Postcarta continua (postmarked 29 June 2014)

Buon Giorno again!
In the event you are unaware, I am leading four other intrepid backpackers on a hike from Amalfi to Sorrento over a seven-day period. On four of the mornings we hike up into the mountains with all our belongings (about 15 kg each) neatly stuffed into our backpacks, climbing rather steep mountains to an elevation of approximately 600 metres, then hiking parallel to the sea for about 10 km on paths that have evidently been employed for hundreds of years as supply routes until the arrival of the automobile 60 years ago. We then descend to the next seaside village and check in to the next hotel. On the other three mornings, when we spend two back-to-back nights in the same village, we have the opportunity to chart a hike higher up and further away, carrying only a lighter day pack, eventually looping back to our starting point.
From beginning to end we will have trekked over 100 km, with a total elevation gain of about 7,000 metres. If you see me soon after my return and I am limping, there will be no need to ask why!

As I was recounting recently, we had arrived at 1,040 metres elevation to find a large, abandoned monastery. A dense, cool fog had mysteriously rolled in (again) making it difficult to see and it began to feel like dusk even though it was barely 3:30pm. Locating the other trail which would take us down to Ravello was thus proving challenging when out from behind a small outdoor alter set high on a rock outcrop, there most suddenly and surprisingly appeared a skinny, Italian pilgrim with long dreadlocks, wearing a tattered friar's outfit. Until this moment, we hadn't seen another human since refilling our water bottles at the town fountain in Perogela. He reminded me of all the modern day portraits of Jesus Christ so his unscripted entrance in the monastery's vicinity seemed somehow fitting. He confirmed our choice of trails in broken English by reminding us to simply "go down, down" and then he quickly disappeared into the mist as if he were never there. Very strange.

Did I mention that the views from high up are breathtaking? Foggy periods excepted, every time a path takes a new twist or turn, a different vista is laid out before us: mountain sides fall away revealing small villages perched below on their faces, beyond which lie other villages further down one slope or another. Below those will appear a seaside village with improbable names like Minori and Maiori, with the shimmering Mediterranean sea lapping at its beaches or smashing into its cliffs. It is quite impossible to tire from the various views of the lemon groves and goat farms, the villages to which they belong, the sea always generous with its deep blue temptations, beckoning to us in the distance.

The hike downhill requires less effort normally, however we noticed that the clouds had become more ominous, the air was getting heavy again and we quickened our pace. We arrived in Ravello in no time and stopped in, famished, at the first restaurant that we stumbled upon. In just a few seconds it started raining and then only moments later the skies were booming with thunder as the rain intensified into a downpour fit for a jungle. It was our first of seven all-day hikes and the second of many lucky turns of events (remember the friar way above). The gods were looking out for us indeed!

Here's hoping that the gods are on your side, too!

Barry of Amalfi

PS. Before I let you get back to your everyday musings, I will share one additional good luck story. Upon arriving in Sorrento, we learned that the owner of the hotel, Biaggio, was a "world-reknown" chef and was in fact giving cooking classes daily at 4pm. People come from all over Italy and indeed from the world over to take a week or two of Italian cooking lessons. This is how I find myself, hands-on, preparing spinach gnocchi in pesto sauce from scratch, fried anchovies, eggplant parmesan and a chocolate dessert, too. The kicker is that the entire four-course meal is served to all the hotel guests who choose to stay for dinner. A long table is dressed on the hotel's front terrasse under the warm deep blue skies at dusk and 14 guests, Swedes, Germans, Americans and Canadians, are treated to the meal that I and two others have just prepared, under the watchful eye of Biaggio. Italia rocks!

Postcarta della costiera Amalfitana (postmarked 24 June 2014)

The day began as any other: by 7am, the Mediterranean songbirds' sweet melodies dance through the open windows and tango with my sleepy sub-conscience. At 7:20am, my phone alarm continued the process with a more startling melody, that is to say, I was now awake. One should really sleep later on holiday, how else to distinguish between it and the rest of the year? However this day would prove to be a long one. And getting an early start was well advised. We loaded up on breakfast, the cool Mediterranean Sea and brilliant sun our witnesses, and then headed out, our bodies laden with backpacks.

It was a humid morning, a telltale of what lay ahead. Even walking downhill the 3 km to Amalfi town rendered us all with a thin coating of hot, slick perspiration.

The center of Amalfi is a spider's web of cobblestone streets and alleys, all seemingly too narrow for cars, but it doesn't stop the smaller ones from squeezing through anyhow. Between them and the many scooters, pedestrians seem to be considered fair game: pay attention to the cacophony of beeps and horns or risk becoming a casualty. The maze of laneways is lined with tchotchkas stores, cafes, homemade gelato and chocolate shops, and restaurants each with its own terrasse. Unlike some other quieter tourist destinations, there are thousands of people jammed together here, each competing with the other for any given merchant's attention. Even the tiny fruit store had a queue of people waiting to be served. On top of that, we hear languages being spoken from all nationalities and with exception of the Americans, everybody is doing his or her best to speak in broken Italian. In the pastry shops even the least expensive offering is exquisitely presented, the tasty delicacies artistically stacked on top of each other behind glass counters. In the ice cream shops the gelati are displayed with such delectable care it is nearly impossible to choose just one flavour. My mouth waters in anticipation just by their presentation. My "go to" preference is always banana but it was the cherry 'amerena' that chose me today and it became my first gelato in Italy (this year). The richness of the flavour coupled with the creamy cool sensation on my tongue as I savoured the refreshment got me hooked (again). I now expect to be enjoying one each day.

Most of the hikes that start in Amalfi require you to walk through Amalfi town, north from the beach. After passing through the crowded shopping zone, we turned left into the most narrow alley and started climbing steps. I cannot remember being warned about this but we climbed several thousand ancient, broken stone steps without pause, through multiple lemon groves where lemons are the size of a small cantaloupe, until we reached the next town uphill, Pogerola. After a refreshing drink from the public fountain in the town square (why don't we have these at home?), we soldiered on.

The routes are not well marked at all so finding the way out of town required a small amount of guesswork, a mixture of advice from the townsfolk and a large dose of luck. We had planned carefully, each of us had a change of dry clothes, rain gear, food, water, extra water, a whistle, a map and a personal med kit, all just in case. Our day packs were loaded up. So you can imagine my shock when we met a solo 'hiker' wearing only beach tongs on his feet! He was 50 or 60 pounds overweight and carried only some water, no other provisions. He was waiting for us, or for anybody to appear, at an intersection, asking us from where we had come. Only then would he know whether he should choose the left or the right or return whence he came. The joke on us was that we continued throughout our week to meet hikers/walkers who appeared to be out for a stroll on the boardwalk, wearing sandals or beach shoes, even encountering an elderly couple high up on The Path of The Gods, the woman using a cane.

We continued hiking uphill, passing a herd of goats, shepherded by a big, protective dog who escorted us out of his zone of control. At this point we entered a rainforest with thousands of ferns covering the steep slopes which we were traversing. An eerie fog soon descended on us which shortly became rain and then a downpour and suddenly we could not see more than a few metres in any direction! Only one thing to do: find the thickest foliage and eat a well-deserved packed lunch under its protective cover!

This trail was not one that I had planned but it was too interesting for us to consider retreating. It became steeper, rockier and cooler as we ascended past 1,000 metres in elevation. When we reached the summit we arrived at an abandoned monastery straight out of medieval times: a wood burning stove in the kitchen, fraternal sleeping quarters upstairs, bunk beds intact and petrified wooden picnic tables outside arranged by a fire pit, recently used it would seem. After a break for some fruit and water we started down another trail which turned out to be a series of thousands of ancient, worn and broken stone steps.

Part II will follow next week....

Barry di Amalfi

Postcard from Northern California

Spectacular. Breathtaking. Heavenly.

Each of these adjectives aptly describes the vistas that I was fortunate
enough to gaze upon just last week. It was only a day or two earlier that I
was communicating from home with several Sierra Club leaders from the San
Francisco Bay area about the most rewarding nearby hikes. I judiciously
decided that the trail to Monument Peak would satisfy my need to breathe
some fresh California air from on high. As my recent thirst for hiking has
not yet been quenched, this choice turned out to be prescient. Unlike the
hiking at home, the Monument Peak trail, typical in the region, is
completely barren. Barely a tree to be seen, very few bushes, hardly a
clump of grass. No, we are not above the tree line, but the mountains that
define Silicon Valley, the Diablo Range to the east and the Santa Cruz
mountains to the west receive almost no rainfall, especially and
unfortunately in the past year. And so I am walking steeply uphill on a
dusty mountain side, under a warm, thirsty sun, always watching out for the
elusive mountain lion. He is here I am warned, ready to pounce on me from
that cliff above or from behind that next turn in the dirt path. My
longtime local friend, Dano, tells me that in all his years of hiking and
biking the surrounding mountains, he's only once seen a mountain lion, and
then from the safety of his car. Still, I am wary. The hike is steep. After
passing by dozens of cows grazing the rocky lower slopes in search of
moisture, I find myself above the layer of smog that blankets the valley
below. The bare, caramel-coloured mountains 20 km across the valley pop up
into sight. Unlike everywhere else I've ever been, the temperature here
climbs with the elevation, from 15C at the base to 23C at the peak. The
view has exceeded any expectations that I may have had. Contoured,
desert-like mountain ranges greet me on three sides, seemingly close by, an
illusion that I've witnessed before. A California condor soars overhead and
I wonder if it, too, has climbed 2,600 feet, like me, to gaze out at the
world in wonderment.

When you visit Northern California, remember this secret that I will now
share with you: the Elkhorn Slough (pronounced 'sloo') at Moss Landing. It
is here that I rented a kayak and paddled from the marina into the slough,
a swamplike area six miles long. There are over 300 species of birds living
here, some of them rather large such as pelicans and egrets. It is amusing
to watch the pretty, white terns circling above until spotting their fishy
prey straight below. Then they assume a streamlined shape by tightly
tucking in their wings and diving straight down into the chilly water,
emerging seconds later with their catch in their little beaks. But I am
saving the best for last: there are hundreds of seals, otters and sea lions
who live here in the protected slough. The sea lions are huge and scary but
they seem to spend their lives basking in the sun on the shore, bellowing
loudly and pushing each other around. Near them, it always smells like the
insides of a fish market. The seals are always swimming around, surfacing
anywhere at random, often surprising the paddlers nearby. It seems we
frighten them, too, as they quickly dive again only to resurface elsewhere.
But it is the sea otters who make me laugh out loud. They float around on
their backs, often in pairs, busily licking their little hands or munching
on whatever they are clutching. Otherwise they tease each other with their
otter games, like 'Guess Who is Behind You' or 'Tag, You're It,' I decide.
We are not supposed to paddle within one hundred feet of the animals, but
if they surface right next to my kayak, why not watch their frolicking from
up close and enjoy the entertainment?

I am sure you know that California is home to the famous redwood forests,
majestic trees that grow over many centuries straight up for a hundred feet
and more, often five to ten feet in diameter at the base. What you may not
know is that there are some redwood forests where you are welcome to cycle
through. One such place is the Nisene Marks state park, its southern
entrance located in the town of Aptos. Not just any park, the cycling trail
climbs 2,600 feet over nine miles. It doesn't sound like much of a
challenge but there are long stretches where many cyclists (the untrained,
I conclude) are forced to walk their bikes for it is nearly too steep to
pedal. Imagine yourself pedaling uphill for two hours with no respite. It
becomes easy to overlook the startling fact that I am winding my way uphill
in the midst of millions of immense trees. They block any chance of
sunlight from sneaking through the many branches and leaves far overhead.
It is only after 90 minutes that a break in the route brings me to a ledge
where riders can stop and gaze out for the first time at the forest below
and to the sea miles away to the southwest. As with my hike two days
earlier, it is much hotter here than at the mountain's base, a conundrum
still unsolved. Lest you think it is all hard work, remember that what goes
up must come down. Luckily, the brakes worked as advertised as it would be
deadly to attempt the return downhill without them functioning properly. If
you don't care to bike, many folks were simply walking along the same trail
as far as they cared to enjoy the majesty of the redwoods forest at a
slower pace.

Whether your pace is faster or slower, I wish you a happy, healthy and
sporty 2014.
Barry... the triathlete!