Thoughts About Death at 11,000 Feet

"Will I die?"
"Will the trail out of this wilderness be too covered in snow to find?"
"Will I freeze?"
"Will we be on the news?"
"Will I make my flight out of here?"
"What will I do if I have to pee during the night?"

These were some of the thoughts that had gone through my head during the night. It was 3:45 am - I was still awake in our tent as the wind whipped over the top of the mountain and sounded like a freight train coming down into the valley. How did I get myself in this situation?

Less than 24 hours earlier I was in Phoenix in the comfort of 80 degree sunshine and my rental car - in less than 24 hours (if I didn't die), I'd be on my way to the wasteland of a swamp turned one of the top destinations in the country berthed by a man with a penchant for making giant happy mice and cheap imitations of places in the world that really are worthy of travel (Orlando).

I had flown into Denver late Friday night. Annie picked me up at the airport...we crashed for about 6 hours in preparation for our Saturday of outdoor hedonism. In true hedonistic fashion, we made giant pancakes, gorged ourselves on orange juice and set out to conquer some boulders. After a morning of bouldering, we stopped by the Boulder Running Company for some employee discount shopping...then headed up the hill for our trail run through the forest.

After traversing aspens, bombing down singletrack, and waddling on some fire roads, we made it back to the camp, met up with Pete, and began packing for our camping trip. On the way up, Pete divulged that the forecast was for 5-8 inches of snow and driving winds.

"Have you ever camped in anything like that?" I inquired, assuming a simple "Yeah, no problem".
"Uh, nothing quite like that."
Hmmm..."reassuring", I thought.

We drove about 45 minutes from Camp Ad-Ra-Ha-Je which is in Bailey, Colorado up to the trailhead at about 10,000 feet. We parked the truck and unloaded our packs for the 2 mile trek into the wilderness. Pete has a way of underestimating danger...call it confidence, call it leadership, call it whatever - but know that when Pete expresses concern - you should be concerned.

"I hope the bog isn't too bad" Pete said on the drive up. Translated, "Joe will be taking his non gor-tex trail running shoes off and running through the near freezing water in the bog in his bare feet".

After about an hour of trekking, we reached the valley. We had hiked through the bog, over a creek and around a mountain into the valley, which was shaped like half of a big saucer. Breaking through the trees, we had amazing views of the night sky, and the guidance of a full moon.

The next three hours consisted of finding a place to pitch our tent, cooking dinner - chicken burritos, starting a campfire, smoking cigars, drinking wine, and discussing things pertaining to life and Godliness. About mid-way though our cigars, the wind starting picking up, and the snow started flying. We put out our fire and retreated to our tent.

The temperature had dropped to about 10 degrees and the wind was howling in excess of 30 miles per hour. Wind chill? You do the math. We got into our polar pods and attempted to go to sleep...

"Will I die?" I kept thinking to myself.
"What if the wind blows the cover off of the tent?" "What if I have to pee?" It was so bloody cold outside, I think I would have rather pissed in my pants. With 5-8 inche

s of snow forecasted, I was sure we'd end up lost in the morning blizzard, looking for the trail...in a white wilderness - that is if could even shovel ourselves out of the tent in the morning.

At 3:45, I finally drifted into the lala land. Pete's alarm went off at 7. No one wanted to look how much snow was actually outside - the howling wind had pelted our tent all night long with driving snow - I was sure that the snow would be up to the top of our tent.

Pete opened the tent and let the chilling morning wind inside - and to our surprise, only about 3 inches of snow. We were greeted with complete morning stillness and a fresh blanked of snow, which allowed for a glorious hike out and back down the mountain to top it off with round two of the world's biggest pancakes.

As our train rolled out of Italy, our intense sweating finally began to subside. The only thing that could make me happy at this point would be to lie naked on a glacier in the middle of blizzard for 24 to 48 hours.

Only about 3 hours into Switzerland, we had a 20 minute “layover” on a train platform. Exiting the train we were overjoyed at temperatures in the mid-50’s. Literally, a 40 degree drop in no more than 3 hours. It was bliss. I was giddy. Now, the only thing on my mind was Swiss chocolate.

Benny hadn’t shaved in about 2 weeks. Being Romanian, (Side Note: Romanians are actually considered to be more of Latin decent than anything else. Although no one really knows exactly where we (I’m 50% Romanian) came from, most Romanians trace their lineage back to Roman soldiers somewhere between 100-300 AD made their way into Romania and made babies with the “locals”), Benny – unfortunately for him – looks like a terrorist with more than 8 days of facial growth. There’s really no other way to say it. Even though I’m half, I look like I’m straight off of the Viking ship. So when the guards came walking through the train to stamp our passports, I handed mine over, gave a little half-smile-grin-head-nod type of delivery; the guard stamped my passport and moved on.

As I peered two rows up as the two guards stopped to question Benny, the guards said something on their radio in German…translated “Call in Larry for reinforcements, we may have a terrorist on our hands”. A third guard appeared through the door. (Another Side Note: The Swiss take National security very seriously). Here’s the situation: one guard studying Benny’s passport; the second guard intensely questioning Benny about everything except the type of cheese he ate for dinner; the third guard locked and loaded with his hand on the holster.

Yes, they racially profile in Switzerland.

As our train motored through Switzerland towards Interlaken, our faces were glued to the windows. If you’ve ever been to the Yosemite Valley – picture the 5,000 foot sheer granite faces of El Capitan and Half Dome. Now multiply those and place them all over Switzerland. Then add lakes everywhere. Then add massive snow-covered alpine peaks on top of all of the sheer granite walls. Then add traditional Swiss mountain homes separated by vast lush green valleys. Welcome to Switzerland. The pictures will not even come close to doing justice to what we saw.

Our final destination: The Mountain Hostel in Gimmelwald (Gee-mel-vald). The transportation to the Hostel was equally charming – the Swiss are masters at transportation, details and logistics. The route was as follows:

Take the train to Interlaken Ost – change trains to Lauterbrennen

Exit train in Lauterbrennen – take bus to the end of the Valley

Exit bus at the gondola tramway.

Take gondola to the top of the cliff (This part is equivalent to taking a gondola from the Yosemite Valley floor to the top of El Capitan in about 5 minutes)

Exit the gondola – walk about 50 yards to the entrance of the Mountain Hostel, perched on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the valley. This would be our home for the next four days.

Reasons to come to the Mountain Hostel:

• Switzerland is gorgeous and the Mountain Hostel is right in the middle of it.
• 23 Franks per night
• 50 Beds in a small mountain hut = meeting lots of people from all over the world
• Petra & Walter – the owners of the hut are supposedly really cool people – they were on holiday while we were there...so Veronica manned the hut – and fell in love with Benny (more on that later).
• Trails into the Alps begin as you walk out of the hut. 30 minutes to Interlaken – which is second only to New Zealand in adventure sports. Anything you want is right there: Mountaineering, Canyoning, Mountain Biking, Skiing, Hiking, Climbing, Bungee Jumping, Sky Diving…the list goes on…

Here’s how it works in the hostel:

You wake up at about 9 o’clock, either because: 1) The melodic hum of 10-15 dudes snoring has ceased (bring ear plugs), 2) You see the sun, or 3) The air is so thick with the night’s breath that suffocation begins to set in. You then take to your activities for the day – hiking to the top of the Schilthorn (as featured in Bond 007 On Her Majesty’s Secret Service), taking a trip down to Interlaken, or some other mountain activity. After everyone has completely spent themselves from a day in the mountains, everyone reconvenes at the hostel. The night sessions generally begins with a soak in the hot tub. Then the food, drinks and games begin. Some of our best times of the whole trip were our nights in the Mountain Hostel – waiting in line for the internet, talking with people from all over the world, and pounding on the tables at 1 am in the midst of an intense game of BS.

Veronica ran the place while Petra & Walter were on Holiday. Veronica loved Benny. One night (morning) about 2 am Benny, Seth and I had finished a night of table-pounding, card-playing, wine-drinking fun…and we retired to the bar to talk to Veronica. Veronica posed the question to us, “what do you guys really look for in a girl?” We kind of looked at each other. “Well, I guess it’s kind of hard to really sum up”, I said. “I mean, there are a lot of things…” I said. She was looking for a synopsis that we just were able to provide.

“It’s easy”, she said. “You just need to find a girl who you can steal horses with.”

Silence.

We all looked at each other. Then we thought about it for a while. More looks at each other. We were all thinking the same thing. “She’s right.” In order to steal horses, you have to be fun, smart, adventurous, be able to work together as a team…you’ve just gotta click with someone. “Stealing horses.” Who would’ve thought? Thanks to Veronica and her German wisdom, the three of us came back to the States looking for a girl we can steal horses with.

We learned a lot in that little mountain hut and we vowed we’d get back there some day.

Florence, Italy

At about 4 am, I awoke to the smell of cigarettes and Italian men chatting, not the sort of 4 am whispering that one might expect, but rather full intense dialogue…what about I don’t know…but whatever their minds had conjured up on that July morning at 4 am, judging from their gut-busting laughter, it was apparently quite funny . Thankfully, I had brought along a two week supply of ear plugs – Note: If you’re planning a trip to Europe, it’s quite possibly the best $4 you’ll spend. At any rate, lying on my seeping bag on the deck of the ship, I opened one eye and did my best groggy-eyed-one-eye-open glare at the Italian men. They had no idea I was glaring at them, nor did they care; I pushed my ear plugs in a little further, rolled over and want back into la-la land.

At 6:45 am the ferry was right on schedule having left the harbor in Senj, Croatia at 8 pm and eased into Ancona, Italy at 7 am the next morning. Not that it wasn’t hot in Croatia, but the euphoria (there’s that word again) of the place provided the feeling that we were perpetually under one of those misting machines that you see outside restaurants in Phoenix or Vegas. Italy was a little different; being only 6:45 in the am and sweating, I was already longing for Switzerland.

Arriving in Ancona, our plan was to head to Florence for a day…maybe longer if we liked it. Personally, I was hoping for less than a day and I figured with the heat, it wouldn’t be that difficult to convince the boys of the same. We had our passports stamped and exited the ship in Ancona…we wanted breakfast, having not eaten since 5 the previous day…but we figured we should head to the train station first and check the schedule. It turned out that a train was leaving in 30 minutes so we purchased our tickets and waited for the train.

Generally speaking, Italian trains just plain suck…this particular train ride turned out to be our worst. We were smelly (Let’s recap the activities since my last shower – Dinner in Dubrovnik, a night of clubbing in Dubrovnik, 3 hours of sleep, a 5 hour car ride to Senj, public transportation in Senj, walking around 100 degree Senj for an afternoon, seriously contemplating jumping into the disgusting water of the Senj Harbor, Dinner in Senj, an overnight ferry ride to Italy). Now, smelly, dehydrated, exhausted and starving, we boarded an hour and a half Italian train ride from Ancona to Bolonga where temperatures on the train approached 90 degrees. I felt like an animal on this train. My stink level was approaching 8. The average stink level of persons on the train was a 9.2.

We changed trains in Bolonga and headed to Florence. Our connection time was about 15 minutes…enough time to put a Euro in the machine and wait for an espresso to come out. Everywhere we went in Europe, the coffee was amazing – except for the coin operated espresso machine on the train platform in Bolonga…which made me wonder if there was an old Italian man locked inside the machine mixing espresso beans, refined sugar, runoff from the train platform after the last rain, and diesel fuel. My brain told me it was caffeine, and for that, I was grateful.

We rolled into Florence at about 1 pm. (If you’re counting, it’s now been 20 hours since we’ve eaten anything). Anyone who knows me knows that because of my freakish obsession with exhausting myself with a ridiculous number of sporting activities, I’ve trained my body to eat every two hours. After 20 hours, my stomach had not only eaten itself, but it was beginning to feed on some of my internal organs.

Exiting the train station, the last thing I wanted to do was talk to an Italian man trying to rip us off. For whatever reason, we listened. The Franz Family Bed & Breakfast. Ok, how much? “75 Euros” We turn away and discuss among ourselves. “60 Euros” I said. Mr. Franz apparently thought that was funny – because he started laughing at me (we were still a little naive about Italians at this point). “This room is safe, clean, and right downtown” (At least that was Benny’s translation of Mr. Franz). “75 Euros” He said again. We all looked at each other. “Ok, we’ll take a look”.

This room turned out to be one of our best decisions of the whole trip. If you’re counting, I was approaching two days of no shower…now came one of the toughest decisions of the whole trip…shower or go eat? Figuring I’d probably kill someone with my stench, I chose to lather up. At 4 pm – tired, dehydrated, starving, but no longer stinky, we headed down for some grub.

The temperature felt like 120 degrees. The air was thick. The first street-side café we found was a pizza place – we looked at the menu…pizza for 8 Euros…ok. That’s reasonable. Side note: I know my disdain for the international status of the dollar has been well documented in my Europe blogs but think about it this way: imagine taking a trip to New York City, spending a weekend there (lodging, food, transportation, entertainment) and then multiply your total expenditures by 1.4. Welcome to Florence.

Ok, I know we’re in Italy, but the last thing I wanted at this point was more alcohol. “Coke Lite” I said. The waitress brought me a nice refreshing Diet Coke in a can. It was everything I had hoped it would be.

We got the bill. Now, I had learned in our friendly little town of Senj, Croatia to examine the bill very carefully – our server had tried to charge me for 2L of wine when I drank 0.2L. (If I had drunk 2L of wine, he could have charged me his salary and I wouldn’t have noticed).

Back to Italy, I examined the bill: First charge 6 Euros for something we couldn’t identify – I told the server – “We didn’t have this.” “That’s the seating charge”, she said – which is a nice way of saying – “That’s $9 that we’re charging you because you’re American, stupid tourists, and because we can.” I scrolled down the bill a little farther. “Coke Lite – 4 Euros”. Remember our friendly little exchange rate? If you round up – that’s $6 for a can of Coke. We walked out of our little pizza place with a bad taste in our mouths.

From that point on I was angry. Angry at Italians. Angry at Florence. Angry at the street vendors. Angry at the heat. Angry at all of the garbage on the streets. Angry at all of the men in their little white capri pants. Angry about the exchange rate. Angry at the beautiful architecture and the history of Florence. I think I was even angry at the Pope at one point.

We went back to our little bed and breakfast for a nap. What a difference three hours of sleep can make. The sun was setting, we felt refreshed and we headed out for a night in Florence. As the sun set, we walked around and snapped as many pictures as we could. We didn’t really have a plan. We grabbed some gelato, grabbed a sandwich, grabbed a beer and then started walking.

We found a little club that was getting going early…it was about 9 pm. Right next to the river, there was a hotel, and set up in front of the hotel was a DJ. People crowded the street…really having no concern whatsoever that cars might want to drive through. We saw police and they didn’t seem to care. I guess that people control the streets there. Anyway, we grabbed beers and perched ourselves on the wall by the river and talked…watched people…talked about people…and discussed the propriety of men wearing white or salmon capri pants. Little did we know that our little perch on the wall would end up being a smorgasbord of entertainment for the evening.

The first plot began as a man on a motorcycle sped through the crowd of people, nearly killing someone…a policeman was quick on the scene and issued the gentleman a ticket. Just then tall ridiculously gorgeous Italian woman walked out of the hotel in a white dress and high heels. We watched her hike up her dress, hop on a scooter and blast away in her high heels. “That was cool” we thought.

Not to be outdone, an equally gorgeous woman and her semi-attractive friend (which became a hot point of discussion between the three of us as to whether or not this girl was “hot”) began honking her horn. Her little Volkswagen was wedged between a car in front, a car behind, the sidewalk and hotel to her right and another car illegally parked to the left. We examined the situation. “No way out” we said. The girls didn’t really know what to do…so they honked and honked and honked. The honking went on for 30 to 40 minutes.

To our right – hundreds of people; thumping club mixes; dancing on the streets…to our left – the continual sound of a Volkswagen horn.

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any better two girls stumbled up in front of the hotel and took the keys to their car from the valet man. One girl sort of fell into the driver’s seat…and then just fell over. The three of peered at the two girls, interested in what was going to happen with this new sub-plot. Just then, the girl who wasn’t passed out panicked, looked across the street and started to screaming “help!” at all interested parties. We looked at each other, set our beers down and sort of anxiously trotted towards the car. Just as we got there the passed-out chick half opened her eyes and started laughing. The concierge from the hotel rushed her a glass of water so we turned around and walked back. As we moseyed back to our riverside perch, the girl sat up and hurled all over the street.

A few minutes later, the two girls drove away; meanwhile the honking continued to our left. After about the ten minutes the tow truck finally arrived to tow away the illegally parked car. The girls finally got their Volkswagen out and we all cheered as they drove away.

We left our perch on the wall, truly fulfilled with our night’s entertainment. I’m not gonna lie though, none of us shed a tear when we boarded the train the next morning bound for the Alps.

Goodbye Croatia

Ok, so my last blog ended by arriving in Dubrovnik. Well, because I was a little over excited about Dubrovnik, I began my Europe blogging with Dubrovnik. Soooo…scroll way down to the bottom of my blog to see how great Dubrovnik really was. My Dubrovnik blog ended with “We clubbed it up, Croatian-style in Dubrovnik and capped off, what was my favorite stop on our trip.” So let’s pick up there…

2:31am – Cotter and Yours Truly on the dance floor with by Ash and Ola – our two Polish friends we had met earlier – ok, rewind about 2 1/2 hours.

12:13am – “Do you have a light?”

The three of us looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, “sorry”, we said. As Ola leaned over to light Ash’s cigarette, Benny piped up, “Hey, they had a light, why did they ask us?” Cotter, myself, Ola and Ash all fixed our eyes on Benny. Nobody said a word. Cotter and I made eye contact, we gave each other that half-head-turn-eyes raised-partial smirk “idiot” look. Despite Benny’s calling them out on trying to flirt with us, they were cool about it. Definitely one of the classic moments on our trip.

Ok, so 2:31 – back to the dance floor. “Cotter!” I yelled over the thumping remixes of 90’s rock. “Dude, we gotta roll” We did the old back-away, point to the watch, give the painful “we gotta go” look to the girls…they kissed us on the cheek. “Dude!” I yelled again. “Where’s Benny?”

We combed the club in search of our Benny. Fortunately we happened to run into him near the door. The boys didn’t want to leave…but I knew that we needed to have the car back to Split by noon the next day, and I knew I’d be driving and we figured we could seep until about 5:45…you don’t have to be a mathematician to realize that the next day was going to be brutal.

5:45am – back to the same old drill. Cotter and Benny take turns being passed out in the back and keeping me from being passed out in the front. We retraced our path back up the coastline – absolutely gorgeous coastline. It was Saturday so the beaches were packed. We gawked at the glorious islands in the distance and whipped around mountain switchbacks. For me in the Peugeot, the mountain driving was bliss. For Benny the equation was as follows: too much Ozujsko (Aaaz-Jew-Sko) + 3 hours of sleep + back seat of car + morning sun + mountain switchbacks + my driving = Puke.

Not a great day for Benny.

After about 5 hours in the car, we rolled up to the airport in Split. We returned our car to Eurocar and hopped on a bus headed for the port of Split. Getting off the bus, we were greeted by mobs of people hoping to rent us a Sobe for the night. We turned down about 15 people and headed over to get our ferry tickets.

For 54 Euros, we got our tickets the Italy. We would board the ferry at 8pm, it would push off at 9pm and it would arrive in Italy the next morning at 7am. Perfect. We covered our lodging for the night and our transportation back to Italy.

Having secured our tickets, we headed out to explore Split. My two Croatian advisors (Danny & Amy) had told me “Split is a hole” and “Split from Split”, respectively. However, as the largest coastal city and port in Croatia, we had to go to Split to 1) drop off the car, and 2) catch the ferry.

Being pretty tore up from the drive and from the night before, we wandered through the street vendors in the oppressive Split head looking for, well, I’m not sure what we were looking for. Cotter was looking for a Croatia soccer jersey which he ultimately decided that he would never actually wear…so he didn’t buy it. I was hot, sweating, tired and looking for nothing and Benny, well, he felt like crap.

We finally decided that we’d go find a place to get out of the sun, sip some espresso and just chill. We sat, read, sweated, read, sweated some more, talked about how hot it was, discussed finding a beach, sweated some more, realized there was no beach, talked about jumping in the water where the ships came in, actually went and looked at the water where the ships came, thought better about jumping in the water where the ships came in, continued to sweat.

At five o’clock, we were hungry again. We decided that we would try to spend all of our Kuna before we left Croatia, so we wandered down an alleyway, looked a few menus, and finally decided on a place. It was early, so we were the first at dinner. We looked at the menu and ordered the beef. Not really knowing what it was and, after the waiter walked away, I realized that he never asked me how I wanted it cooked. To my delight the “beef” turned out to be a filet and it was cooked, well, like a filet should be cooked – just enough not to keep you up at night (medium-rare with the emphasis on the “rare”).

The bill came and we added up all of our Kuna. Just short. We topped our bill off with a few Euros and a couple George Washingtons and we were on our way.

Traveling through security, we had our passports stamped and we boarded the ship. In contrast to our earlier speedier boat, this was a massive ship with lots of people. We pushed off at 9pm…played some cards, talked to our British friends for a while, had some wine that we picked up before boarding, and staked out our deck space where we’d sleep for the night.

Being exhausted from our ridiculous day, we put our ear plugs in and put our bags on the deck. If you’re looking for the antithesis of light pollution, the middle of the Adriatic Sea is it. We saw billions of stars. It was a scene, for me at least, rivaled only by laying in the meadow in the Yosemite Valley in the middle of the night. Truly inspiring. To top it off, the sweltering heat we’d endured that day subsided out at sea and we were treated with a cool night’s breeze. Sleeping, on the deck, at sea, with a cool breeze, under a sky full of stars, it was a blissful way to end our in the land of the Croats. Goodbye Croatia.

9 Hours to Dubrovnik

Leaving Plitvice, we headed back through the serene valley that we had passed through on our way. The road snaked back and forth around the house-less, development-less country side. I would compare this Croatian valley visually to what you might find in the central coast area just north of Santa Barbara. We saw very few cars and very few people – just gorgeous unblemished countryside.

There were, however, the lucky few who lived there. Most of which kept their houses in immaculate condition, adorned with flowers and landscaping. One of which was the lady who sold us goat cheese and plum brandy. We first noticed these “stands” on the side of the road on the way to Senj. At first we didn’t know what they were, but then realized that they were locals who would make their own cheese, oils and brandy and set up a road-side shop in their from lawns. About an hour after leaving Plitvice, I whipped off to the side of the road to look at the stand of items for sale. Benny, already passed out in the back seat, lifted his head – “are we in Dubrovnik?”. No, buddy, still got about 6 hours to go. The truth is we didn’t know how far we really had to go. It became a joke – the question: “How long will it take us to get to Croatia?” Answer: “5-6 hours”, one guys said. “10-12 hours” another person said. “5-10 hours" Another said. We really had no idea how long it would take us to get there. Anyway – back to the roadside stand.

In front of me was an assortment of cheeses, oils, brandies and other spirits that I figured I had no business even asking what they were. I asked if I could try the different cheeses – she had goat cheese, “smoked” and “not smoked” – she said in her best English. I tried them both. She also had cow cheese, “smoked” and “not smoked” – I tried them both. After deciding on the “not smoked” goat cheese and the plumb brandy (“Sljivovica”), I asked, “how much”? “40 Kuna for the Sljivovica and 80 for the cheese…120 Kuna”. I thought about it for a second…doing the math…let’s see, carry the one…yada yada (which is how most mental math conversions went while we were in Europe)…ok, so that’s like $22. “Ok”, I said. We drove away, stoked about our purchase…I figured, walk into Ralphs and buy a bottle of brandy and a giant wheel of goat cheese and you’re gonna spend at least $30, right? The reality is that just by the sheer fact that I didn’t negotiate with her at all, I probably could have gotten it for less – but I didn’t care. Happy to contribute to the Croatian economy, we got back in our Peugeot and blasted for Dubrovnik.

We were happy to find the Tollway – part of Croatia’s new infrastructure. The sign was posted a 130 km/hr max. One guy we had met in Pula told us we could go “the limit plus 10%”. We did the math – ok, that’s 143 km/hr. I pegged it on 150 and just cruised.

After cruising at 150 km/hr for a few hours, we had a good feeling we’d get to Dubrovnik that night. After driving 400 or 500 kilometers, the Tollway ended. The plan is to extend the Tollway all the way to Dubrovnik, maybe next trip it’ll be finished, but for now, they’re still blasting through the southern hills of Croatia.

We were a little disappointed at first, but after about a half hour of canyon switchbacks, we were treated to what I call – “Big Sur meets Barbados”. We got on to what is equivalent to their Highway 1 along the coast. The windy coastline road had sweeping views of the amazingly blue Adriatic Sea under which the giant cliffs sank below. For the next few hours, we drove south – weaving in and out of slower traffic – at one point, we almost had a head-on collision, which was fairly sobering. The driving in Croatia, although not quite paralleling what I witnessed in Tijuana, was still quite reckless.

As we passed through beach town after beach town – we realized two things, 1) once again, Croatian women are beautiful, and 2) Croatians love 90’s rock remixes. We had the windows down, the radio cranked as loud as our Peugeot would play, and we were jammin’ to songs we hadn’t heard for years. I think our favorite was when “I don’t want to Rock, DJ” came on. We jammed for a while…when the song was over, the DJ came on the radio and said in what sounded to us like his best Count Dracula voice, “I don’t want to rock DJ”. We laughed about that the rest of the trip. Ok, so I guess you had to be there.

After driving a while longer Cotter had to pee. I kept looking for a spot to pull off the road where he could pee in the bushes, but, hey - this isn't Reno, you can't just piss wherever you want. Finally, we whipped around a corner and the sign said “Briste”. “Briste!” I said. “That’s where Daniel and Iva live.” Just then I saw a turn off and pulled off. We parked the car, got out and looked around. We were in a total beach town. Picture Laguna, or Malibu. A small beach city framed by giant hills behind and the ocean in front. “Now what?” I said. “They didn’t really want us to stop.” Cotter said. “Well, let’s at least go find a pisser.” I added. I don’t think we were really about to knock on anyone’s door, but we were stoked to actually be in Briste. We followed a little windy road down to the beach and approached the largest structure in town, which was the beach hotel. We walked towards the hotel and Cotter said, “Hey, there’s Daniel”. “Shut up, dude, you’re stupid”, I kindly said. “No seriously!” Sure enough, Daniel and Iva were on the hotel balcony having a beer.

Shocked and still feeling a little weird about running into the same people 3 times in Croatia – we joined them for a beer. Side note: One interesting thing about Croatia is that they have a Zero Tolerance law about drinking and driving. .000001% alcohol in your blood will get you arrested. With that in mind, I abstained. We hung out with Daniel and Iva for a while, traded emails and a few laughs, and then hit the road.

A few hours (and 10 minutes in Bosnia) later, we finally made it Dubrovnik at about 10 pm. We stopped and knocked on the doors of a few Sobes with no luck. We parked the car and started walking. We probably only walked about 100 yards and we looked up at a sign “VIP Backpacker’s hostel”. Done. We were beat. Our stay in Dubrovnik had just begun.

Plitvice

We woke up in Senj the next morning at about 6 AM. It was a little painful, I’m gonna be honest, but we had an aggressive plan for the day: Drive to Plitvice (Pleet-veet-chay), walk the National Park, and drive all the way to Dubrovnik in the southern tip of Croatia. And in order to beat the heat and the crowds (Think Yosemite in August) and make it all the way to Dubrovnik, we needed to head out early.

The drill was the usual, I drive, and Ben and Seth take turns being passed out in the back and doing their best to keep me from being passed out in the front. We put a few liters of petrol in our ride and hit the road. We followed mountain switchbacks in the dense morning fog most of the way from coastal Senj to Plitvice National Park, which is hidden in the central valley’s hills.

We probably passed through 50 small country towns on our way to Plitvice – most of them consisted of well kept stone houses, a few markets, flowers, and roadside merchants selling their homemade cheese, oils, and brandy.

I’m not sure what about us screamed “tourist” louder – our giant “Europe” backpacks, our ever-present cameras, or my “Hrvatska” t-shirt that I wore so proudly…which would be equivalent to a Japanese tourist walking around Yosemite taking pictures of everything, talking in Japanese and wearing a gaudy “America” t-shirt. Ok, so we stood out a little.

About 1 hour into our drive, we finally found coffee. We walked into a very local café in a small Croatian farming town and asked (in English, of course) for 3 espressos. I tried not to make eye contact, but across the bar, which I could barely see through the plume of early morning cigarette smoke, all eyes were on us. It was as if someone just walked into a cowboy bar in West Texas and ordered a diet sprite and a salad.

Escaping unscathed with our caffeine, we hit the road again, bound for Plitvice. We passed through more small towns and gorgeous countryside that I couldn’t help but think how California developers would be salivating over. The terrain got increasingly rugged until we finally arrived at Plitvice.

My two Croatia advisors – Danny Parker and my climbing friend Amy – had both dubbed Plitvice a “can’t miss”. We arrived at the park, walked into the welcome center and ordered more espresso and some pastries.

We started our journey. Taking a long bus type of car with a bunch of connected cars, they shuttled us to the top of the falls. Plitvice is essentially several miles of lakes that cascade down through a series of waterfalls and rivers. The water is an unbelievable blue color that is so striking, it’s hard to believe that it’s real and it’s equally hard to believe that fish actually live in the water. After reaching the top, we begin about a 5 mile walk on a mix of elevated boardwalk and trails, following the lakes and cascades all the way to the bottom.

The next few hours, there’s not a lot to say. I don’t know how to say it…words can’t capture it. Pictures can’t even capture it. Cotter said it was the most beautiful place he’d ever been. I said it was in my top 5, although I balked when challenged to provide a more beautiful place. I just said “I like rocks” – which I do…but as water goes – I’ve never seen anything like it.

We spent the next few hours walking, taking pictures, and just simply in awe…awe of the beauty of the country…but more importantly awe of its Creator. I can’t be in a place like that without it being a spiritual experience – Plitvice is place you just have to see to believe.

More than satisfied with the 90 Kuna entrance fee ($16), we ate cheeseburgers from the local concession stand and hit the road – bound for Dubrovnik. We had a long drive ahead of us, but we were determined to get to Dubrovnik, or maybe Briste, or maybe…the side of the road.