Month: July 2011

Over the course of last weekend and early this week, I spent five days riding from Barcelona to Munich. My route crossed many beautiful places, from the coastal Pyrenees, through the wine regions of Languedoc-Rousillon and Provence, up and over the Alps from France to Italy, thence to the low agricultural plains of northwestern Italy, and once more across the Alps – this time through the long fjord-like lakes of Italy and over the solid rocky heart through Switzerland and Austria before finally dropping down again for the final stretch to Munich.

It was tough to leave Barcelona – I spent four days there after my dusty fabulous week at Nowhere, and really fell in love with the place. It’s beautiful and warm, filled with delicious food and a lovely, genial population. It helped, of course, that I had great new friends to stay with right in the center of the city. I liked it so much there that I’m planning to spend the month of November there, to take Spanish lessons (I know, it’s a Catalonian city – one friend likened this to going to Quebec to study English), spend more time with my new friends there and have a comfortable jumping-off spot for day and overnight trips around Spain.

Once I was on the road, however, it was pretty riding. Despite sticking to the motorway for the day’s travel, the trip across the Pyrenees – close to the Mediterranean coast – was very scenic. Once through the mountains and into France, I rode along the coast – and through numerous vineyard areas – for a while before heading north again to Montpellier, my destination for the night.

Once in Montpellier, I met up with Helene, my Couchsurfing host for the night. After I’d had a chance to clean up a bit, we went into the city center for an impromptu tour of historical and architectural locales, then to the central plaza for the weekly Friday night fest – food, wine and tchotchke vendors, live music and more. Helene is a tango dancer, and I was delighted to get a chance to watch her dance with several partners – I’d never watched tango in person before, and found it to be visually very sensual and appealing. Watching it also made me realize how much I’ve missed my days of swing dancing, one of the many activities that have fallen by the wayside as my ankle has gotten worse over the years (for those who don’t know, I have arthritis in my right ankle as a result of several bad sprains many years ago).

The next morning, we each headed on our way – Helene to visit her mother, and I to cross the Alps into France, with the goal of reaching Lugano, Switzerland. Well, that wasn’t to be until the next day – I was so taken by the beauty of the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence region that I lingered. I dawdled. I (figuratively) dragged my feet, soaking in the loveliness. And then, late in the day, I entered Les Gorges du Verdon, and was undone. The Verdon Gorge – sometimes referred to as the Grand Canyon of Europe – is a stunning, deep river canyon (up to 700m at its deepest) through sheer limestone walls. I was there just too late to see the evening sun coloring the walls, but couldn’t help but imagine them painted in the reds and pinks and oranges which danced across the stone faces just before the entrance to the gorge itself.

Once through the most spectacular portion of the gorge, I pulled into a campsite just outside of La Palud-sur-Verdon. It was there the next morning where I realized that, in addition to tourists with an interest in natural beauty, the Verdon Gorge was a magnet for rock climbers. The unmistakeable clink of carabiners and other climbing protection tinkled quietly from several campsites around me, as climbers from all over Europe prepared for the day’s adventures. For me, it was back into the saddle and up and over the Alps, from France into Italy. That day was probably the single most technical day of riding I’ve ever experienced. For the riders and road geeks out there, check out this map of my route: La Palud-sur-Verdon to Barcelonette to Cuneo. Zoom in on the section between Colmars and Barcelonnette, and again in Italy, on the stretch from just west of Argentera to about Pontebernardo. I didn’t manage to ride the Dragon’s Tail in the Smokies on my way across the US, but I think this day made up for it. Of course, it would’ve been nicer without the torrential rain on the climb out of Barcelonnette to around Meyronnes. Yes, that would’ve been much nicer.

As I mentioned before, my goal for the day was to reach Lugano, CH – but crossing two passes in the Alps, one in heavy rain, had wrung me out completely by the time I reached reasonably flat terrain again near Cuneo. I pushed on for a while until I realized the utter depth of my exhaustion, and stopped for the night in Fossano, where I dried out, got some food and a beer, and collapsed like a lump into my bed.

The next day, I struck out for Lugano. Another beautiful day’s riding, this time through rolling hills and down onto the flat plains of northwestern Italy. My route took me past vineyards, huge fields of corn and the deep emerald lushness of many rice paddies. I rode through and by towns with familiar names – Alba, Asti – gently cursing the fact that delicious wines and motorcycling don’t mix, and then entered the stunning Lakes District as I approached Lugano, and with it more rain.

Sadly, I failed to connect with a friend working the summer in Lugano, as his work schedule and my reticence to don my sodden riding gear conspired to keep us apart. So I found myself a bed in the local hostel, a decent meal and a few beers, and then delicious slumber.

My final day’s ride of this particular sprint took me deep into and across the heart of the Alps – along the coastline of Lago di Lugano and Lago di Como, then up and up into deep valleys lined with sharp serrated cliffs of stone. Through Switzerland into Italy, then back into Switzerland again for several beautiful passes before descending through the Tyrolean Alps of Austria – to my eyes the most beautiful region of the Alps I’ve seen to date.

Finally, after threading my way through the northern valleys, into Germany and hurtling on the A9 to Munich, where I was warmly greeted by my friends Mellington and Oliver. I spent several fun days in Munich visiting with them – and with Margherita and Andrea, new friends met at Nowhere – but that telling can wait for another day.

[If you’re not interested in Burning Man and its culture, you might want to skip this one.]

At the beginning of July, after spending a month in northern Europe, I pointed southward, destination: Nowhere.

The Nowhere Festival is an eight-year-old festival inspired by Burning Man, held in the Aragon desert of northern Spain. Many of you know that I’ve been attending Burning Man, Critical Massive (the WA state BM regional event) and similar BM-inspired events since 2000. I first heard about Nowhere around 2005, from a few of my friends in Europe who went early on, when there were around 200 attendees.

Due to my limited carrying capacity for the food, water and amenities necessary for a week-long festival, I put a few calls out to join a barrio (Nowhere-ese for theme camp) with a food plan. I was eagerly received into the Garden of Joy, a barrio organized by a lovely group of Italian Burners. I immediately felt at home on arrival, being warmly greeted by Maggie (who initially answered my call) and Marco, the camp’s organizer and “spiritual leader” for lack of a better term (most of the Italians affectionately refer to Marco as “Baba”, from Satya Sai Baba, the famous Hindu guru).

It could have just as easily been called the Garden of Decadence. There was a misting system installed in the common areas, keeping the temperature easily 5-10°C cooler than any other camp. An entire Jamon d’Iberico on the kitchen table, casually draped with a towel to keep flies off. Two refrigerators, electric and gas stoves, a thumping sound system, daily food deliveries from Sari?ena (the closest town), excellent meals, all the amenities a happy Burner might need.

Most of all, the Garden was home to an incredible group of people – Italian, French, Dutch, British, Spanish, American, Canadian, Kiwi and more – I was lucky to find such a welcoming home and wonderful company, many of whom I expect and hope to see again during my travels.

Official attendance this year was around 650 people, mostly folks who’d bought tickets in advance, but also a few locals who had heard about the event and came out to satisfy their curiosity.

Burners: if time and circumstance combine to present an opportunity to attend this event, I strongly recommend it. It was quite possibly my favorite burn yet – I think in large part because I knew basically nobody on arrival, so was immediately forced out of my comfort zone.

A few personal highlights and observations of the event (a few of these will only be meaningful to people who have camped with me on the playa for various years):

• The entrance road was my first real opportunity to put my RawHyde Adventure School training to use. It was about 20km off dirt road, including steep downhills, switchbacks, gravel and fine silty sand. I am pleased to report that I handled all with nothing more than minor trepidation.
• Upon my arrival at the gate, as I was waiting my turn to check in, I was astonished by one of the passengers of the next vehicle to arrive: none other than Miss Normal, former Mayor of Gigsville, former Seattle resident. I see her every 2-3 years on the playa. I suppose this is just another incarnation of playa, but wow were we both surprised (in the “WHAT! THE! FUCK!?! sort of way).
• During the opening ceremony, hearing a shocked voice say “STUART?!” and turning to see my friend Kyra, whom I hadn’t seen since a very spectacular wedding quite a few years ago. I knew she’d be there, she had no idea I would.
• 600 people doing the hokey pokey.
• Azzura, one of the Italians, had a howler monkey. Not a flying ninja howler monkey, but still. My brain still reels a bit thinking of it.
• As much as I love Repetitive Inside Joke Camp, I rather despise Other Peoples’ Repetitive Inside Joke Camp. Particularly at 7:30 in the morning when I’m just waking and as yet uncaffeinated, and the Other People in question are obnoxiously altered and loud “guests” of our camp. Which is to say: “time to go back to your own camp now, lovelies”.
• A key highlight: watching the documentary “Combust In Unity”, about the 2008 KiwiBurn. One of the filmmakers was a campmate. The film was a little rough, mostly due to being zero budget and very limited camera tech, but well worth the viewing.
• Logistics: pit toilets, shallow pits for vegetable food waste. Center Camp == “Middle of Nowhere”. The few big sound camps situated reasonably near each other, but with sound systems pointing in basically different directions.

Summary: If you dig Burning Man and have the opportunity, GO NOWHERE!

My friend Monika, with whom I am staying while in London, is a talented costumer in addition to being a living statue and mime performer. The other day, she generously asked me to do a rather impromptu photo shoot of her and her friend Marta in some of the costumes she’s made. Being a big fan of pretty women in fun outfits, I heartily agreed.

Here are a few shots from the day … needless to say, this was an incredibly fun time! :)

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Everything here was shot using available light – luckily the sky was providing a big softbox, varying between overcast and drizzly for most of the shoot. Nikon D700 with 50/1.8, 16-35/4, 70-200/2.8.

After my first frustrating night in England, my travels here have been delightful, interspersed with wonder at the sheer beauty of the landscape. I spent a couple days visiting a friend in Nottingham, then northward to Glasgow where I stayed in a hostel for a night, ate haggis, drank Scottish ale and slept well.

The next day I pointed myself toward Oban, with a constant palette of cool and gray and drizzly . I took the A82 up past Loch Lomond and Trossachs Towers National Park. Despite the rain, this was a glorious drive. The loch road is very very twisty and narrow, making for a very fun morning. Once I passed the loch itself and started up into the Highlands, the terrain grew rougher, wilder, more spartan. Rivers and streams crashed and trilled down the hillsides, filling the air with the music of water.

On the recommendation of my friend Iain, rather than picking up the A85 route to Oban – which would have been more direct – I continued on A82 up to Glencoe and Ballachulish. Simply gorgeous countryside, rugged and green in a sparse fashion.

I spent the night just outside Oban, couchsurfing with a fellow named Leo who lives in a WWII era signal station on the hill above Ganavan.

The next day, I headed south back into England, this time to ride through the Lake District. When I mentioned this route to Leo, he said “It’s like Little Scotland”, and I would have to agree with the sentiment.

In fact, the route I took through the Lake District was so lovely that (after another lovely night couchsurfing in Ulverston in the South Lake Peninsulas, with a charming British woman named Katie) I decided to retrace it the next morning, despite the several hour backtrack. For the return trip, I set up my GoPro camera and created a little time-lapse of the trip. Warning, it might be a little dizzying!

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From the Lakes, I headed south and west into Wales. I stayed the night in Newtown, in a charmless but functional guesthouse – part of its functionality was having a pub downstairs serving a perfectly acceptable bitter. The following day I rode south to Brecon, through Brecon Beacons National Park, and then on into London where I am now.

A few times already I’ve found myself regretted the whirlwind nature of my first few months in Europe stemming from various plans and meetings and rendezvous at far-flung points across the continent. Now is definitely one of those times. I’ve already decided that I’m going to need to return to the UK in the future, with hopefully a month or two to ride around at a more lesiurely pace. I didn’t have time to make it to Jura, I’d love to explore the northwest of Scotland, and want to revisit the Lake District and see more of Wales.