WE BEGIN our two-day trek in the Swiss Alps after a family lunch at a charming mountain café.  My brother, my two adult kids, my partner, and I then say goodbye to the rest of the family and peel off to start our climb. We hope to reach the Swiss Alpine Club hut near the Col des Chamois, where we’ll spend the night, before the sun goes down. Hiking in the Alps—with its well-marked trails and the occasional farmhouse café offering local wine and cheese—may be more civilized than hiking in the Rockies—where I live—but it’s no less challenging a climb.

The sun grows hotter and the trail becomes steeper as we hike up the mountain. I’d spent months hiking in the Rockies to train for this trip, but I’m still finding the sharp ascent a challenge. (I’ve noticed that no one hikes quickly in the Alps. “Slow and steady” seems to be the motto here.) I’m grateful for my wick-away shirt and my brother’s frequent stops to take photos of the breathtaking views.

Lush, green slopes carpeted with masses of wildflowers—so unlike the dry, dusty Rockies—surround us. The scent of summer-warm grasses fills the air. A herd of goats meanders on a slope near the last wood-and-stucco farmhouse we’ll see that day. Cowbells bong in the distance, their owners moving slowly through the grass, munching as they go. Knowing that cows and goats are as wild as the wildlife gets—no bears or mountain lions to watch out for here—makes it easier to focus on the climb ahead of me.

The climb makes us giddy, and we start getting silly as we walk. My daughter, practicing her French, begins a word game with: “Quelquefois tu vives, et quelquefois tu meurs…Bonne chance!” (“Sometimes you live; sometimes you die…Good luck!”) Since we’re hiking challenging terrain in the French part of the Swiss Alps, her sentiment seems hilariously appropriate. The phrases get more and more ridiculous as the moments tick by.

Later that afternoon, we discover a welcome pool of water down-slope from a rock overhang. We eat a snack in the alcove then scoot down to the pool of icy water and soak our bare feet. Refreshed, we’re off for the last stretch of hard climbing through a rocky landscape—we’re well above timberline now—to reach the hut. Everyone’s too tired to talk by this point, so we hike in companionable silence.

Winding our way to the top of the mountain, we see the distinctive red-and-white Swiss cross flag waving near the doorway of our destination: SAC Cabane de Plan Névé. Motivated by the end of the trail being so near—at least, it looks close—we push ourselves to keep moving. Finally, we arrive at the almost-summit where the hut is located on the edge of the mountain. Exhausted, we drop our backpacks and settle in to watch the sun go down in the valley far below us.

 Along with adventuring, Teresa Louis is also a writing coach. You can reach her at Teresa Louis Write Now.

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KICK-STARTED by the desire to give something back to the people and communities of unsung heroes in the Khumbu Valley, the Khumbu Climbing School started nearly 10 years ago. A non-profit named in honor of beloved climber Alex Lowe, the organization fulfills his wish to bring education and proper skills to the magical place that lies in the shadow of Everest. Over all its years, the lessons—which range from climbing and mountaineering skills to language courses—have been held outdoors, and thus in the high mountains, are only held once a year due to the burly weather.

A few years back, students at Montana State University began designing a school, community center and library in the town of Phortse. After a few trips and meetings with locals, a design was chosen. Enter my team. At first we thought we would be going in the fall of 2011. Although, in a place a four-day hike from the nearest airport, with no transportation beyond feet and an overly expensive helicopter, coupled with the difficulties of getting the materials we needed in a 3rd world country, the logistics took quite some time. The first trip got postponed, and I personally thought our opportunity was never going to come. That was until September 2012 when I found out we would be on a flight to Kathmandu in October!

Kathmandu itself was an out of control culture shock! With its rugged beauty and historically significant sights, it was an amazing visit in itself. Trips to lumber yards, hardware stores and welding shops (if you could call them that) were a slap into the reality of how construction was going to go for us. After getting what we needed in the capitol, we headed up to Lukla on an amazing yet terrifying flight to the foot of the Khumbu Valley. From here we made a 4-day trek (including one day to acclimatize) to our home for the next 3-plus weeks, Phortse. Every step along the trek brought something foreign and strange yet more beautiful than anything you had ever seen!

We set to work immediately, overcoming setback after setback, much like a game of chess. Our batteries for our tools ended up not working because of faulty power conversions, and the altitude made everything much harder than expected, to say the least. But we rolled with the punches, and by the time we left at least 90% of the work was complete. We worked everyday as long as sun would permit without rest. One of my team-mates Ryan and I woke up in the middle of the night a few times to go for some running adventures, but besides that it was all work—after all, that was what we were there for in the first place. We nearly completed the floor system and plan to return again fall of 2013 to put the roof on (as I said before things move slowly in such far removed places).

After finishing our work, we made the return trek to Lukla and flew back to Kathmandu, and a few days later we were back in the USA. Some highlights from the trip personally were: running from Phortse (13,000ft) to the summit of Gokyo Ri (nearly 18,000 ft), with an amazing view of the Himalayan skyline and Everest. A big marathon day but totally worth it! I loved meeting all of the amazing people of the Khumbu Valley and having the opportunity to be of service to them; and among all, I loved the opportunity to mix work and pleasure in my newfound Garden of Eden!

Learn more at: www.alexlowe.org

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OUR FIRST MORNING in India, my grown kids—whose father is from New Delhi—and I go shopping in the market nearby for chappals (sandals). The air is new-morning fresh with a hint of burning trash. Around us, shopkeepers are unlocking the padlocks on their shop fronts, rolling the garage-like doors up, and putting out displays of their wares. The sidewalks become crowded with racks of colorful clothing, stacks of luggage, and shelves of cookware.

“Come in, come in,” a shoe storeowner urges.

The young salesmen chat with us while the owner grabs sandals from a crowded wall display for my son to try on.

He picks a pair and the owner gives him a discounted price since we’re the first customers of the day. (In India, the first transaction is considered a harbinger of the day’s business, so it’s important.) Since we haven’t converted our dollars to rupees yet, the storeowner says he’ll take us to a moneychanger.

As we wind our way down a dusty side street, I do mental math to figure out how much the chappals cost in American money. That can’t be right, I think when I come up with seventy dollars. I decide I’ll let the moneychanger figure out the rupees-to-dollars conversion.

It’s seventy dollars.

In shock, I convert my money and follow the smiling shopkeeper back to his store. I whisper to my son that we are not buying chappals at this price. When we reach the shop, I tell the shopkeeper the sandals are too expensive.

He lowers the price, so now they’re fifty dollars.

“No,” I say. “Too much.”

A scowl clouds his face, and he begins to argue.

The narrow, shoe-filled shop closes in on us. We decide to leave, but the salesmen and the storeowner crowd together, blocking our way out. Gone are the friendly, smiling young men we’d chatted with earlier.

Frowning, my son pushes through them, and we follow. We walk down the street, glad to get away from such an uncomfortable experience.

But it’s not over yet.

The salesmen follow us. We walk faster, and they quicken their steps to keep up.

“You buy chappals,” they say, walking so closely their arms almost brush ours.

We ignore them and continue walking. The sidewalk displays are colorful blurs as I look straight ahead, my face hot with embarrassment at the scene the salesmen are creating and my pulse racing as I worry about how to make them leave us alone.

“Go away!” my son shouts, gesturing at the salesman nearest him.

The two men fall behind but keep yelling, “Give us money!” over and over for another block or two.

Eventually, they stop following us, but our earlier excitement at exploring India is gone. Deflated by our lack of experience shopping India-style, and feeling that we’re obvious greenhorns ripe for exploitation, we creep back to the hotel.

From now on, we agree, we’ll take a relative with us when we go shopping.

 Along with adventuring, Teresa Louis is also a writing coach. You can reach her at Teresa Louis Write Now.

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Once in this vast old country, a man could ride forever on his horse. No more. The rest of the world’s gone and filled in the map, fenced in the plains and closed up the range. The land’s been cut up, for strip malls and subdivisions, fast-food burgers.  And the horse has gone and trotted right out of most peoples’ mind.

But there’s something between us, people and horse, that runs deep. Too deep for the modern world to make disappear all together. See, horse brings it back to the beginning, when man got new legs. Great civilizations rose up on the back of horse, great distances crossed. The lives we live were born on horse.

Trains, automobiles, and aeroplanes have come—replaced horse in many ways—but certainly not in all. They might not be the playboys of the west like they once were—when every cowboy, Indian, and lawman had a steed of his own. Though no one can think of those days without horse coming to mind.  Like the spirit of discovery, manifest destiny, horse offers opportunity find more.

Many places where the cities don’t reach, mustangs still roam free; and going down country roads, horses still poke their heads over the fence-line to watch as you drive on by.

Companions. Horse is our friend, a simple-heart asking for simple understanding. Humble horse gives us but a reflection of ourselves: give him kindness, it comes back in kind; lash out in anger and horse whips right back. It’s Truth, silent and pure.  From the simple truth comes trust, and born in the trust is friendship.

Every man’s wrong when the horse doesn’t listen—we speak another language in a different dimension—something that most people can’t even fathom. Man says to horse, “horse, you don’t listen”; horse says to man, “man, you’ve asked the wrong question.”

So it all comes back down to knowing ourselves, because horse is the honest creature that tells us what we’re really made of, right to the core, and that is what makes my faith in horse so sure.

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The tail of the rope made a snapping sound as it hit the ground after being pulled from the anchor.  I glanced down canyon, a rush of excitement and anxiety mixed in my stomach.  Once that first rappel rope was pulled, the only way out was down and through.  We gathered the rope, distributed the gear and, in a single-file line, our team of canyoneers stepped into the slot canyon.

The features of the canyon created a playground:  Down-climbs, chimneying, crawling low, stemming high, squeezing through narrow slots, and rappelling down long drops into pools.  With technical slot canyons, there was an element of the unknown that lay ahead.  Though we had come prepared with beta from previous canyoneers, after every flash flood things can change significantly in a canyon.  The level of the ground can shift up and down, anchors can disappear, and potholes can be swam through one day and deemed “keepers” on another.

At one point, the canyon deepened and led to a drop off.  I attached the rope to my rappel device and began the descent into a dark abyss.  The slot became narrower the lower I went.  I felt the temperature drop as I came to the ground, landing with a muddy sploosh; I was standing at the bottom.

“Off rappel” I yelled up.

It was dark down there.  It was silent.  I could feel the coldness of the rock, so close to my cheek.  I wondered, “Why do we do this?”  I had just voluntarily dropped myself into a deep, dark narrow avenue of rock.  I could see nothing ahead, leaving only hope that it went through.  I set my faith on the word of others who had come this way before.  Taking a deep breath, I headed down the narrowing path, that forced me to walk side-ways, slogging through the knee-deep water.

I looked around at the curvaceous walls of the canyon, thinking of the water that had come before us.  Centuries-worth of water raced and flooded through red sandstone carving out smooth round potholes, twisted paths weaving back and forth, and beautiful arches.  In some areas it was dark and deep, where daddy-long leg spiders danced around as you passed.  But the canyon opened up too, allowing a glimpse of sunlight.  And it was there that streaks of fiery red, orange and yellow colored the delicate face of the rock.  It was stunning.  I was reminded of a quote I heard from a Scottish hiking guide – this was ‘beauty that hurts the eye’.

The canyon continued to widen until I stepped out into a jungle of flora, outlined by mammoth walls reaching straight up to the blue sky.  The rest was easy-street, merely a hike back to camp, where, after we had strewn our wet, muddy, and stinky, clothes and gear upon the rocks to dry, I sat back and felt that gentle fatigue that accompanies a satisfied adventure.

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I stand in the open doorway of the train, watching the dusty villages and bright yellow mustard fields of India whoosh by. My soon-to-be husband and brother-in-law have finally given up on trying to get me to sit down with them in the seats we snagged when we got on the train earlier that day. There are many more people than seats in the third-class car of the Taj Express, which is clacking its way to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. Children sit on their parents’ laps, old women dressed in faded salwar kameez balance atop their suitcases in the aisle, and young men hunch cross-legged in the overhead bins that are meant for luggage. Even though I am one of the few who have a seat, I prefer to stand so that I can see India up close and personal. Besides, it’s exhilarating to stand in the open door of a moving train. I know I could never have this experience in the U.S.

We’re on a day trip to see the Taj Mahal, which is a short train ride from New Delhi where my fiancé and two of his brothers and their families live. My soon-to-be niece, who is eight-years-old, has come with us on this outing. She is quiet, rarely saying a word as she looks out the window at the passing countryside, but I can tell by the expression on her face that, like me, she is taking in all the sights around us. (In my delight at all of the exotic sights, sounds, and smells surrounding me, I feel like I’m eight-years-old, too, not twenty-one.)

Nearing Agra, the tracks wind through a thicket of tall, green trees. I can hear the monkeys chattering as the train approaches and watch with delight as they swing from branch to branch through the trees. Now this is something you never get to see in the States, I think.

Flashback to a couple of days ago: My future sister-in-law and I walk to the small outdoor marketplace near their home to buy some groceries. Men in off-white kurta pajami and women in salwar kameez, with dupattas draped over their heads to protect them from the sun, sit cross-legged on the ground in front of bowls of spices and mounds of fruits and vegetables. I follow my sister-in-law-to-be while she chooses what she wants. I am entranced by the smell of cumin and sun-warmed mangoes that fills the air. I hear a baby cry—but, no, it’s not a baby. It’s a peacock. I watch as he struts through the marketplace, dragging his jewel-colored tail feathers like the train of a gown.

As we move slowly now towards Agra, I think about the peacock’s disconcerting call and the monkeys’ excited chatter, and I wonder what other unusual experiences I will have while I’m in India.

 Along with adventuring, Teresa Louis is also a writing coach. You can reach her at Teresa Louis Write Now.

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In 1998 I was too inept to drive a harness racing horse, too poor to own one, too green to train one, but I was pretty good with details and a good observer. In May I was licensed by the United States Trotting Association as an Associate Race Judge. Of our fifteen-member licensing class I was one of four women.

On my first Saturday at the track, I observed in the judges’ box, binoculars focused: had a horse swerved at the driver’s urging, a sulky wheel bumping another wheel or running under a horse’s belly? What we didn’t want was a pile of horses, drivers, and mangled bikes, as the sulkies are called. If a judge sees it, the offending driver is set back in the order of finish and forfeits any purse money he/she might have earned. The Presiding Judge, who runs the show, told me, “Call it if you see it, but remember that these drivers depend on racing for their groceries. No frivolous accusations.”

Then I rode in the starter car, which has long wings that stretch in front of the horses to line them up. When the car reaches racing speed, the wings fold and “They’re off.” I was face to face with the horses until the driver of the car pulled out of their path and the field of eight horses and drivers swept past us. After that I was escorted to the patrol booth on the second turn. Walking across the track felt odd. Few human feet ever touched that surface, only horses and the big water truck that wet down the track between races to reduce the dust.

The patrol box was a tiny house on six-foot stilts. A ladder slanted up to it.The door was balky. Inside there was room for one tall padded chair and a shelf. Windows on three sides provided a view of the backstretch, the second or far turn right below us, and the long dirt ramp from the paddock. The judge who had led me out there watched the second race with me and called in the all-clear on a crackly radio. Then he asked, “Are you ready to solo?”

I was supposed to be ready. He climbed down and left me there with my head in the clouds. I sat in the patrol box two nights a week for three months. During that time, a horse fell down, a rider fell off the bike–the driverless mare completing two laps and taking herself to the paddock–a windstorm blew out the lights on the second turn, a horse ran under the starting gate, rain drove in through cracks in the windows and blurred the view. All sorts of things happened, none of them terrible. Then the track announcer told us we would go to a day-time schedule after the country fair season and that schedule change ended my stint as a harness racing judge.

Karen Douglass has had many adventures as a psych nurse, horsewoman, poet and prose writer. She now lives in Colorado where few people have ever seen harness racing. This story is excerpted from her book Green Rider, Thinking Horse.

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Last week I had my first, scheduled, online discussion with “Amy” from Rosetta Stone. When I finished, I wished I knew how to say “Oy vey!” in Mandarin.

A “scheduled online discussion” in Rosetta World means that for thirty minutes you get to talk to someone who is a native speaker of the language. I was excited, because I had a lot of questions about syntax, and I really needed some help. At the designated time I logged on with my pre-prepped microphone headset and waited. Soon Amy’s voice called out.

“Nǐ hǎo, Dawn!”

“Nǐ hǎo,” I responded. My stomach quivered a bit; I’m not comfortable wrapping my tongue around this language yet, and even the “hello” set me off. But this was all part of the famous Rosetta Stone process. I needed to do it, and I was ready to go with Amy, who is a native Mandarin-speaker.

What I didn’t realize is that it was the only language she would use in our chat.

I knew that she was going to stick to words I’d learned two lessons earlier. At the time, I’d been on Unit 1, Lesson 4. Amy was quizzing me on stuff from Unit 1, Lesson 2. Should have been a piece of cake. It was more like a piece of mud pie. I couldn’t even remember the word for “milk” (niú nǎi).  I felt like a clueless two year-old.

Except that a two-year old Chinese kid would know the word for milk.

I should be better at this, I screamed in my head. I’m a writer, for Pete’s sake! I have a better-than-average command of the English language! I manipulate words on a regular basis!

Making things worse, during the chat it became clear that Amy alsohad an excellent command of the English language. (And she pronounced my name as though she was American.) But she stuck to speaking in Mandarin. She’s probably supposed to do that, however on-the-verge-of-tears the Rosetta Stone customer is. Maybe it’s some Tiger-Teacher philosophy.

She was patient with me. “Tǐng hǎo!” she would encourage when I got things right… which was usually after she’d had to type the answer on the screen. A few times I broke down and had to use English to explain that I didn’t know something. Or that I didn’t understand what Amy was asking me to say, like when she asked if I had a cat, as she pointed to a photo of a cat. (It was only an “Oh, duh!” after I understood what she was asking. Then I couldn’t remember the word for “no,” which, it turns out, isn’t “no.” Because “no” means no, except in Mandarin.)

It was the longest half-hour of my life. I literally breathed a sigh of relief when she said our time was up. “Zài jiàn, Dawn.” Zài jiàn, Amy!

I’m still going forward with the course. I want to learn this language. Eventually, I’ll even schedule my next chat session. But am I looking forward to it?

Bù shì!

Dawn Rinken may not have a complete hold on Mandarin, but she does know about the English language. Her blog The Mouse’s Soapbox holds her musings on the world.

The post Speaking Chinese, Almost appeared first on Expedition Underground.

Without thought or agenda, the earth inhales and exhales, extends and breaks down, meanders and reflects. Glassy lakes naturally mirror the shore-side trees and mountain peaks, offering an alternate view of the leafy branches that reach over the waters’ surface, as roots navigate the soils beneath.

An opposing view and a change of perspective: a way we can look down, rest our eyes and observe again. Slow down, reflect. The trees do not need to be reminded to be calm and think; they grow steadily and with purpose. The mountains are not told to remain steady and strong, but still dominate our landscapes. However, the importance of gratitude and reflection in the busy lives of today must be practiced and remembered. Like the trees and the mountains, slow down and take a second look. After all, our actions are a reflection of our soul.

Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

Scotland Docks

Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

Cub Lake, Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

Loch Lomond, Scotland

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Mallorca, Spain– a small island just off the coast to Barcelona– is a premiere winter climbing destination for anyone looking to catch some sunshine and climb some of the raddest limestone cliffs in the world. There are oceanside cliffs, mountainous caves, and crags dotting the hillsides of nearly every major town on the island. The limestone features are also endless with pockets, crimps, slopers, and never ending tufas, which allow for a diversity of creative climbing techniques. Although Mallorca rock climbing often gets overshadowed by its big league crags on mainland Spain, if you’re looking to beat the crowds and experience beautiful, idyllic climbing at its best, look no further than the little Mediterranean island that certainly packs a powerful punch.

Tufa-studded cliffs outside the town of Caimari, Mallorca

Dan Yagmin Jr. sending Rigor Mortis, 7c+

Charissa Rujanavech giving a go on the super classic, Colgao, 7b

Sunset at the seaside caves of El Bunker

Charissa Rujanavech pulling the roof of Phantomas, 7b

Dan Yagmin Jr. working the crux of Football Fan, 8a

Dan Yagmin Jr. sending Sex Cannabis, 8a

The infamous Es Pontas arch (a.k.a. Chris Sharma’s gnarly deep water solo in King Lines).

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