Friday, November 03, 2006

Camping in Theth...The Conclusion

October 31, 2006

This is the conclusion of the story that I first posted ohh….about a month ago. In that time the world has apparently spun off its axis, as the Detroit Tigers advanced to the World Series! They didn’t win. But still.

No excuses for falling down on the postings this month. But, I pledge to turn over a new leaf in November and revive the Albania blog. Otherwise known as My Weekly Correspondence to my Mother. So, let’s bring home the camping trip story:

On the road now, the mood in the van was buoyant. Albanian Muzik Popullore blared, beers were passed around, and The Old Man kept doing the cheek kissing thing with Joe and I. Papi, managed the mountain road with a beer, cigarette and cell phone in his hands, turning around every ten seconds to shout at me and Joe.

“Oh Beni,” Papi shouted, “we’re going to Theth Beni! Very good Beni, very good!”
“Yes, very good. Watch the road please Papi.”
“Huh? I see the road.”
“Papi,” Joe said, “Please watch where you are driving the van.”
“Yeah sure Joey. Arti, another beer for me.”

Joe and I resigned ourselves to the fact that our lives were in Papi’s hands. “I better have another to,” I said.

After two hours we had descended from Puke and were driving through the city of Shkodra, an altogether unpleasant town which we naturally refer to as “Shkrotum.” This would be the last city of any size before we would begin the climb to Theth. We drove slowly through town, coasting up and down the streets, apparently in search of a store to get some last minute supplies. Papi stopped in front of a typical Albanian hardware/kitchen supply/7-Eleven/drugstore/ice cream and pastry shop. Joe and I let the seven Albanians in the van argue over what we needed. Papi’s son was dispatched to the store. He scrambled around the store while the rest of us sat in the van on the other side of the street yelling directions and orders. After about a dozen trips between the van and the store people seemed to be satisfied. We had a lot of stuff. The van now resembled the truck that the Hillbillies rode into Beverly Hills on, packed with things like a vegetable steamer, salt and pepper shakers, placemats, an espresso pot, and a few bottles of Skenderberg Brandy. This was true to form in what would become a theme of the weekend: when camping, it’s all about the quantity of stuff you have. Practicality and quality of said stuff is not considered in the equation.

“What is going on? Why are we buying all this crap. I mean, that is all brand new stuff that we’re taking camping.” Joe was incredulous
“Man, you know questions like that are futile,” I said. “This is obviously out of our control. Although, I can’t say I’m happy that ol’ Skenderberg is making the trip.”
“Yeah. Not a welcome addition.”

Our tenth passenger – eleven really, if you count Skenderberg Brandy – was picked up on our way out of Shkrotum. Stopped at an intersection, a group of middle-aged guys loitered on a corner – Papi tapped the horn and leaned his head out of the window.

“Oh communist!” he shouted towards the crowd of middle-aged guys loitering at the corner.

A particularly cagey-looking fellow looked over towards the van. Arti slid open the van door and motioned for the Communist – in three days I never heard his name used – to load up in the van for Theth. He hopped in and cracked open a beer. Music, toasting, cheek kissing and general revelry returned to the van. The Communist didn’t have a backpack, sleeping bag, or anything besides the leisure suit he was wearing. Joe and I were pretty sure that this was just a “hey there’s the Communist! Let’s pick ‘em up!” impulse on the part of Papi. He would join the Old Man and the Doktori as members of our party that were just inexplicable in general

As we drove out of Shkrotum the peaks of the Albanian Alps came into view to the North. Our final stop was at a café for lunch. Here we rendezvoused with three our four other van loads of Albanians. These turned out to be members of the Albanian Alpinist Association. Papi had trumpeted his being an “Alpinist” to Joe. We had reserved some skepticism at these claims. Couldn’t anyone just call themselves an “Alpinist?” I mean, I like to think of myself as a philosopher. The company of these twenty-some alpinists, many of whom Papi seemed to know, did lend some credibility to Papi’s story, and the trip in general, which had begun to veer towards “there’s no way we’re actually going camping.”

We lingered at the café just long enough for the rain to catch us before we ascended into Theth. The vehicle our group traveled in is difficult to classify. It was something like a fifteen-passenger van, but bigger. A little more bus-like. Maybe a step below a short school bus. We named it the Devastator. Whatever the make and model was on the Devastator, it was rickety. This did not seem like an appropriate automobile for driving into the mountains ahead of us. But, the Devastator was joined by a caravan of four other Van-Bus hybrids loaded with the Alpinists.

Immediately beyond the café the road deteriorated to a dirt path, not quite as wide as the Devastator. We rumbled on, the Devastator managing the road remarkably well. Joe and I took in the scenery and watched as we seemed to drive backwards across decades and centuries. Herds of sheep, donkeys, and women working in fields are nothing new. But here, the homes, wagons, fences, and barns seemed truly old fashioned. The surroundings were no longer of the usual out-of-date Stalinist variety. This scene, stone structures, craggy mountains and misty rain, was Lord of the Rings archaic.

The Devastator continued its ascent into the mountains. Trees closed in around the goat path we drove on. The ten of us on board the Devastator were getting increasingly jostled. It felt as if we were driving through a tunnel, then, the trees would part and expose dramatic mountain landscapes.

Papi plowed on. Seemingly being pushed to its limits, the Devastator’s shaking and sputtering became more violent. At this point the temperature had dropped significantly.

“I’m not sure the Devastator is going to make it man,” I said to Joe.
“She’ll hold together,” he replied. “Actually, I’d say the Devastator is handling the drive surprisingly well.”
“I’m a little concerned about the blue smoke coming out of the heating vent.”
“Yeah. That’s probably poisonous. Or something.” Joe said. “Oh Papi, I think we should turn off the heater. I think it’s smoking.”

Our concern with sitting in a fume-filled Devastator was not shared. Joe’s plea was brushed off as being petty. The Old Man gave his assurance that the Devastator was fine, flashed his charming gap-toothed grin and waved the bottle of Skenderberg at us mischievously. We begged off that offer.

Theth, the village that would be our Base Camp for two days came into view. The town was situated in a corner of a valley that now spread in front of us. Clouds hung low around the mid-sections of the mountain peaks. Theth was a ghost town. All that remained of most of the buildings in the village were stone foundations. Other structures were in various stages of crumbling. The farmhouses scattered through the valley were, for the most part, abandoned.

Unbelievably, we would discover that a handful of people continue to live in Theth. As beautiful as the setting was, this was a place with out electricity and served by a road that I would feel safer traveling on with a donkey than any car or Devastator. In terms of stuff, there’s whatever grows in the valley, and that’s it. In terms of stuff to do, there’s collecting and making stuff out of the stuff that grows in the valley. That, and trying not to die. The winters have got to be frightful. Joe and I decided that, while admirable in many ways, the residents of Theth are insane.

The Devastator trailed into town behind the VanBuses carrying the Alpinists. The wagon train of VanBuses circled up in what had been a playground for the imploded school nearby. It had been a long day of travel. No one had any sense of urgency to set up camp. We admired our surroundings, the Old Man pointing at and naming each peak. We milled around long enough for daylight to completely disappear before beginning to unpack the Devastator and set up Base Camp.

The lack of a tent for Joe and I – this had been major point of stress for Joe during the peak of his raki buzz a mere eight hours earlier – once again became an issue.

“Dude, they don’t have a tent for us,” Joe said soberly.
“Yeah I know. You already flipped out about that this morning. Whatever man. We’ve got sleeping bags, we don’t really need a tent.”
“I don’t think Papi likes that idea.”

Indeed, Papi was not going to have the two American guests of honor sleep sans tent. Joe and I were squatted around my dismal attempt at a campfire while a rapid exchange between Papi and several of the Alpinists ensued overhead. It became uncomfortably heated.

“Blah, blah, Amercans, blah, blah, tent, blah, blah, blah,” Papi said accusatively, pointing at the Alpinists.
“Tent?!! Blah, blah, blah Beni, Joey, blah, blah, Tent?!!” An Alpinist would respond.
“Hey Papi. It’s cool, we’re totally fine without a tent,” Joe pleaded.
“No Joey,” Papi scolded. “Blah, blah, blah, tent,” he said, pointing at the Alpinists. “Blah, blah, blah Beni, Joey,” he then pointed at us.

We didn’t need to follow the conversation. It obviously concerned me, Joe and the lack of a tent. Papi was demanding, not asking, that someone give up their tent for the sake of the Americans. He was our buddy and host, and was going to make damn sure we had a tent. The air was heavy with contempt at this point. We tried to look apologetic.

“I’m feeling like our company is wearing a little thin with these guys,” I said to Joe.
“Yeah. The dudes are not cool with us right now.”

The little chat over the tent ended with Papi firing up the Devastator, the Old Man and the Doktori in tow, and driving out of Base Camp. Now we were left alone with the Alpinists – not our biggest fans – and no Papi to stick up for us. This was awkward.

An hour later Papi returned with a tent. It wasn’t a new tent. There was no way he drove somewhere, bought a tent, and got back in an hour’s time. Where this tent came from was a mystery, but we had one. Joe and I were grateful that this latest episode had resolved itself.

Arti and Dori had been desirously eying mine and Joe’s headlamps. Setting up our tent presented the opportunity they needed to take the headlamps for a test drive.

“Oh, Joey. Please. Let me set up the tent,” Arti offered.
“No, no. We can do it man. It’s our tent we should set it up,” Joe pleaded.
“It’s a pleasure for me. It would give me great pleasure to make your tent.”
“Oh, Joey,” Papi said, steamrolling our efforts to be unobtrusive. “Arti will make tent for you and Beni.”
“Just let them roll with it man,” I said.
“Yes, it’s no problem,” Dori offered. “But we might just need your head flashlights to borrow.”

Arti and Dori LOVED the headlamps. They threw up the tent in about four seconds. This wasn’t nearly enough headlamp time. They proceeded to collect firewood, organize the food, fill water bottles and scrounge for any other chore that they could do in the dark.

“Arti, can I get my headlamp back. I’m getting ready to go to sleep,” I said.
“Yeah sure Beni. I just need to go to the ahhh….”
“The river Arti! We have to go to the river. With the head flashlight!” To the river,” Dori said.

They hurried down to the river for no reason at all. In the distance we could hear the headlamp thieves who were, apparently, having the time of their lives.

“Hey Arti, I see you!”
“Look up Dori. Look right, left! The light is on your head!”

The evening had seen a minor confrontation over a tent that Joe and I didn’t really want. The headlamps were just collateral damage.

“Those are definitely getting broken tonight,” Joe said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But we did get a tent. So we got that going for us.”
“I guess.”

The next morning was leisurely. I woke up to find Papi, Arti, Dori, Samir, the Communist, and a couple of the Alpinists squatted around the fire. The rest of the Alpinists had set-up four or five other campsites throughout the schoolyard. The Old Man and the Doktori were nowhere to be seen. I was ready for breakfast and wedged myself in amongst the circle, hoping to snipe some of whatever food was going to be passed around.

The instant Nescafe coffee was welcome – after seven months in Albania I have learned to manipulate instant coffee in a way that creates a sweet milky drink that I would put up against the best New York bodega coffee. Delightful – the round of raki that followed was something I should have seen coming.

Albanians aren’t big on morning meals. A hearty breakfast might be Coffee, raki, and cigarettes. Thankfully, since we were camping and all, some bread and cheese came out. Joe and I, starving from the lack of dinner the previous night, demolished a loaf of bread and about two pounds of cheese.

“So Papi,” Joe said, “what’s the plan today?”
“Right,” Papi said, tipping back on his raki, “we will climb one of the mountains and make the tents on the mountain for the night.”
“Alright. So we going to get going pretty soon this morning?” Joe said, newly energized.
“Yeah sure. Just after a little bit.”

This meant hanging around Base Camp for the better part of the afternoon. For a group of Alpinists, they didn’t display much hurry in embarking on climbing a mountain, which I thought was what Alpinists did. After breakfast people sat around the fire and chatted. For about three hours. After that, there was an elaborate ceremony for something. The Alpinists gathered themselves and lined up formally behind Papi and two other lead Alpinists. The other Alpinists watched with reverence as speeches were made, hands were shook, cheeks were kissed, and commemorative photos were exchanged. We figured that this was some kind of kick-off event or pep rally thing. But the exact meaning of all the pomp and circumstance escaped us. We were ready for any surprise at this point.

Continuing the trend of the last twenty-four hours, just when it seemed that plans had fallen through and we had given in to the fact that we wouldn’t be going anywhere, something was triggered. A sense of urgency sprung up. People started moving around, things were thrown in backpacks, directions were given.

Joe and I were laying around, assuming that the Alpinist award ceremony was still carrying on. At first, the whirlwind taking place around us was a little disorienting.

“Hey dude, I think their done making their speeches,” I said to Joe.
“Yeah, they seem to be getting organized for something,” Joe replied. “You think we’re going to hike somewhere today? I mean, it’s pretty late in the afternoon to leave. I doubt it. Hey Arti,” he shouted across the base camp, “what’s going on man?”
“We leave for hike in the mountain now,” he responded. “Five minutes. Joey, Beni come we leaving now.”
“What?!” Joe said. “Come on dude, get your stuff, I think they want to leave.”
“Maaannn,” I whined.

We threw sleeping bags, clothes, and food in our bags and joined the group. We joined the Alpinists and began to size everyone up in terms of gear as we received the same scrutiny. There was no shortage of equipment in this group. The Alpinists had all manner of stuff strapped, clipped and hanging off their bags. Helmets, climbing harnesses, ice-axes, lanterns, swords, miles of rope and – you really can’t go camping without this – a gun. Joe and I conceded that the Alpinists did indeed seem to have bested us in terms of gear. The fact that most of this equipment – ice-axes!! – was wholly unnecessary didn’t seem to bother anyone. They were prepared for any number of situations we may encounter. Including a shootout.

Notably absent from the party was Papi. We asked Arti about his absence and got a hazy story about an injury and that Papi “didn’t really do hiking, camping and that kind of stuff anymore.” Well then. This made Papi’s story of having “climbed” Mount Everest all the more dubious.

One of the senior Alpinists designated himself Leader of the exhibition. He made a not short speech about nothing, and we finally disembarked from base camp as a single file group of thirty or so Alpinists and two irritated Americans. The hike began with a gentle incline towards imposing peaks in the distance. Joe and I were skeptical as to how far this group was going to make it. These guys had spent the morning and early afternoon drinking raki and lounging around, they each had about twenty pounds of completely pointless shovels, machetes, and rope strapped to them, and they were middle-aged Albanian men – not models of physical health.

“There’s no way we’re going to climb one of those mountains,” I said to Joe.
“That’s what they’re talking about man. I think the plan is to hike to one of the saddles between the peaks and camp up there tonight.”
“Uhhhh. Why man? I mean, we could have left early this morning, gotten to wherever we were going, snapped some photos, climb down, make dinner at base camp and sleep in the Devastator or something. What is going on? I mean, these dudes are crawling. My man over here has some World War One issued backpack,” I was out of breath at this point.
“Roll with it dude,” Joe reasoned.

Our pace was leisurely. The degree of incline gradually increased to the point of a pretty good uphill climb. Our group began to break up. I kept waiting for the lead Alpinist to announce that it was time to turn around. There were frequent stops, some of the younger Alpinists ended up carrying the older Alpinists’ packs, I found myself saddled with about three-hundred yards of climbing rope that someone brought along but decided they didn’t want to carry. Our lead Alpinist shouted directions and frequently stopped the procession to point at a rock and make a speech. Joe became further aggravated. I nearly committed a quadruple homicide. But the group soldiered on.

It began to seem that we might actually make it to the peaks that we had admired from Base Camp five hours earlier. Joe, myself, Arti, Dori, Samir, and a few other younger Alpinists had separated ourselves from the group. The terrain began to level out, trees had long since disappeared, and now bushes and other shrubs faded away. Wind swirled around like it hadn’t before. Things were looking barren. Like the surface of the moon, but grassier. We had come to a bowl in the mountains, surrounded by the peaks that – though I felt like we had climbed pretty high – still seemed far away.

“This is the first time I’ve been on top of a mountain man,” I said to Joe. “I guess I didn’t realize it’d be so…bleak. You know?”
“We’re not really on a summit right now,” he replied. “This is just a saddle between the peaks. I don’t know maybe about nine or ten-thousand feet. They’re, like, fifty-some fourteeners in Colorado. So this is pretty mid-range.”
“Yeah, I don’t think we’ve got those in Michigan. But I’ve been skiing on a landfill before!”
“Sweet.”

Daylight was going fast and it became cold. We had put some distance between ourselves and the leader of the Alpinists. We could hear Sir Edmund Hillary in the distance screaming about something. At this point Joe, myself and our three companions from Puke had lost faith in our leader and were happy to get away from him. Arti lead us on over the lunar landscape, assuring us that he knew of a good place to camp. Our campsite came into view. A depression, maybe fifty yards in diameter, kind of soft and grassy-looking, with a ruined barn and shack in one corner by a well. Evidence that, at one time, someone had actually lived up here!

Exhausted, our group of five descended to the campsite. We didn’t notice at first as we entered the crater, but after a few minutes of wandering around the abandoned home we realized that there were sheep, goat, bear, or some kind of animal droppings all over the place.

“Man, I’m pretty sure that there is animal shit all over,” Joe said.
“I thought that might be the case,” I replied. “Why in the hell would there be goats or whatever up here?”
“This is literally a shit hole dude. It is a hole, on top of a mountain, that is covered in shit. Animal shit. This is a shit hole. Arti! Are we sleeping in this shit hole?!!” Joe was a little hot.
“Yeah sure,” Arti said. “Is the best campsite on the mountain.”

Too exhausted to argue, let alone trek further on in search of a less-shitty hole to sleep in, we conceded to Arti and let the guys set up camp. We wandered around the ruined outpost and filled our water bottles at the well. It had been a somewhat irksome afternoon hike. Finally, with our packs off and the walking done for the day, Joe and I remembered to appreciate the backdrop to our shit hole campsite. We turned around to find that Arti, Dori and Samir had pitched the tents on the edges of the bowl of our shit hole campsite. Our tents were set-up at about a 45 degree angle.

“Arti man, we shouldn’t set the tents up like that. We don’t want to have them on such a slope,” Joe explained.
“Is not a problem,” Arti reasoned.
“No dude, really. We’ll all end up bunched in one corner of the tent,” I added. “Let’s move them to more level ground in the shit hole.”
“Oh come on Beni,” Dori said. “Is good here. Let’s have a fire. Look, Samir bring out the food.”

Once again we allowed ourselves to be rolled over. It was really our own fault for stepping away to admire the scenery. Joe and I were famished and Samir was going to dominate the bread and cheese we brought if we protested any longer.

The sun fell behind the mountains, wind crept up and quickly grew in intensity, bringing with it a new, bitter coldness. We crowded around the fire, Joe and I silent, too cold and tired to speak in Albanian, while Arti, Dori and Samir chattered over or heads. The smoke from the fire managed to blow in all our faces at once. This was not the therapeutic and meditative campfire that I normally look forward to at the end of a hike. It was time for bed.

The night was restless. The echo effect of the surrounding mountains made a typical thunderstorm into something that sounded ruthless. The rain flowed under our tent making the surface we laid on very cold. Naturally, water leaked inside the tent, dampening us and our sleeping bags. And then there was the severe grade of our tents.

“This is nuts man,” Joe said.
“This is what hell would be for me. Seriously. I’m cold, wet, and….Arti! Move over man! You’ve been rolling over on me for the last three hours.”
“Sorry Beni. I think it is hard to sleep straight on a hill.”

Daylight returned around six a.m. I stared at the ceiling of the tent in a haze of numbness and sleeplessness. I was sandwiched between Joe and Arti, the three of us heaped together in one corner of the tent. I turned to either side to see Joe and Arti in similar trances.

“Joey,” Arti said. “You want drink some brandy?”
“Yeah,” Joe said after a pause. “Let me get a pull off of Skenderberg.”

I watched Joe tip back with the bottle of Skenderberg. Completely spent, physically, psychologically and emotionally, all I could was laugh. Joe lost his composure in response.

“You want a shot?” he offered.
“Oh yeah. Pour me a double.”

I think we were hallucinating at this point.

Dori and Samir rustled next door. I stepped out of our rain-soaked tent and saw that compared to Dori and Samir we had come through the night in pretty good shape. Their tent had collapsed on top of them. Stakes and poles were spread around. Evidence that at one time a tent had actually stood there. Dori and Samir lay under a sheet of not-waterproof tent material. Dori sat up quickly and threw the tent off of him. He was clearly ready to get off the mountain.

The hike down the mountain took two hours. We began above the cloud line and gradually made our way through the fog until the abandoned village, Base Camp and the Devastator came into view. As we came through the clouds the rain returned. Not the downpour from last night, this was a more conventional rain fall. A drizzle compared to what we had slept through. Spirits lightened a little bit at the prospect of returning to base camp and the comfort of the Devastator. Inspired by the weather Arti, Dori and Samir broke into song with a rendition of “It’s Raining Men.” The meaning of the song was lost on the Albanians. They understood the lyrics to be more of a declaration pertaining to the weather.

“It’s raining man!” Dori declared. “Beni, Joey, it’s raining man!”
“It’s raining man! Oh yeah man, it’s raining man!” Samir echoed.

We were wet and getting ever grumpier. But Joe and I couldn’t suppress our laughter.

Our return to Base Camp wasn’t the homecoming that I had hoped for. Flapjacks, bacon and coffee was not waiting for us. We found Papi, his son and the Communist laying around by a smoldering fire. They sat amongst dirty plates and pots, empty beer cans and wine bottles, watermelon rinds, snack wrappers and other evidence of the feast that they had apparently enjoyed the previous night. We found ourselves left with cucumbers, bread and the Albanian white cheese that is similar to feta. Just not very good. Joe and I destroyed a couple cucumber and cheese sandwiches. We looked at each other, squatting on our haunches and munching cucumbers.

“We are so Albanian-looking right now man,” Joe said, shaking his head.
“I think about four months ago I wrote something in my journal about the ‘extreme poverty I saw in this one village where the kids were just squatting around eating raw cucumbers,’ I said.
“That’s when we still felt like observers. Like, it’s easy to have compassion when your sure that you’ll never be like that.”
“Yeah. But they do have damn good cucumbers in this country.”
“Cheers to that,” Joe said. “We got anymore of these things around?”

It had only been two nights. The camping trip had always had an indeterminate end. But now we were desperate for some light at the end of the tunnel. Joe and I spread out in the Devastator, decompressing from the previous eight hours.

“Glorious Devastator. Take me,” Joe implored as he fell back into the seats.

Arti, Dori and Samir showed up and announced that we were now walking to a waterfall. Arti explained that the rest of the Alpinists, whom had apparently not camped in a shit hole, had arrived in Base Camp and were now leading us to a waterfall. We were spent and tried to protest. “Prolong the waterfall trip for a few hours,” we begged. This was all in vain. It was clear that our lack of endorsement was meaningless. The Alpinists and our friends were walking to some waterfall, and while we “didn’t have to come,” people would be “kind of upset” if we didn’t. Joe and I dragged ourselves from the soothing confines of the Devastator. The march to the waterfall took us through the Theth ghost town, past a few restored barns and churches and included a precarious river crossing.

The river was moving pretty fast, swerving between boulders. It was traversed by a rotted wooden bridge, half of which was missing and had been replaced with a fallen log. Arti, Dori and Samir all scampered across the log. I opted to hop across the river from boulder to boulder. Joe wasn’t going to let the Albanians outdo him and opted for the bridge. He made it about halfway across, to the point where the bridge disappeared and he was left with a balance beam across the river. He paused at the edge of the bridge. Joe began to step onto the log just as his other leg broke through the bridge. He fell back, his leg dangling through the bridge, and grabbed the edge of the log. Joe pulled his lower body up through the bridge and made an about face off the bridge. We didn’t even bat an eye after his Indiana Jones moment.

“Well, I think I would have died if I fell through the bridge there,” Joe said calmly.
“At least been hurt kinda bad,” I said.
“Crazy.”

The waterfall was beautiful. Samir jumped around in the glacial water, demonstrating his lack of sanity. The Albanian trio then climbed around on cliffs and tempted death a few other ways, all in an effort to impress a couple of sixteen year-old girls that were hanging around the waterfall.

Back at Base Camp we found Papi and the Communist loading things into the Devastator. We were out of food – after two nights!! – and it was time to leave. Joe and I sprung into action, indiscriminately tossing tents, sleeping bags, pots, sticks, Papi’s son, and anything else laying around into the Devastator. The Old Man and the Doktori appeared out of nowhere – their whereabouts for the previous two days remain a mystery – we piled in, Papi behind the wheel and the Devastator rumbled its way out of Theth.

The drive back to Puke was more or less a replay of our drive into Theth. The Old Man’s enthusiasm for everything returned. He handed out walnuts in the shell to me and Joe. We were starving, but didn’t know what to do with these. Unable to crack them, we stared helplessly at the walnuts in our hands. Seeing our peril, the Old Man snatched them, flashed his million-dollar toothless smile and cracked the walnuts with his bare hands. Seriously.

“Dude has got Old Man strength,” I commented.
“That’s my man,” Joe said.

We made it to Puke. The next morning we reflected on the previous forty-eight hours, and a journey that had seemed like forty-eight days. Joe and I agreed that it had been something we had to record in some way.

“I need some time to digest it all, but I’ve got to write about the whole thing,” I said. “Right now my head is still spinning, Joe replied.”

Two months later, it’s a little dizzying to describe the trip to Theth.