The Amazing Meeting 2013

Last weekend P and I went to TAM, otherwise known as The Amazing Meeting. Held every year at Southpoint Casino in Las Vegas, TAM is one of the largest conferences on science and skepticism. Organised by the James Randi Educational Foundation, it boasted a packed four day schedule of talks and panels by the leading lights in the skepticism movement.

I'll write a separate blog at some point covering the conference matter; this is a quick update otherwise unnecessary to inform and delight my diligent readership of some additional, unforeseen adventures!

We left Las Vegas on Sunday afternoon after our final farewells and headed for the coast. Unsurprisingly, there were several traffic snarls along the way, and the sun was setting as we pulled in at Barstow for a quick break. Setting out again, the engine was making a peculiar noise. I reckoned it was a faulty bearing somewhere on the serpentine belt, but as the belt looked fine and was still running, we set out once more at a slightly conservative pace. The engine tone was normal, the oil temperature normal, and no warning lights were visible. The only other thing wrong was that the AC had stopped working. Driving through Hesperia, just before the Cajon pass, the belt abruptly snapped, followed shortly thereafter by a bang as the coolant overflow tank cap made a break for it. We pulled in at the next off ramp, and as coolant dripped, tried to figure out what to do. 

It was about 9pm on Sunday night, and the number of mechanic shops open was zero. Oddly enough, that simplified the problem. None of the other TAMites were anywhere near, and we were not prepared to abandon the car in any case! I searched on my phone for a local hotel, picked the nicest looking one, and asked if they had any last-minute deals. Turns out they did, so we parked the car in a lot, took a taxi to the Courtyard Marriot (rather nice, incidentally), and after hitting a nearby Denny's for dinner, had an early night.

The next morning we were up bright and early. One shop opened at 7am, and by 8am we we'd been towed there by the shiniest tow-truck I'd ever seen. Once on the floor, the mechanics confirmed our fears - the AC compressor had seized. Not being able to be bypassed, it had to be replaced, which is a non-trivial operation. It looked like neither of us would make it to work that day. On the other hand, some TAM decompression would not go astray, so after making sure everything was under control and retrieving our supply of biscuits, we made for a nearby mall and rented a sleek black prius.

I've always wondered what was in the San Bernardino mountains. I've never been able to justify a lengthy detour going anywhere in the area, and although I once climbed San Gorgonio, the whole area of Big Bear Lake and so on seemed rather mysterious. We headed for the hills. 

After about an hour of windy roads and locals going insane speeds, we popped out into the valley. We drove around the lake looking for a nice patch of grassy shade in which to spend the day and catch up on some sleep. In the end, the north shore proved promising and I parked beneath a large pine. With the sail-like side of the prius catching the passing breeze we cranked the seats back and had a pleasant siesta. Around 2pm we drove around to the town of Fawnskin and looked for a cafe from which to obtain breakfast/lunch/dinner. As it happened, I'd parked just across the road from the North Shore Cafe, which according to google was the finest cafe within a hundred miles. If the meals we had there are representative, that claim is probably accurate. In a small area with a large number of knowing clientele, I put away an ahi burger as nice as any I'd had in Hawaii, and P demolished a peculiar sandwich burger hybrid I'd never heard of before.

All too soon it was time to head back to town. On the way back, we had a terrific view north from the transverse ranges across the desert toward Barstow. The plains are light in colour; the mountains are dark, dark rock, and the effect was really quite amazing. Again, despite pushing 70 in a 55 zone, locals in large utes whizzed by as if we were standing still, and we descended through a series of hills and rubble mines. 

Back at the shop, they were 20 minutes from finishing - needing only to recharge the freon lines. As we finished off the auxiliary biscuit supply, one of the funniest things I've ever seen occurred - two elderly women drove into the shop. The hood/bonnet of their car had flipped up over the windshield. It was not apparent how they were able to see, but I think they were sufficiently little old ladies that they could see through the half inch gap between the wipers and the edge of the metal.

Soon enough, we were on our way. Ominously, the AC still didn't work very well, but at least the part was new. By 6pm I was back in the office. Home, sweet home.

Hawaii 2013

I recently spent a fortnight in Hawaii. The purpose of the trip was mainly to catch up with my Australia-bound family, but I found time for a few adventures here and there. I will attempt to relate some of them without writing a short novel! If you're more of a visual person, check out the photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/105494084231616659850/Hawaii2013

The adventure begins with one of the most eventful airport shuttle rides I've ever had. The driver had difficulty stringing two words together and, at one point, hit another vehicle. But I digress. I made the flight with whole minutes to spare, and before long was strolling through Hilo airport. I found my parents and we set out in search for dinner.

The next day we took a trip to Kalapana, the town buried by lava in the early 1990s. We set out across the old field of lava toward the water entry, where lava drains into the ocean. The surface was a ropey texture formed by smoothly flowing lava, though with the texture and risk of broken glass, should one stumble or trip. At the entry site, lava poured from the rock into the sea, generating a great cloud of sulfurous acid and lots of red hot pumice. We stood much too close to the edge of the bench and watched, mesmerized, as the sun sank over the lava-covered subsidence cliff to the west. On the way back I had a good chat with one of the guides, about 21 years old. He filled me in on a variety of topics, including the Hawaiian independence movement, and we discussed various quirks of language. Hawaiian is quite an interesting one, as it has the fewest phonemes of any spoken language. Meanwhile one unlucky fellow had stumbled as we walked along with flashlights and had lost a lot of skin. The guides patched him up, but by the time we drove out, all the restaurants had closed. In the end we found a 7/11 from which to savour the local delights.

The highlight of the following day was a trip to South Point. I stranded my long-suffering parents on a beach and jogged a few miles to visit the fabled green sand beach. It was a lot further and hotter than I anticipated, but I made it back within the allotted hour and all was well. The beach sand is of olivine and sits in a drowned volcanic crater.

Next day we drove back to Hilo to pick up my brother M, who had flown in. Luckily we eventually worked out the time difference because of the international date line, otherwise we might have been a day late. That night we stayed in an old plantation house near the incredibly beautiful Waipi'o valley, but I was slammed by a headache (parent allergy?) and had the rare pleasure of watching both the moon and the sun rise as geckos and frogs scampered around the house. Next stop was the Hapuna Beach Prince Hotel, which was a rather grand edifice over looking the ocean. M and I managed to suss out the pool and checked out some of the coves to the north of the main beach, while he filled me in on the wonders of having a real job, including his recent purchase of an actual car with actual wheels that actually goes. Although I spend most of my working days researching insanely mind-blowing stuff, I was complete unprepared for this revelation and spent the remainder of the day in a stunned daze. Over the next few days we settled in and tried not to suffer too much between excellent meals. We spent a good portion of the day swimming with colourful fishes and checking out the fresh-water springs along the coast, where the aquifer flows into the sea. As in Greece, this produces a delightful shimmery effect in the water. One night I even spotted a few mudskippers (terrestrial fish) hopping along the beach.

All too soon it was time to leave and drive on, this time up the saddle road and further into the clouds, as high as it was possible to go. Clouds gave way to red rocks and cinders, and at the summit an amphitheatre of high-tech telescopes. I was thrilled. As a theorist it's always unusual and fun for me to actually see the machines of science and the products of some of the few billions not spent on weapons and war. We passed around a finger pulse oximeter to assess our blood saturation, but none of us got low enough to feel ill. I even jogged around a bit to remember what it felt like. Basically driving up saves a ton of effort!

The next place we stayed was a very interesting house with lots of bedrooms and quaint furniture, but a strangely absent proprietor. At one point she assured me that the buttermilk crumpets she 'made' from a mix bag were dairy free. I was rather hungry, but fortunately had no difficulty sleeping through the deafening sound of frogs, dogs barking, and the airport next door. M and I returned to the lava flows at Kalapana and checked out a lava-flooded van. I think the warranty might be void now. After a quick run past the lava lake at Kilauea we turned off-road to find the Kazamura lava tube cave tours. 

Apparently some time back in the 90s, this family found a cave entrance in their back yard (which, like most backyards on Hawaiian spaghetti blocks, is never explored). The guide, Harry, then spent a few thousand hours exploring his section. The system has more than 40 miles of passages, and is one of largest caves in the world. Fortunately we didn't see the whole thing! Highlights included Lavacicles, various growths on the cave walls, collapsed lava pools, lava waterfalls, skylights, multilayer tubes, and so on. That evening my family gave me the car keys before tucking into a series of pina coladas as we listened to a rather talented musician perform a very yodelly version of the usual Hawaiian chants.

The next day we dropped M at the airport and went into town to check out the tsunami museum. Hilo is less economically explosive than it once was. In fact, parts of it were downright sleepy. But it's worth remembering that at least half the town was washed away by two tsunamis (in 1946 and 1960), and in the late 1800s a decent chunk was wiped out by a lava flow. My parents were due to leave the following morning, so we relaxed about town, discussed the economics of leisure and labour surplus, and I found a gecko on an ornamental flower in our slightly run-down hotel.

The next morning my parents flew out and I was all alone. I sat in the hotel feeling downright glum. Eventually I summoned the courage to check out and wandered into town. Before long, I found a gay pride march and a farmers market. I bought some bread for lunch and sat in a park, and my spirits were raised. It's always a rather abrupt gear shift to switch from home/family to backpacking/couch surfing style travel! I checked out the Lyman museum (which was very interesting, including the original mission house from 1837) and then picked up my hire car. After a few u-turns I found my couchsurfer, who lived out in a subdivision in the middle of nowhere. He had retired to the jungle, built a cozy home, and was hosting international travelers almost incessantly! That evening we went back to the volcano to check out the glow of the smoke in the dark. Although the lava lake cannot be seen from the Jaggar museum, its glow is reflected in the clouds it produces and illuminates the entire crater.

The following day I was hell-bent on poking me some lava, so I had V drop me at the other end of the neighbourhood, where a sign that said "WARNING TRAIL CLOSED, DANGEROUS CONDITIONS" promised some excitement. Skirting another burned out car ('tis the place for them) I skittered through the trail for 2 hours, passing a few carnivorous worms and a confused looking chicken. Originally, the trail ended at the end of the lava field, with a view of the active Pu'u o'o vent about a mile away. Since then, however, the volcano (continuously active for nearly 30 years now) burped and the trail ran into fresh lava that had overrun the last few hundred meters of forest. I switched to more sensible shoes and went for a quick excursion. My hand-held thermometer gun maxed out on 300C (~600F), but my shoes didn't melt on the crunchy (and somewhat cooler) loose crust. For the most part I was able to walk on the singed trunks of felled trees. My point of retreat, however, was an unrecognisable path in a forest that could be cut off by a fresh flow at any moment, so I did not venture far out onto the flow. After an hour of cooking in the staggering heat waiting for something to happen and being buzzed by helicopter after helicopter, I walked back along the trail, arriving at the trail head half an hour before our rendezvous time. So I set off up the road. After a couple of blocks, two pitbulls popped out of a hedge and started running toward me, barking. Armed only with a tiny sandal and a floppy hat, I beat a hasty retreat to the edge of the road, picked up a handful of loose rocks, and stood my ground. Mongolia taught me that few dogs will not recognise a stone about to fly, and after an hour of poking hot lava, my concept of fear had been recalibrated slightly. Nevertheless, I wondered just how good my second throw might be. Fortunately, they stopped about 15 feet away, as they came into effective range. They backed off, then came back again. After what seemed a lot longer than a couple of minutes, V appeared in his trusty Toyota pickup and I jumped in with no need for further discussion. As we drove back he filled me in on some of the local colour. The majority of his neighbours seemed to be poor and drug problems (particularly crystal meth) were rampant. Burned-out cars were visible every few hundred meters. Apparently threats of physical violence against pretty much anyone were common, and rarely empty. V recounted a few instances of attacks, rapes, and murders with obvious suspects going uninvestigated, let alone punished, due to some combination of cronyism, connections, or intimidation. Needless to say burglary was incredibly common. That said, parts of the area were lovely and there were some good people in the neighbourhood as well.

That afternoon, my second-last clean shirt already thoroughly marinated by my trip to the lava field, I proposed we sweat some more. Grabbing a few rusty but highly effective machetes we went to the back of the yard and attempted to cut a path toward the back of the block. After an hour or so we had made a few paths to points of interest within about 50 feet of the wall of the jungle, leaving about 200m to go. People never get to the back of their blocks! Where the ground had not been bulldozed it was intensely rugged, with large lumps of lava poking through the thin layer of dirt, deep cracks, and plenty of invasive species against which the vengeful steel could be swung. That evening I got a lesson in the spectrum of cooking possible with differing quantities of Madras curry and garam masala. I started to pack my bags. After another dark but frog-filled night, I finished my supply of breakfast cereal and set out for the volcano national park. This time I walked across Kilauea Iki, a solidified lava lake that erupted in the 1950s. With a clearly visible vent, crushed forest, shrunken plains of lava, old boreholes, and so on, it was really quite spectacular. With a few hours to spare I also drove down the Chain of Craters road, looking at all the interesting stuff along the way, including some really cool petroglyphs and an arch at the sea-cliff, where the pounding Pacific is eating away at the island.

At last it was time to drive down the Mamaloa highway (adopted by the Hawaiian Raelian Coven, of course) for the last time. Saw no more burned out cars, but one police SUV was blowing a LOT of smoke. In due course I returned the rental car, checked in at the airport, charged my laptop, and boarded the flight. After a long and tiring holiday, it was time to return to the restful confines of my office.

Post script: On the plane, I swapped seats so a couple could sit together and ended up in the second last row. After editing hundreds of photos, I found sleep stymied by noisy passengers and flushing toilets, so hatched an alternative plan. On United, you have to pay to eat food and watch the in-flight TVs. I found, however, that far superior in-flight entertainment was to be found in the galley. Like a number of other red-eye flights I'd taken, the stewards don't have much to do, and this time three of them and I sat around exploring the various bulkheads, swapping stories, alleviating boredom, and investigating what to do with the food left over from the previous flight. At 5am I arrived at LAX, and before 6 I was back in my office, entirely sleep deprived and otherwise back to normal.

Yosemite version 2

Every year, the Caltech Y runs a student trip to Yosemite National Park. I previously did this trip in 2011 and had a terrific time. J and I completed the mist-panorama-4 mile trail linkup, which was absolutely incredible. An account can be found here: http://caseyexaustralia.blogspot.com/2011/06/sunset-in-redwoods.html

But I get ahead of myself! A few weeks ago I had been recruited (with no difficulty whatsoever) to join the trip, and to help out as a leader. As the trip necessitated three days away from my glowing computer terminal igloo, I made sure to get a bit of extra work done first. One bug after another crumbled beneath my comprehensive understanding of kdbg, and by the time I slept it was 4am. Not to worry, I set my alarm for 5:30. That way I'd have time to get up, eat breakfast, cycle to work, finish packing my stuff (mostly already shuttled in place over several days), and amble slowly over to the bus on Wilson. Come 5:30, evil me said "You have got to be kidding", rolled over and went back to sleep. The end.

Wait! There's more! I woke up at 6:30 in a blind panic. The bus was loading at 7am, and my best time up the hill to Caltech was about 29.9 minutes. In one fluid practised maneouver I leapt from bed into my clothes and out the door onto my already zooming bicycle. It was so early the air was fresh, the lights quick, the traffic slightly less suicidal than usual. I beat my personal best door-to-door by about 2.5s, which nearly reduced me to tears. But no time for disappointment at my lack of athletic prowess, those days are far behind me.

Into the office, check the simulations are still going (they are!) throw everything into several waiting bags, and trot out and down the road in the direction that a leaving bus would be taking. 

At first glance the meeting area is suspiciously empty. But then I spotted a tumiculus of spare sleeping bags and pads and breathed a sigh of relief. 

It turned out the bus driver had gotten lost twice and we didn't leave for another hour. I chowed down on a cliff bar and helped man a chain gang loading essential supplies of firewood, bagels, and powdered hot chocolate. At this point it should be noted that the bus was festooned with a giant advertisement for a factory outlet featuring a model's face about 10 feet high. The interior of the bus was thus somewhat dim. The seats were comfortable and the aircon highly crispy.

Before long were zooming down (up?) the 5 toward destiny. Any thrill we had at our driver making up for lost time on the expressway soon turned to adrenaline and a confused limbic system as he  flew up the twisty mountain roads through Yosemite National Park. At this point I thought I was the only slightly apprehensive passenger, though soon after a few people were actually ill from the curves. Only once before had I driven on a road where the speed limit was regularly exceeded by a factor of two. On that occasion, I had been driven along the Chuysky Trakt in the Altai Republic of Russia in a worthy Toyota Corolla. After several hours of tentative stabs at the language barrier, he managed to communicate that he wasn't afraid of dying in a car accident, since his lung cancer was already pretty bad.

On this occasion, however, we were in a rather large bus. True, the road was better, and the brakes worked, but ...

Soon enough we popped out into Yosemite valley itself. This is one of the few places on Earth that truly has to be seen to be believed. Not that that will stop me from uploading several thousand photographs, of course. The scale is beyond comprehension. I will now refrain from writing a small book on the geology of the gorgeous granite walls, and proceed to what happened next. 

We were dropped off at Camp 4 on the northern side of the valley. Z, J, D, and I (being the 'leaders') quickly performed a headcount, and then set off en masse for Columbia rock, one of the more accessible lookouts over the valley. I spotted a blue jay, and later one got close enough for some pretty nice photos. We attempted to spot some climbers on half dome, without success. There must have been some though, as we met them the following day.

Columbia rock is about 1.5 miles (2.5km) from the trail head. A few of the more enthusiastic types (including your humble narrator) set off further up the trail towards Yosemite falls, the tallest waterfall in North America. 2 years ago, it was flowing like nothing else, and we were all drenched well before we even saw it. This time, however, I was able to locate a little side trail and we climbed out on a pile of old talus underneath the falls. The setting sun caught shoots of water as they cascaded from the top of the escarpment. One of my co-conspirators wanted to scramble a bit more toward the cliff face, but we quickly found the going tougher than it looked. We turned back, and after a quick jaunt up the trail for a better view, returned to the valley floor in time for a quick dinner. We piled aboard the bus and our return trip began. Fortunately I was so tired I fell asleep and thus avoided the spectacle of the bus overtaking everyone on the way back down. When I woke up, however, there was a perfect profile of my face printed on the window from my whole body being slammed against it on every other turn. I was, it has to be said, rather tired.

Back at the campsite, we unloaded the bus and proceeded to set up camp. I quickly located the only viable hammocking spot, moments before a tent composed of highly snore-prone-looking people set up right next door. Fortunately I was able to stockpile a few boulders to take care of any eventualities. 

Later that evening we drank our all-important powdered beverages, sat around a campfire and talked. I'm inclined to agree with Kim Stanley Robinson when he says that, dollar for dollar, sitting around a campfire with friends is by far the most blissful thing possible to do. I packed my bag for the following day (rain jacket, first aid kit, 2L of water, a few gadgets, and my own body weight in nuts), and retrieved my trusty binoculars. The rapidly waxing moon rewarded us with a long line of craters and mountains, and not far away Saturn's rings awaited anyone with the focusing ability of a brain surgeon and the hands of a biathlete. At length we retired for the evening.

I hadn't used my hammock in quite some time. One bug/feature is that the processing of getting all the blankets and sleeping bags in the correct position to avoid a freezing shoulder in the middle of the night involves dozens of sit-ups, effectively pre-warming the volume in a satisfying way. Nevertheless, my sleeping bag was insufficiently lofted as I had not unpacked it since Death Valley and I was, at times, rather chilly.

The next morning I became awake at about 6:30, extricated myself from my sleeping bag, sat up and stuck my legs out through the boarding door. From here I was able to retrieve my sandals and stepped down onto the ground. Turning around I packed the appropriate stuff away (with full head room, of course), and had some oatmeal and sugar for breakfast. Before long the bus had turned up and we piled on. This time heavy traffic prevented our rather gung-ho driver from breaking any more records or trees, but that didn't stop him tail-gating like crazy. 

This time, he dropped us at Curry Village. After a quick bathroom break we set off for the Happy Isles/Mist Trail. We gave everyone some tips for good trails to try, but discouraged an attempt at the Panorama trail. Two years ago, a few people went very slow and held everyone up for hours and it was no fun for anyone.

The water above Vernal Falls was not raging above the safety railing this time, but a few signs asking hikers to keep a look-out for the as-yet unlocated remains of someone swept over the falls reminded us that the water was still dangerous.

From here the trail proceeded up a series of lung-bursting switchbacks hewn from the living rock. As we passed the meadow below Nevada falls J cried out "Bear!". I had completely missed it, but about 4 meters ahead was a juvenile black bear (though he was brown). He took a good look at us before ambling off into the scrub. Sadly chasing him with my camera was a low priority and we continued up the trail. As always, I wore my trusty expedition sandals, and they performed admirably. Over the entire day's 18 miles (29km) I skidded only twice.

At the top of Nevada falls, J had a surprise - some permits for half dome! The group split as a few others headed for Panorama point instead of Glacier point, and J, D, D', and I headed up the little Yosemite valley toward Half Dome.

The trail circled Half Dome to approach it from the north. Along the way we had excellent views of the granite monolith from all angles. It's vaguely dome-shaped, and only a small amount of the original pluton has fallen away to reveal the famous face. It has a storied history, and is one of the classical big-wall rock climbing ascents. Earlier this year my friend H and his partner V set a record on the sheer face of Half Dome: Slowest In A Day. I think the current speed record stands at a little under 90 minutes, when Alex Honnold climbed it without ropes. Two days is a more typical time, and we passed a few climbers on their way down.

Just before the edge of the treeline, we verified our permits with the ranger, who warned us about a population of brutal carnivorous marmots on the summit. Apparently there's also some peculiar species of salamander up there as well. We took a few moments to eat a snack, catch our breath, and admire a few horses who were taking a well deserved break in the clearing. From here the trail zig-zagged up the northern face of the sub dome, a small outcropping below the main dome. After a bit of haphazard trail findings, we popped out onto the saddle, and finally our main prize and last challenge lay ahead of us: the cables!

Half dome is frighteningly steep even on the non-sheer sides. Indeed, it was thought unclimbable until a bolt ladder was drilled in 1875. Today there is a pair of steel cables on poles that run up the 45 degree slope for about 400m. We had gloves to aid our ascent, but the rock between the cables was worn smooth by millions of shoes, so an element of diceyness remained. I was surprised to learn that only 6 fatal falls from the cables have occurred since 1919. About half the hikers were clipping into each section of the cable, and more than a few people turned back either at the bottom of the last pitch or else shortly thereafter.

I checked the velcro on my sandals, and the four of us climbed slowly to the top. At 8800 feet, you feel the altitude. After an eternity, we mantled the last ledge and the trail leveled out - we were at the summit! We found a nice pile of granite flakes next to The Visor - a rocky protuberance that several hikers decided would make a good photo opportunity to clamber out onto. Personally, I put my feet up, opened my sandwich bag, and proceeded to envelop thousands of calories with gusto. 

Before long a curious squirrel had given way to a practised pair of marmots. With fire in their eyes and death in their teeth, they flanked us from all sides and repeatedly snuck between fissures in the rock to try and pinch our food. Without success, I might add. By now it was getting late, so we had a quick explore, took a photo doing handstands, and then approached the cables once more with some trepidation. My gloves were not of the high-friction variety, and I was not equipped with a harness or rock shoes. I decided to cling to the uphill cable on the theory that if I slipped, I would pass a cable pillar from the opposite cable to which I might be able to cling. Fortunately, I found that I could use friction to allow me to walk backwards down normal to the surface, thus minimising the possibility of a foot slip. At some point I noted that my coordinate system had changed. Up and down were now separated by a mere 90 degrees. Opposite of down was out, and opposite of up was death.

As we descended a few people dropped water bottles which skittered down the face at alarming speed. Meanwhile, a kid above me decided that the best method for descent was the controlled slide from one rung the next. Admittedly he did do it well, though I was concerned that if he slipped he would probably hit me. 

Fortunately, we reached the base without incident, and I stowed my gloves as my hands began to swell from the work. The walk back was much like the walk up, only in reverse, save for a deer, a snake, and a grouse we encountered along the way. At the top of Nevada falls we realised that neither of our two options would return us to the valley floor in time for dinner, so we opted for the less steep but longer John Muir trail, which wound around under a series of cliffs with curtains of water dripping from above. Unfortunately this trail was also popular with horses, so we spent much of the time dodging their excrement. Once we got onto the Happy Isles trail, D and I were sufficiently energetic that we ran all the way back to the road. I also decided to reward my long suffering feet by doing the last few miles barefoot. The ground, as usual, had an intoxicating mix of temperatures and textures. 

Back at curry village we corralled the troops, refilled our water bottles, and boarded the bus back to camp. We didn't lose anyone!

After another hair raising bus ride (not for a lack of asking the driver to slow down) we arrived back at camp in a cloud of smoke from burning brakes and got ready for the evening. I repacked some gear, then fetched my pajamas and made for the river. Running a few inches deep and COLD, I found a secluded rock and proceeded to ensure I did not inadvertently remove any rocks (especially the tiny ones encrusting my feet) from the park, and had a jolly good sponge bath while I was at it. Meanwhile a water skater came over to say hi. 

Thus invigorated and somewhat lighter for the lack of dirt, we set a fire, I ate a bunch of my leftover food in lieu of dinner, and we conspired with our friendly Caltech alum D for the following day's trip to Centennial grove. I set up a time lapse, stared at the burning embers, and speculated wildly about future developments of space technology. 

That night my sleeping bag had fluffed up to the point that not only was I not cold, I even inhaled a feather! The hammock as usual proved to be comfortable and prone to excellent, vivid dreams.

The next morning I retrieved my gear from the bear-proof box, packed up my gear (except for all the warm stuff which I was still wearing) and helped to put away the group gear. Before long the bus was loaded, the last stragglers had boarded, and our friendly Caltech alum had arrived to lead us to the place. At this point the plan we hatched the night before went into action. D drove at a sensible pace all the way. Our driver, now adorned with at least 2lbs of silver chain and crucifix, was gnashing his teeth as corner after corner passed on all four wheels. J and I rubbed our hands together with glee, and the other 23 stomachs breathed a little easier.

Arthur Fleming (after whom Fleming Hovse is named) was an early trustee of Caltech, back when it was called Throop college. He made his fortune in timber, and when he retired he donated his estate, including the timber operation to Caltech. After his death, all except one 20 acre parcel was sold, and today we were visiting this plot of land, which contains a grove of 5 giant sequoia trees. Before long we'd managed to find the place (it involved a bit of bush bashing) and had seen the giant trees for ourselves. Many more of their ancestors were lying around on the ground, which afforded excellent roads through the underbrush. The largest of them was about 7m (22') across at the base, and had a hollow in which six of us stood with plenty of room to spare. I also took a moment to appreciate more than a few wildflowers which were blooming at this time of year. 

After a quick bite for lunch we reboarded the bus and headed for LA. With just one brief stop at Tejon Ranch, we were back in Pasadena by 5:30pm. We unloaded the bus, kissed terra firma, and laid out a few wet tent-flies to dry. 

Another trip over. Yosemite valley remains one of the most extraordinary places I have ever seen.

Photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/105494084231616659850/Yosemite2013

Death Valley field trip

Photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/105494084231616659850/DeathValley2013

Another term rolled around and it was time for a geology field trip! This time, to Death Valley. Despite living in the states for nearly 3 years, I'd never explored Death Valley, and was looking forward to it. Then the trip was postponed and a bunch of people had to drop out. Suddenly, I was getting frantic emails "Are you permitted to drive the geology vehicles?". Indeed I had been preparing for this moment for a long time. I was on the hook.

We packed up and headed out by 2pm on Friday. The 210 was slow until we got off at the 15, and shortly thereafter took old route 66 to an exposure of the San Andreas fault. It last ruptured in 1857, and is the next chunk of the fault 'due' to rupture. That'll be exciting when it happens. Back into the car and forward-ho to Barstow, which I changed lanes before continuing to Baker. At Baker we watered the horses, which, being Ford Expedition ELs, were rather thirsty. I gave my presentation on the history of the Garlock fault, despite being nowhere near it at the time. It forms the southern boundary of the Sierra range and the Sierra microplate, and is but the latest instance of a much older weakness in the crust, derived from the flat-slab subduction of the Shatsky conjugate. With all that out of the way we headed to The Mad Greek for a memorable gyro dinner, then pressed on north towards Death Valley.

The road wound through successive rift basins and eventually approached the town of Shoshone, where we parked for the evening. We avoided the rattle-snakes and headed for the pool. Here M and I worked out how to do various flips into the pool, while everyone else chilled in the shallow end. The sun set and I set out my sleeping bag in the grass. The day was still hot, but I thought better of getting cold at 4am. As night fell the stars popped out. Despite ambient light pollution from Vegas and the campsite they were still pretty good.

I woke up the next morning before dawn and the day was lovely. By the time we packed the sun was over the hills and the temperature was steadily rising. We paused in the area for coffee and to check out some old underground houses and fossilised elephant tracks. I snaffled some wifi for one last round of emails, and we were off! 

First up was the Confidence Hills just after entering Death Valley. Pushed up by a transform fault in the center of the valley, and just to the north was a mesa with paleo-shorelines, marking the altitude of the former lake. On the other side of the valley was a series of old sediments predating the initiation of subduction on the west coast of North America, and outrageously faulted hills. On the same transform fault just down the valley was a small cinder-cone volcano. Fault movement had split it in half, now separated by about 600m. Assuming slip rates stay constant, that implies an eruption about a hundred thousand years ago. Study of various paleo shorelines show that the valley has continued to deepen and to deepen rapidly.

The next stop was at Badwater, the lowest place in North America, at 86m below sea level. In the middle of a salt pan was a small brine lake. We stopped in the shade to talk about it, but even then the temperate was about 118F or 46C. Later in the summer, the Badwater ultramarathon begins here and stretches 135 miles across three valleys to Mt Whitney. Apparently they have to run on the white lines or else their shoes melt.

The next stop was Devil's golf course, a region of peculiar salt-created shapes forming insanely rough cobbles. Not far away was Mars Hill, a small hill covered in basalt cobbles worn angular by the wind. The site was selected as an analogue to the Vastitas Borealis on Mars, to enable comparative studies during the Viking missions. The rocks had all sorts of cool wind-created features, called ventifacts.

Zabriskie wash emerges from the Amargosa range. In the 1950s, road building accidentally diverted another wash into it, greatly increasing the flow. Now, during big storms, chunks of road (known in the trade as 'urbanite' or 'anthropocite', a conglomerate with a bituminous, organics-based matrix) get washed down.

Next up was lunch at Furnace Creek, an oasis and former Borax mining center. Here the temperature had dropped a few degrees, but it was still too hot for the trucks AC to have any meaningful effect. Not far away was the preserved remains of a failed Borax mining venture, complete with some crumbling walls and an iron boiler. The desolation was perfect. S and I speculated about the similarities and differences working here or on Mars. Mars is colder and the air isn't breathable, but otherwise it was pretty similar. At some point we vied with a coyote for room to examine the effect of salt leeching on boulder destruction.

The next stop was salt creek. When the climate changed here at the end of the last glaciation, most of the plants and animals died off. A few, however, managed to survive, some in increasingly isolated populations. One such creature is the pup fish. Now existing in perhaps 2 dozen different locations, these hardy fish are about the size of my pinky and live in the dried up hollows of the former lake system. One population of about 50 lives on a narrow rock shelf in a sinkhole in Nevada. 

The heat made the stops short, and as a result the trip was proceeding ahead of schedule. Next, we stopped at some sand dunes, where one person asked an interesting question. Sand grains are tiny, and their interactions with wind and each other are turbulent, scale independent, and non-linear. Why then, do sand-dunes form with regular sizes. It turns out there's a body of scholarship on the matter and it's possible to derive a dispersion relation that demonstrates certain wavelengths are preferable. J shared an anecdote about a sand dune expert who ended up fighting the Nazis in North Africa. Because he understood the sand dune dynamics, his platoon was able to conduct daring raids of various outposts, blow up the ammo dump, and then scoot off into the desert. Of course, the enemy gave pursuit, but would invariably get stuck in the sand and he would make his escape.

By now we were approaching the northern end of Death Valley. We stopped off at the Ubehebe crater, formed by a series of phreatic eruptions. With a co-conspirator I took advantage of the wind and slightly lower temperature to run through the outer craters and get a sense of the scale of the system. I was unable to find out, however, if there was a water table present in the floor of the crater. In other respects, it looked very similar to the crater in Vesuvius, only without the surrounding mountain.

From there, a few miles on bumpy dirt tracks took us to Racetrack playa. At about 40 miles an hour, the effects of the bumps are much reduced, but the ability to steer also diminishes... 

Racetrack playa is a dried up lake bed of absurd smoothness. About 4km long, the northern end is only 4cm higher. Funnily enough, it may be that tectonic actions tilt the bed faster than infrequent rain and flooding can level it again. We arrived at a campsite near an ancient mining venture and set out the deck chairs. The day had cooled off, and I went for a walk in the surrounding hills. Later that evening I found a few fluorescent rocks (possibly some fluorite) and a glowing green spider. I had never seen anything like it before. Its pedipalps were enlarged to the point of being legs, while its second pair of legs were tiny. In the meantime, S, Ge 136 TA of considerable legend, showed up and joined the evening's festivities. 

I set up my sleeping gear on top of the truck I was driving (so as to avoid wind-blown grit in the face), and with two able-bodied accomplices set off for an evening stroll to the playa. On the way I found a scorpion which glowed bright green under the UV light. The night was moonless and the stars were incredible. Less milky way than the southern hemisphere, perhaps, but certainly bright enough to see by. From the hill, the distance seemed to be about a mile. In reality it was closer to 2, but eventually we arrived on the unearthly surface and had a walk around. I brought some binoculars, with which the rings of Saturn were readily visible. Sadly, the other planets were still underground. There were plenty of meteors, satellites, nebulas, and so on to go around, however. At length we returned to the camp and, surprised to find everyone asleep, went to bed.

The next morning, I was confronted with a problem, how to get down from the trucks roof. In the end I opted for the simplest option; fall. Breakfast, packing up, and found another spider, this one less peculiar looking. My chocolate biscuits were still all melted from the day before. We got on the road and drove back down to the playa. In the light of day, we quickly found what we were looking for.

Racetrack playa is covered in rocks that have fallen from nearby hills. That, in itself, is not unusual. What is unusual is that these rocks move. Almost all of them have left tracks behind that reveal sliding across the surface, often in opposite directions, or with sharp changes in direction. This phenomenon has been studied, but since the rocks have never been observed while moving, it is not known for sure what happens. Spirits, transdimensional spaces, warp drives, energy vortexes, and so on can be safely ruled out. The general hypothesis is that during winter storms it gets a bit muddy and very windy and they get blown along. The idea that they get surrounded by rings of frozen ice seems to have been disproven. I threw my aerobie around, but the general setting was supremely unearthly.

We returned to the cars to find one had been appropriated by a grad student who wanted a sample of the local pluton contact. We squeezed into the remaining cars and headed off to find them. "Were you guys clever enough to take a radio" was, incredibly, greeted with an answer, and before long we had a visual. Two tiny specks crawling down a wash, dwarfed beneath the hills and cliff that towered overhead. One of them showed me a metamorphic rock excitedly. It bears mentioning that the geochemistry of metamorphism is still not at all well understood.

From here we bore west on rather bumpy (but still surprisingly good roads) past ghost towns and through a series of progressively wetter valleys. One was ringed with incredible wavey rock strata. One was filled with Joshua trees. Eventually we stopped at an outcropping of the Hunter mountain pluton - a rather large igneous intrusion and one of (if not) the first intrusions related to the beginning of subduction off the continental margin during the Jurassic. J found an impressive looking xenolith, or rock that got stuck in the middle of the plume from somewhere else.

We paused for lunch at the head of the Panamint valley, with a long view beneath a cloud of haze. We crossed the basalt flows of the Darwin plateau and joined the Owens valley just near Owen's (former) lake. The Owens valley was the last of the series to dry out. Prior to LA stealing all the water, it still had lakes, agriculture, and wildlife. We zoomed south. As we crossed the Garlock fault near Red Rock Canyon at the top of the Mojave, it became apparent that the haze was smoke from a few wildfires near La Crescenta. It was pretty surreal, as the desert vanished into white nothingness.

Soon we had fueled up and shooting south, crossed the San Andreas fault once more and entered the LA basin. I played hopscotch with a few semi-trailers on the ramp connecting the 5 and the 210. Fortunately I was able to sneak through a gap and up onto the ramp with only minimal squealing of tires and the bobbing of snoozing heads in the back. Once my heart rate returned to normal I set the cruise control to 0.01% below the speed limit and before long we were back in Pasadena. We had arrived at 4pm - one of the earliest field trip arrivals I've ever seen!

Post Script:

The following day (Monday), a few friends and I climbed Echo mountain, as one of our number was soon to be leaving forever. Since moving about 6 months ago I hadn't done the walk, and I found I was slightly unaccustomed to insanely long walks, despite my generally greater fitness. No matter, we proceeded upwards. About half way up the trail we entered a cloud layer. On the moonless night it became seriously dark. I usually walk without a flashlight/torch to enjoy the use of my other senses, but at times even my existing tricks weren't much use! Toward the top of the trail we popped out above the clouds and were rewarded with one of the best skies I've ever seen near LA. The milky way was visible! We milled around taking photos and screaming at the echo mountain. One of us managed to get 14 echoes! Soon two of the girls who hadn't brought a warm top got cold and began to giggle hysterically. We began the walk/stumble down through the darkness. I was tempted at times to crack out my flashlight and take longer steps, but at length we all made it down safely. Then it was just another 5 miles of trooping down Lake Street before getting back to the office some time after 3am. Some photos are also in the death valley album.

Cameron Carpenter at the LA Phil

Last year I wrote with extreme enthusiasm about the LA Phil debut of American organist Cameron Carpenter. So it was with substantial excitement that I anticipated his recital the following year.

As is his custom, Cameron did not publicise the evening's program in advance. Instead he gave a preshow talk until three minutes before the start, despite having pulled an all-nighter. The question and answer session revealed a deep musical insight and carefully considered positions, elaborating briefly on the innovations of Hope-Jones in the 1920s, the errors of Virgil Fox, and the extent to which Marc-Andre Hamelin is the perfect embodiment of Toscanini's unachieved ideal, the delivery of the text. He also spoke at length about the debut of the digital organ in early 2014, a decade long project of his to provide for the organ what has long been considered normal for all other instruments - a standardized yet infinitely customizable interface and tonal palette.

Cameron began with the Prelude from the Back Cello Suite No. 1 in G major, building on the theme with inversions and interpolations of his own. He followed this immediately with the Bach Fantasia and Fugue in G minor (BWV 542, not 578). The fugue in particular drove relentlessly, interweaving its many voices with equal consistency despite a much wider variation in registration than might traditionally be employed.

Following this Cameron played for us his organ transcription of Isaac Albeniz' Evocación from his Iberia suite. I saw this as a possible nod to Hamelin's extraordinary recording of the suite in 2005, although the piece certainly plays well on the organ. In some ways the organ swaps limitations in tone for limitations in touch, but in no way loses its poetic ability.

Cameron then asked us to join him for a pseudo-intellectual moment as he explained what he meant by the organ being an irony-free instrument. As a result, the performer must give back what the machine itself lacks, in particular, "... sensuality, which the organ can give us in spades, in direct defiance of all that is sacred and holy". From this he segued to a discussion of Marcel Dupre, one of the most significant composers and organists of the 20th century. "Behind his bourgeois high-collared facade lurked a schizophrenic fashion show of musical personalities." To illustrate this he performed Dupre's Variations on Noel, in which the basic medieval carol melody is sliced, diced, and examined from every angle.

He rounded out the first half with his transcription of Richard Rogers' score for George Balachine's ballet Slaughter on 10th Avenue, featured in the 1936 Broadway musical comedy On Your Toes. Featuring a superb collage of evocative period music, the piece is defined by the presence of a soft, simple melody at its core underscoring the central tragedy of the work.

The second half began with a transcription of the highly recognizable Scherzo from Tchaikovsky's 6th symphony, a piece perfectly suited to performance on the organ. Cameron followed this with a discussion of the music and life of Charles Ives, a composer who lived and worked in near-total isolation. As a result, his music is still original today. In Cameron's words "... still totally avant garde. It's not even in the garde...". He introduced the next piece as the 3rd movement from the Concord Sonata, a piece that's nearly 100 years old. The sonata's movements are entitled Emerson, Hawthorne, The Alcotts, and Thoreau, after the principle Transcendentalists that formed the center of the movement into which the piece was composed. Following this generous introduction, he duly dispatched the very musically interesting piece, complete with the "most sycophantically stereotypic church organ sound [Cameron] can muster" for the snippet of Here Comes The Bride.

Next up Cameron sought to honour the spirit of Brooklyn (about which his previous performances on that stage this week had been) by performing an improvisation on a theme generated by translating the letters b, r, o, o, etc onto the keyboard. But first he was careful to define improvisation as "the performance of a work of music which has not yet been notated and rehearsed and will not be heard again, which is not the same as making it up as you go along". He also told us he'd draw on George Gershwin and Lou Reed as he progressed. He took a break to announce that the third movement would have a poetic rather than a musical theme, and recited Walt Whitman poem 68:

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love;

But now I think there is no unreturn'd love - the pay is certain, one way or another;

(I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd;

Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)

After such a musical treat the audience demanded no fewer than a dozen curtain calls, and received two encores, including a transcription of Chopin's Minute Waltz, showcasing Cameron's extreme ability to play with his feet. 

During the first encore, an error with preset registrations had the organ go silent for a stanza. Without skipping a beat he continued to play, giving a rare insight into the clicks and clacks of the organ console, and providing a (hopefully intentional) drop between cascades of rich sound.

Overall, the audience and I attended with varied though high expectations. None left disappointed.

Costa Rica Alternative Spring Break Trip (part 2)

As you, dear reader, have no doubt surmised, I survived not only that shower but every subsequent instantiation of the situation with only a few new grey hairs. I changed into my set of clean clothes, washed the old set, and proceeded downstairs for dinner. We were served the usual Costa Rican fare, which consisted of fried banana, fried rice, fried beans, fried cauliflower, fried egg, and fried meat. Also, coffee and juice so fresh my teeth started tap dancing. Our Spanish professor managed to handle the dinner time conversation, though on one occasion one of us managed to get a word in edgewise. Although my knowledge of Spanish is rudimentary at best, I've spent many years with Latin and other close relatives, so was able to follow the conversation for the most part. 

After dinner, we eventually settled for the evening. Despite being a head taller than everyone else, I managed to wedge myself into bed. I dreamed of earthquakes, volcanoes, and other pleasant things, when early in the morning the whole house started shaking. Furniture creaked, and a roaring sound filled my ears. I tried to flip out of bed and roll underneath, only to discover that I was still wedged firmly in place. The sound subsided and I realised it was only a truck passing through.

The next day we were bused out to our designated work site. The van scudded past cyclists and runners alike as it wound up and down the narrow roads, eventually coming to a halt on a narrow spur overlooking San Jose. The landscape, at the foot of Irazu volcano, was reminiscent of Huonbrook with its exaggerated topography, trees, and cows. Our work site was sandwiched between a famous mental asylum and a recently sprouted 'precarios' or slum. I was looking forward to engaging with a local community and getting a bunch of stuff done. We were ushered inside the main entrance for some instruction in Spanish names for tools and a situational briefing. The house had been used for about 20 years as a Hogar Crea Damas, or womens' rehabilitation center/refuge/halfway house. On the wall a schedule consisting mostly of domestic chores began at 4:45am. Our supervisor M told us that the dozen or so women here were variously involved in a two year program in recovery from domestic violence, drug addiction, and other issues. Naturally, the organisation had scant resources and that's where our (wo)manpower came into play. A large part of the rehabilitation program involved isolation from the outside world and its (mainly male) debilitating influences, and so as a result we were strongly discouraged from talking to or interacting with the occupants of the house. For the most part we didn't see much of them for the week we were there. By the time we left, M confirmed that about two thirds of them had actually run away! We had many interesting conversations about the merits of various rehab or recovery programs, and about the historical or theoretical efficacy of the program we were involved in, but it's important to remember that there is not necessary a proven method for 'fixing' people! That said, I was not surprised in the slightest that most of the women wanted to and evidently managed to leave this particular program. They would have learned more about carpentry anywhere else...

We divided into teams and proceeded to work. For the remainder of the week, I was mostly occupied with retrofitting a semi-subterranean bathroom. The plumbing, shower curtains, and window all got a work over. Most of the rest of the team was involved in painting the outside and inside of the house. Why the able-bodied women living in the house were unable to help paint their own house was never explained. I can understand subjecting the gringos to hard physical labour, but painting was not the most efficient use of time! On the last day, K and I fixed a broken window in one of the bedrooms. First we had to unscrew a board that covered 2/3 of the window to access both sides. K, correctly guessing that the purpose of the board was to prevent overnight escapes, objected to replacing it. Replace it we did, however. If anyone else escaped, there'd be no-one left! I spent the remainder of the day dismantling an old colorbond shed. While it was generally possible to unscrew the rusty bolts using boltcutters as pliers, it was much more fun to simply hit them with a sledgehammer. With a crack the bolts broke free of the rusted frame and rusty snow showered me from the steadily collapsing roof. Previously I had wondered why this shed hadn't been pilfered by the precarios for building materials. The Hogar's chickens, for instance, had disappeared. It turns out that it's impossible to dismantle a shed quietly!

In between mastering the use of the wrong tools for the job, we used afternoons to explore San Jose and San Pedro. While people descended en masse on the artisan market, I snuck up into the corner of the city and explored the railway station there. Currently the lines are mainly used for a local commuter train, but they once spanned the continent. I had thought it was a precursor of the Panama canal, but in fact they existed to connect the arable regions of the central valley and several coast ports. The lines were electrified before earthquake damage in 1994 largely killed the system. Since then trucks have performed the majority of cargo services in Costa Rica, to the detriment of the road system.

Another highlight was checking out the museum of precolombian gold artwork. While Costa Rica lacked the empires that grew in other parts of the continent, it had traditions of jade, copper, and gold art work. Using the lost wax method, artisans produced small stylized models of every animal you can imagine. The museum suggested they were used by shamans as part of healing rituals. I'm not sure how much of the ancient knowledge survived exploration, conquest, and colonization, but certainly gold for health is a tradition that continues to this day!

Another cultural element we could hardly avoid immersion in was that of soccer! The week before our arrival, Costa Rica played the US as part of the FIFA world cup qualifying round. They played in Denver, a choice presumably to intensify the effects of altitude. What noone anticipated was a blizzard so intense that the lines on the field were totally covered. For whatever reason (money changed hands, according to the Ticos), the game continued and Costa Rica lost 1-0. Well. A sudden explosion of anti-snowman propaganda etc etc. As you might imagine, sane or rational conversation about this topic being impossible in no way diminished the volume and extent of the rhetoric any randomly selected stranger could produce on demand! Being culturally sensitive types, Maximo organised at a very reasonable price (for them) tickets to the match. I knew I was in for a spectacle when the stadium, packed to the rafters, turned around as one and immediately expanded my vocabulary of Spanish swear words during the FIFA fair play anthem. Costa Rica was playing Jamaica, and the single most distinguishing characteristic of the match was how quickly the players pushed each other over when the ref wasn't looking. Similarly, any questionable calls by the referee were immediately greeted with loud and unanimous speculation as to the honour of his mother. I know that soccer fans are on occasion loud, enthusiastic, even bombastic. I found the complete lack of interest in sportsmanship or a good match rather off-putting. Though, to be fair, I find a similar duration of obese people screaming hysterically in Italian at each other in a darkened room much more comprehensible, so I may not be the best judge of the situation.

The next day, Maximo gladly took the opportunity to swap a day of work at the site for a quick tour to Poas volcano. Although it hasn't erupted much in the last 20 years, one can always be hopeful. In particular, I was gleefully anticipating hellish smells and a decent hike uphill at altitude. The van zoomed up the road between coffee plantations and past skinny dogs parking just outside a large concrete visitors center. Unlike the visitors' center on Vesuvius, this one was built on the defend, rather than replace principle. From there we took off up a path through swirling mist. Impossibly large leaves and moss reminiscent of Fjordland national park (though warmer) bobbed in front of us when before long we reached the edge of a cliff. Apparently this was the crater, though it was completely full of mist. By this stage we were desperate for a stretch leg so we ran around the crater to another crater lake, also acidic but less active. Sadly, neither smelled at all! We checked out the souvenir shop crammed with identical chess sets, shot glasses, and so on as the fellow in the artisan market assured us he made after work each day at his house. Clearly, there is an impressive degree of consistency control across the individual trinket workshops in the country. Fortunately there were plenty of lung-corroding fumes back in town.

By this L and I were getting slightly stir crazy. I jumped on my favourite website and sent a desperate message out into the aether. L harnessed her substantial linguistic skills to locate a local gym and went to a boxing class. I went along for photos and curiousity. While L pounded a punching bag into a pretzel shape, there were a couple of blokes on a nearby mat engaged in what turned out to be Brazilian Jujitsu. I've never seen it before, and so I will describe it as best I can. A sparring bout begins with one fella grappling the other around the torso with his legs. If this happened to me, I'd close my eyes and wait to die. But apparently there are tricks and techniques to get out of this, which I attempted to understand over the next hour. The forms and transitions were surprisingly similar in topology to the set of possible moves in salsa, though presumably with a greater emphasis on pain.

The next day, I discovered my plaintive scream in cyber space had been answered! E, a local couchsurfer and I agreed to meet at the local supermarket and went for a drive up into the hills where she grew up. The transition between essentially concrete terrace houses and farms was almost instantaneous. E worked for a local political movement and had a wealth of information with which to combat my continuous barrage of questions. It turns out Costa Rica was mostly socialist prior to some market reforms in the 80s. Unfortunately, though perhaps unsurprisingly, the middle-class has subsequently gone into decline. Somewhat disorientingly, social conservatives in Costa Rica advocate a return to socialism. Costa Rica is a slightly odd-ball country in a few other ways. They have no army and nearly all renewable energy. The political need for a bogeyman is as present as ever, however, with a strong emphasis on law and order and an almost impossibly ubiquitous police presence. We drove along a narrow cobbled road that apparently used to be the main bullock route. We said hi to her nine dogs and shivered in the wind as the sun set over nobbly paddocks on nobbly hills. All too soon it was time for dinner, but E had a surprise - there was a CS meetup and community party on Friday.

In the meantime we spent time in the living room carrying out robust discussions prompted by our environment and/or playing scrabble in Spanish. This is harder than it looks. Although we'd been warned of a total economic shutdown for the entirety of the week of Easter, Friday rolled around and most supermarkets were still open. We took the opportunity to check out the community stations of the cross easter parade. A few hundred locals turned out to carrying idols of Jesus and Mary down the main street, which was half closed for the occasion. The crowd was mixed. Certainly younger on the whole than the main population that still goes to church in the US or Australia, though, I thought, surprisingly sparse. I estimated that about a percent of the population turned out. As such, it seemed to me to be a ritual going through a steady but inexorable demise. I didn't spend enough time speaking to other locals to find out exactly what the religious situation was. Certainly the background was much more homogeneous that the US, with almost universal adherence to the Vatican's brand of christianity.

That afternoon we were shuttled back to Maximo to debrief. They brought out drinks, dessert, shirts, certificates, and an 'experience evaluation sheet' with no fewer than three reminders to bump their social media nodes. Though the demand for week-long voluntourism is undoubtedly strong, the question remains what to do with it. It's certainly non trivial to extract useful work from the situation. Additionally, just managing the average backpacker presents a host of problems I have no idea how to address. That said, the bottom line of my feedback was that for an organisation as glitzy and slick as Maximo, I expected a much higher level of project direction and efficiency.

That evening all the undergrad energizer bunnies finally ground to a halt and only the indefatigable K opted to join me for the half hour walk to the couch surfing meetup. We navigated easily to the relevant block, and then had to dead-reckon the rest of the way. By this time, of course, it was well after the 8pm Maximo-recommended curfew. Call me a grumpy old man, but I'd rather take my chances on the street than in the back of a taxi under almost any circumstances. In any case, K and I trained our bat-like hearing on the ambient noise and were able to locate the sounds of laughter in English over several other nearby celebrations. We passed the gate (most places have big gates instead of doors), surveyed an awesome hammock, and made our way through the party. I found E and a ceiling-hung beer pong table, and we both had a series of awesome conversations. I have never met a boring couch surfer! One fellow was able to give me a thorough run down on the University of Costa Rica. Another discussed volunteer group organisation, the Red Cross, and differences between various Mardi Gras celebrations in different parts of the world. A Canadian woman and I discussed the merits of Vancouver and access to the arctic ocean. Words cannot describe my relief at finding some Ticos who weren't on Maximo's payroll! 

Eventually we cruised back to our house, finished packing, and went to sleep. At 2:30am we woke for the last time, were picked up by our indefatigable van driver and ferried to the airport. The advantage of operating a tour company next to a large foreign tourism organisation that inculcates helplessness was evidenced by his wife's absurdly fancy looking car. The disadvantage is that he got to drive us to the airport at 2:30am on Easter Saturday! Work hard for the money. E confirmed that a double income was now virtually compulsory to make a living.

We duly checked in (I confused only one hostess in the process), got our stuff x-rayed, and boarded the plane. Sleep deprivation did its job and I once again I hovered like a poltergeist in sleep, disturbing people several rows away. In El Salvador we were rescreened as per TSA requirements to fly to the US. This time there were no x-ray machines or metal detectors. Just several rows of tables with people searching hand luggage, bodies, and shoes. The thoroughness of the procedure was undermined slightly by their failure to search my jacket (containing a phone, a camera, and a book). Also, they twisted my sandals, but didn't check the hiking shoes in a plastic bag tied to the outside of my bang. Additionally, they allowed me to move back and forth between the stages, ie repacking my bag during the subsequent frisk, taking stuff from my friends who didn't have a zip lock bag for their toothpaste, and so on. For taking the effort involved in searching the pages of my tiny journal, someone really dropped the ball.

Soon enough the plane spat us out at home sweet home and we made our way back to Pasadena. The air was clean and cool. The sky was an incredible shade of blue. I got stuck into editing photos.

Photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/105494084231616659850/CostaRica2013

Costa Rica Alternative Spring Break Trip (part 1)

Last Thursday evening I had a sudden craving for airport sushi. By a lucky coincidence I was AT the airport. Eleven intrepid adventurers from Caltech were off to Costa Rica for a week to look at strange animals and do some volunteer work as a Caltech Y Alternative Spring Break.

As I munched my slightly stale imitation crab California role and stared across the cavernous check-in hall of the Tom Bradley Terminal, I made eye contact with a strikingly glamorous face. About 40 feet tall, she seemed to be spruiking diamonds or perfume or something. All at once, I was struck with a familiar feeling of 'forever again', or almost oppressive nostalgia for the timeless present. For some reason, airports are a really good place to feel stuck in a time warp. They have not changed as far as I can see in the decade or so I've been aware of them, and in that moment I could have been 100 years old, eating the same food, breathing the same air, wondering if I needed to purchase some expensive perfume.

Fortunately my tiny travel bag was already completely full, the feeling passed, and somehow I had slipped smoothly back into a travel frame of mind, and correspondingly became extremely grumpy as I realised I was once again in for disorientation, exhaustion, weird food and yet more experiences that are difficult to integrate into my own psyche, let alone anyone elses. Incidentally, that's why all my travel stories (this one included) are complete fabrications. ;P

That's not to say travel isn't overflowing with opportunities for amusement and hilarity. As an example, years and years studying science has allowed me to perfect the art of sleeping while seated, my head motionless while hovering uncannily in space. We scudded along the edge of a different sort of space as we followed the great circle south over Baja California and past a series of perfect volcanic cones. Sadly, none of them were erupting. 

After a short break at El Salvador, we reboarded the same plane. The previous crop of mainly hispanic passengers was replaced by a new bunch of mostly moneyed and liquored American holiday makers, new decor, and a new smell. If the television advertisement for the attractions of Guatemala had not lagged at precisely the same points as on the first leg, I might have been fooled despite being in the same seat.

Landing in San Jose (Costa Rica, not Silicon Valley), our token responsible adult C found his old friend and driver extraordinaire J, who pulled up in a shiny new Toyota minibus. The buses passenger door opened on the wrong side, however, so we loaded our luggage through the window. We requested a lunch sufficient to cancel out two previous airline meals and J did not disappoint. We parked by an unassuming ramshackle roadside diner in Alajuela, an affluent suburb to the west of the big smoke. We unholstered our Spanglish dictionaries and cast caution to the winds and were duly rewarded with an extraordinary selection of food, including some of the best beans I've ever eaten. 

The bus zoomed south towards the Pacific coast. The road twisted like a shoelace between impossibly lush fields, over crags, and through canyons. On one side, the 'old' road, one lane wide, was at least twice as wild and three times as narrow. On the other side, an old narrow gauge railway followed our progress to the surf. Later I was saddened to learn that the railways are largely defunct. The corridors, however, are still extraordinary. In between these sights paddocks were marked by a dense thicket of fence posts, all of which had sprouted. Unlike Pasadena, where a faulty sprinkler is the only difference between green and desert, tropical growth was everywhere. Locals shook their heads and said it was drier than it had ever been.

Friday afternoon, the banks close for the weekend, and some for the whole following week of Easter. We piled out of the bus in the perennially rough town of Quepos and went looking for a place to change our greenbacks. I joined a queue for an ATM and giggled hysterically as the Australian exchange rate poured colones by the thousand into my lap. With an exchange rate of 500 colones (ie Columbuses) to the US dollar, I anticipated spending somewhere between Vietnam and Mongolia. I was in for a rude shock. I rounded a corner and after smiling my ultra-innocent smile to two heavily armed guards was ushered into a spacious and air conditioned bank where a few of my companions were avoiding using their credit cards on dodgy foreign networks by exchanging cash directly.

We managed to dodge half a dozen glassy-eyed meth addicts (both local and imported) and drove a few more miles into the park, where a few pre-existing and quasi-pre-existing hotels existed to cater to the foreign and affluent domestic tourist market. We checked into our hotel, an expansive beach side low rise with an even more expansive fellow at the desk, and as one mind switched to beach clothes. For me this amounted to switching to my other set of clothes. When you have only two pairs of pants, choosing your clothing is really straight forward. The beach was a perfect arc of warm sand and warm water about 2km long. For whatever reason, the students in this trip were mostly fitness obsessed undergrads who immediately decided the best thing would be to run to some exposed rocks pummeled by the surf and to climb them. We spent the remainder of the day clambering on stuff, looking for crocodiles, and running along the beach until finally it was time for dinner.

The next day, C, with whom I was sharing a room, thoughtfully woke me at about 4 with the alarm-o-snore. Not wanting to lose a single minute of precious time, I went back to sleep only just long enough to get to the park entrance at the moment it opened. This day I went alone - the rest of the crew opted for horse riding on a ranch in the mountains. Walking into the park, I struggled to see the animals therein for the crushing presence of one particular 'advanced' species of monkey. Their distinguishing characteristic was a peculiar custom of wearing shoes...

Fortunately, they were organised into tribes of about 20, each arrayed around a sacred optical device. Each sacred optical device had a high priest, to whom tribute was duly and frequently paid. His job was to locate the sacred objects of desire with his telescope and then allow his acolytes a quick peek. In such a way I was able to spot the arm of a sloth a few hundred meters away before fleeing the noise. A side track branched to the left. I took it. It branched again, I took the less tracked one. Soon I was almost alone in the jungle. The humidity condensed on my eyelids. Not to worry - walk for a few minutes, then sit quietly until the cool returns. If you sweat too much, you'll ruin all the fun. Before long I came to a sign in Spanish that I think said "only fearless and highly competent hikers past this point". After checking over my shoulder I ducked onto a series of paths with a soft bed of leaf litter. Before long I was alone in the forest, with only the sounds of the surf and lizards skittering along the floor for company. At once I slowed down and relaxed. I opened my eyes and looked around. I followed trail after trail through the wilderness. In such a way I crisscrossed the park several times through the course of the day, while keeping contact with the maddening crowds to a minimum. I saw many, many awesome animals. Monkeys, sloths, a paca, a coati, innumerable lizards, geckos and iguanas, a bright green snake, dozens of birds, fish, frogs, hermit crabs, raccoons, and so on. 

In the heat of the day I made my way down to a beach with a family on it. After emerging from the brush, I took a group photo for them and then settled down to eat my balanced lunch of corn chips and water in the shade of a lemon tree. I counted the period of a seiche wave that periodically flooded the beach or else completely exposed it. From where I sat I could see a beach closer to the park entrance completely infested with people, though for the most part well behaved. A couple of American blokes showed up and one told me that this was the unofficial nude beach, especially in the off season. Noted. At some point I felt a few lemon leaves brush my perfectly coiffed hair and looked up to stare into the face of cheeky monkey who was just dropping in to share my lunch. Fortunately I understood that processed food is poisonous, only I had access to the sort of medical help necessary to survive eating it, and thus kept it all to myself. On my way out, I saw a family of monkeys drop in from a palm tree onto a branch and start grooming each other. Later I saw one catch a lizard and proceed to eat it.

Sooner or later the beaches emptied and I supposed it time to leave the park. I took a dip in the ocean and returned to the hotel to meet the rest of the crew, who had been horsing all day. We all rushed to take photos of the incredible sunset that shifted through an exponential number of shades of pink. B, K and I then exploited a small window of time before dinner to sprint back up the beach and, unable to read in the dark, sneak back into the park to look at some animal eyes with my flashlight. Just as B and I reached the part I knew there'd be raccoons scavenging stuff, we heard and saw some people through the dim light. I didn't want to get busted by rangers, so we slunk into the shadows and kept an eye out. They were speaking Spanish and walking our way. They didn't see us until they were right on top of us, at which point they thought WE were rangers, after which we had a good laugh. Turns out they were camping in the park to avoid paying a fee in the campground on the outside! I was surprised so few people did this, seeing as there was zero enforcement.

The next morning I had a look around town before breakfast and leaving. There was an alley full of tourist trap shoppes, stuffed to the rafters with caramel coloured wooden trinkets, epoxy sculptures of lizards, engraved stuff, and of course thousands upon thousands of pipes - nearly as much variety as Venice Beach, and considerably more tropical in aesthetic. I've seen a LOT of tourist souvenir shops but nowhere have I seen a greater disconnect between the wares (which clearly echo the expectations and preconceptions of the customers) and the actual lifestyle and aesthetic of a place. I nearly expected to see lizard themed babushka dolls. They would have been cool, actually.

We left the Galapagos air and returned to the big city. For a country with 92% hydro electric power and a real shot at carbon neutrality by 2020, Costa Rica has a real problem with vehicle emissions, to the point where, taking a photo, you had to wait a few seconds after a bus passed before attempting to focus the shot through billowing clouds of smog. We were ushered inside the structure of our voluntourism organisation, Maximo Nivel (or Maximo for short). A slick operation that did a mix of teaching, teacher education, and volunteer organisation of all stripes, and a decent side of organising tours through their sister company Transleo, it seemed to be staffed exclusively by incredibly chipper foreigners from all over the Americas. One of them pointed out, positively bursting with excitement, the presence of not one but two staircases to the second floor.

After three hours of mostly pointless briefing we were ushered onto our courtesy bus for the 3k drive to our host families. Five of us were greeted by M, our host (grand) mother who ushered us into her guest wing, complete with laundry area, separate kitchen, and multiple bunk-bedded bedrooms. I inverted my bag and terrified my companions with the spontaneous generation of a full closet of clothes and gear. I took advantage of the distraction and fled to the bathroom with my towel and a supply of impossibly viscous shampoo that sometimes took hours to pour out. 

In a foreign country, one often has no idea what to expect when one enters a bathroom. In Britain, there is no such thing as a hotel with a functional hot water system. In Mongolia, there is no such thing as a bathroom. In Japan, you have to open the shower door to bend your knees enough to wet your head. Costa Rica seemed reasonable. Inside, the shower, however, there was only one tap. Looking upwards my slight trepidation at a week of cool showers was obliterated by the most visceral fear I've felt since breaking a hold while free-soloing on the 28th of December 2005. Armed with the knowledge that I'd since listened to the complete recordings of Enrico Caruso, and therefore had substantially less reason to live on, I took a deep breath and appraised the situation. A metal pipe jutted from the wall at head height. On the end of the pipe, a giant plastic pear covered in occult symbols had been attached. From the top of the pear emerged two thick electrical cables. These in turn vanished into twin blobs of disintegrating electrical tape, from which emerged another set of cables. These ran back down the metal pipe before disappearing inside a 110-240V transformer on the wall. I could assess the relative current because the number of windings was directly visible. The transformer in turn was wired into the lighting circuit. This fact I acertained when, standing outside the shower with one hand behind my back, I turned on the water. At this point the transformer's hum underwent an abrupt change in pitch, like a semi-trailer shifting gear. The lights in the whole house dimmed and flickered but, incredibly, stayed on. From the pear came a sound like a boiling kettle, and from its bottom dribbled a stream of luke-warm water. Seems legit. 

I got on with showering. At the point where I had completely lathered up, the water pressure dropped abruptly, the water flow cut off, and the heating element cut out to avoid boiling dry and catching fire. The lights went back up, the transformer went back to purring. This, of course, I figured out later. At the time, I was certain I had finally experienced the functional equivalent of electro-convulsive therapy and my only thought was whether patients in mental asylums were similarly covered in soap before procedures. Oddly enough, the following day I got an opportunity to find out.

To be continued...

(Photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/105494084231616659850/CostaRica2013)