the discomfort of harsh stones and cold water faded, replaced with the unbridled potential of the evening ahead.