In search of snow

This year was the first time I had experienced a real winter since 2007.  I gave winter a miss during my years in Ecuador, which has what is colloquially referred to as a winter, describing the part of the year you might call the rainy season.  I suppose people from different parts of the world have different concepts of what winter looks like.  For me, coming from Ohio, I could never think of it as being anything less than icily cold, cloudy, and often snowy.  But admittedly, after a few years in the eternally springlike climate of the Sierra in Ecuador, my personal tolerance level for cold weather had shifted.  A night in the 50s started to feel downright cold to me, and I had taken to the Ecuadorian custom of wearing a jacket when I left the house on many mornings that in Ohio, around April, would feel practically balmy.

So, once we came to Chile, and the days began getting shorter, I started to wonder just how cold the winter in Santiago would be.  Come July and August, winter had fully set in, and one morning in particular, we awoke to the above scene from our living room window.  Every Chilean I spoke to said that this was highly abnormal, and the TV news that day was full of people marveling over the novelty of snow on the ground.  The snow never made it to our neighborhood, but in the parts of town lying near the mountains, the snow accumulated, much as it had on the hills you can see from our apartment.

Soon after, we opted to take a walk in a neighborhood closer to the mountains, and while no snow remained on the ground beneath our feet that day, the Cordillera de los Andes loomed nearby, replete with a nice dose of white powder laid down by successive snowfalls.

Santiago is one of few cities its size to lie so close to a mountain range that receives such a quantity of snow, and we were fully charmed by them each time we saw them this winter.  Whenever some rain would come down in the city, we would remark that more snow had fallen on the mountains, and made a point to get a look at them to see just how far the snow had reached down the mountainsides.

Having bought a bike for commuting to the various places around town that I need to go for work, I started to wonder if there was a decent place to go riding, to get into the snow in the foothills beyond the city.  Fortunately I wasn't the only one thinking like that, and so I had the opportunity to go with my friends Ruth and Stuart into a conservation area known as El Santuario de la Naturaleza, or Nature Sanctuary, as we might say in English.

In order to get there, we rode through several of Santiago's comunas.  The metropolitan area of Chile's capital is divided politically into many such areas, each with its own mayor, and distinct look and feel.  Starting in Santiago Centro, and then riding along a contiguous corridor of green space and parks through neighboring Providencia, we soon made our way into Las Condes and rode among the many new skyscrapers of Santiago's modern economic heart.  Being Saturday, its wide sidewalks were nearly vacant, and we were able to cruise peacefully along streets that during the week are nearly unnavigable by bike for the number of people on foot and in cars or buses.

We then moved into Vitacura, an upscale residential area I hadn't spent more than a few minutes in until that day, and I was struck by the resemblance it bore to countless upper-class neighborhoods you might find in central California, with its mix of modern apartment buildings, two story homes with grassy lawns, and smattering of high-end stores and restaurants, local or international.

After nearly a full hour of gradual climb towards the mountains, we had reached Lo Barnechea, the most rural and perhaps most expensive neighborhood yet.  The picture above reveals a glimpse of it.  Its rolling hills dotted with bushes, the river valley below, and the occasional rustic estate transported me instantly to the Upper Canyon Rd. neighborhood of Santa Fe, where million dollar homes were not a rarity.  I don't know how much homes in Lo Barnechea will set you back exactly, but considering that the only students I've had who live there are both vice presidents in their respective companies, I have a general idea.

The nice thing about places like Canyon Road and Lo Barnechea is that while the real estate might be priced out of the reach of a lowly teacher like myself, there was nothing stopping us from enjoying it in passing from atop our modest means of personal transportation.  We wound along some dirt roads that took us ever higher into the hills, passing hobby ranches and wooden farmhouses wafting aromatic smoke from tin chimneys.

It was here too that we finally made it to our first sighting of nearby snow for the day, visible at the top of the hillside to the right.  The brisk air full of the pleasant smell of nearby fireplaces made the climb a lot easier, and I realized how necessary it is to get out of the city from time to time, into fresh air and natural surroundings.

I couldn't tell you now what roads we took to get there, but eventually we left the increasingly sparse scattering of rural mansions below us and reached the entrance to the nature preserve.  We had to sign in at a wooden gate with a river to one side and a stone guard station to the other.  Above us, the dirt road was muddier and the hills steeper than those we had already passed, and the snow lying atop them was lying thicker, too.

The climb never got too grueling, but a persistent pain above my knees started intensifying as we made the climb and eventually I grudgingly had to hop off my bike.  It took awhile for me to admit defeat, having ridden up hills far steeper with no problem in the past.  Was it the flu I was getting over?  The copious wine I had drunk the night before?  The lack of physical preparation in the weeks prior?  All those things and more, most likely.  Once I was down, it felt like my legs were going to buckle underneath me, and a few squats didn't seem to help.  But after a few minutes the pain subsided, and fortunately I was able to walk my bike without it coming back.

The same place I finally decided to dismount, a snowdrift.  I was like a kid at Christmas.  Albeit a 34-year-old one, with a pair of aching knees.  Not so bad that I couldn't bend down and scoop up a handful of it for the picture.

We had made it to the snow.  If I was going to have to walk my bike from here, at least I had made it this far on two wheels, into the snow.  Five years prior, I had ridden my bike through the pink-brown mix of snow and caliche in Santa Fe, when it had dumped a foot on the city in the course of a few hours.  I was forced to walk my bike then too, not for my own physical limitations, but for the simple fact that the snow was too deep to ride through.

That was the last snow I had been in, until now.  When things come around full circle like that, how can you help but reflect on who you are now compared to who you were then, and all the things that have happened in between?  That's what I did, as I shook my legs out and pushed my bike up the hill.

From our perspective, moving as we were along the snow-speckled foothills of the Andes, we were afforded ever more spectacular views of the Andes proper.  We were separated from them by a valley, and however high we went along our path, the mountains on the other side would always be higher still, and snowier, and further out of reach.  That is the how the mountains dare us, revealing with their sheer presence the next and greater challenge.  That day, we were happy enough to enjoy looking at them from where we were as we shared a lunch of sandwiches, tangerines and chocolate chip cookies.

That was not to say that we were done for the day.  That first snow drift gave way to more, until the road itself began to be overtaken by ice and slush.  We found this shack, ostensibly abandoned, and decided to take a break.  In the distance, the Andes unfolded above us in their snow-swept glory.  And from an overlook nearby, we were afforded a panoramic view of the city below.

It was truly impressive.  Partly because it revealed just how far we had come to be where we were.  In the foreground, the open hills and occasional homes of Lo Barnechea.  Beyond, the greater and greater density of both the city itself, and the thick layer of smog that obscured our view from the vantage point in the clean air we were enjoying at the moment.  None of the photos I took show much more than this murky, yellowish-gray cloud that appears thicker the further towards the horizon you look.

The naked eye could see lots of landmarks of the city in the distance, which we spent several minutes discovering.  We could also see how the smog spilled out past the limits of the city itself, laying like a blanket on the entire flat basin beneath the mountains, locked in by them.  Which reveals yet another reason why it's important to get out of the city on a regular basis.  Especially in the winter.

From there we continued our climb on foot, along a road now fully buried in snow.  Judging from the muddy tracks, we obviously were not the first to be up it since the most recent snowfall.  Later, we met a pair of Australians, each atop their own personal four-wheelers, taking a break and having a chat in the middle of the road.

Several minutes after we passed them by, the deep silence afforded by the insulating power of a thick layer of snow was broken by the high-pitched roar of their engines in the distance as they motored their way back down the mountain.  There are lots of ways to get up a mountain road, and from my personal bias, I have to say that the ones that you can do quietly are best.

At some point on any day trip, the decision must be made as to where to stop and turn back.  The road we had chosen kept going up, the snow kept getting deeper, and the wind kept blowing harder.  We played for awhile at saying that we would go just one more bend in the road.  I for one was waiting for some kind of other milestone, like the initial snowdrift, to mark the stopping point.  I didn't know what that might be, admittedly, and in the end, there wasn't one that day.  We finally found a place to stop, to sit for a few minutes, to eat and drink.  When we got up, it was back down and not up the road that we went.

Along the way we found this black dog, and he followed us on our walk back to the bikes.  Once we got on our bikes and began the high-speed, rattling downhill, he kept on following us, joyously matching our speed.  He would run ahead, get to a bend, slow down and look back, and then run aside, fall behind, and then back up front again.

Never did he run the risk of getting too close to our bikes and causing an unexpected turn and subsequent crash, and I felt comfortable letting go of the brakes and pushing at the limits of the downhill.  Only once did I find myself in the gravel of the shoulder as I underestimated the angle of a curve, forced to come to stop and reorient myself before starting up again.

Looking back, thinking of the various rides I've taken in the Andes of Chile and Ecuador, this one might have been my favorite downhill ride.  The visibility, the grade of the hill, the severity of the curves and the conditions of the road all added up to a nicely technical ride that could still be taken safely at high velocity.  Other roads might let you cruise with your hands off the brakes all the way, resulting in a fun downhill, but lacking in any great challenge.  Others are so steep and curvy that you're riding the brakes the whole time, or the dirt and gravel is so thick and loose that one wrong move can leave your wheels out from under you.  This one was a nice balance of all of the above, and thankfully my legs let me do it without any resurgence of my earlier cramping in the knees.

Once the thrill of the downhill tapered off into a gentler finish close to the guard station, our black dog stayed behind, and we all regrouped and recounted our respective experiences of the ride.  Then we continued the trip, down from the Santuario, down from Lo Barnechea, Vitacura, Las Condes.  The foregone conclusion of food and beer at a restaurant in Providencia, and then our goodbyes as we went our separate ways home for the day.  All in all, a fine day on a bike.

Los chorros

Pictured above is the author standing near the calm and beautiful stream that flows just below one of several massive waterfalls that are referred to unassumingly as los chorros. The name translates more or less as "the spurts," but as you'll see, the many waterfalls in this cloud forest outside of the village of Giron, about 45 minutes by bus from Cuenca, are a far cry from a mere sputtering of water. But then, Ecuadorians, as I've noticed, have a penchant for diminutizing everything. For a commonly encountered example, I present to you this conversation I might have on any given morning as I go downstairs to the market for some eggs.

"Diez huevos, por favor," I'll ask.
To which I'll hear, "Claro mi patron, diez huevitos." Ten little eggs.
And in regards to payment, I might ask: "Y cuanto le debo?"
In reply: "Ochenta centavitos, no mas." Just eighty tiny cents. How could I refuse an offer like that?

So it should come as no surprise to you to see what I saw one morning as three fellow teachers and I made our way up a hill into a tropical rainforest. A rippling torrent of water pouring down a sheer cliffside, soaking everything around it with its freezing mist as it pummels the rocks below, before transforming itself into a quiet brook and rambling peacefully downhill.

























I could have sat for hours watching the shapes that constantly evolved from the cascade of a river seized by gravity and pulled suddenly straight down, like the flames of a fire flickering in the opposite direction. No less impressive was the backdrop of a mossy cliff surrounded by hills that were almost dripping with vegetation.

But we had a day of hiking still ahead of us and another waterfall to see. And we were still buoyed enough by the events of the night before to hold still for very long.

The plan to take a trip to Giron had begun months before. Just weeks after I had arrived in Ecuador, in fact. But this plan went forgotten in the whirlwind of obligations and frenzied sightseeing that ensued as 30 some gringos descended simultaneously on a foreign land, intent on witnessing as much of it as possible in the short months they allotted themselves to teach and travel.

Finally, during one of my first long weekends after New Year's, it seemed like the time had come. Five other teachers decided it was time as well, and we made a plan to leave in the early afternoon. At 1 o'clock we'd meet and get a bus soon afterwards. That morning, though, a few text messages informed me that 1 o'clock wouldn't be possible, it'd have to be later. But how much later?

As two of the teachers backed out and the afternoon began drifting by, I sat patiently waiting in my apartment with my guitar and some carefully measured quantities of my favorite mezcal brought with me from Mexico. Some further correspondence led me to believe that at first at 3 and then at 4 o'clock we could finally meet and get on the road. Sure enough, my roommate Vince arrived shortly before 4 and we made our way across town to the house of Heidi and Lauren, who were almost, but not quite ready to go.

Then there was the question of provisions. There was shopping to do, for such sundry goods as an avocado, a little 10 cent loaf of bread, and a box of wine. Then, thoroughly outfitted and prepared, we arrived at the terminal terrestre and found our way onto a bus bound for Giron in just half an hour. As it turned out, however, the bus was taking a detour and our anticipated 45 minute trip was some duration of time greater. Greater enough, as it turned out, combined with the various other delays, to bring us into the village after dark under a light drizzle of rain.

Fortunately, Heidi, a British lady married to a Peruvian fellow, had been living in Ecuador for a few years and had been to Giron and los chorros before. She knew what to do and what to say in order to get us where we needed to go. What that was was waving to a pick-up truck driver, saying "los chorros" and then hopping in the back of the truck. The rest of us did the same, and the truck driver proceeded to drive us along a muddy and winding road up a steep hill for 20 minutes or so. At the top he collected his fare, and pointed to the only two buildings anywhere in sight, indicating we could spend the night and have a bite to eat at either one of them. Without another word he drove back down the hill, leaving us at the end of a country road in the now-heavier rain.

We approached the closer of the two buildings, which had a covered patio with a large wooden table. We knocked on a door and waited, but there was no sign of life. No lights, no noise, just a sleeping dog on the patio. So we walked the quarter of a mile over to the other building, which was also conspicuously dark, and pounded on a few windows. Again, no response. In 15 minutes, we had systematically exhausted our two options for a place to stay at los chorros, which left us at something of a loss for what to do next. But, becoming increasingly wet, we opted to go back to the first building, have a seat around the table, and get dry.

It turned out that through all the preparations that had been made that afternoon, none of us had gone so far as to eat lunch. Once under the covered patio and seated around the table, we opened the box of wine for nourishment, began passing it around, and broke our little loaf of bread. There was enough of a loaf for about 3 or four bites each, it looked like. Lauren, who'd made friends with the dog who awoke to the smell of bread, began feeding it some. The rest of us decided that her generous offer came out of her portion of the bread ration, and we began spreading avocado on what remained, while the dog, appetite now whet, began begging shamelessly for more.

At this point, with no indication that we'd be finding any accomodations for the evening, and having discarded the idea of walking back down the long, dark and muddy road to Giron, we began sizing up our surroundings for a way to pass the night. None of us had brought anything like a pillow or a blanket, but the wooden table and benches seemed large enough for the four of us to all lay down on, which seemed better than the cold and wet dirt floor. A grim assessment for the night ahead, but a realistic one. We continued drinking the wine and I began to discern a pattern emerging from the events of the past few months: when I go into the woods, I find myself in some sort of unexpected and arguably risky situation, bringing others with me for the duration. At least I never go alone.

After an hour or so, as the chill of the night settled into our bones, we nonetheless began making our peace with the idea that we'd be sleeping on the table. Then we heard a phone ring in the house and some rustling of life. Interesting. I should mention that before we had made our peace with the situation we had first banged loudly on every door and window we could find. And yet, a few minutes later, an drowsy but amiable woman opened a door and explained that she had been sleeping upstairs but she eventually noticed that we were here and had just called her brother, El Negro, who owned the lodge but was down in Giron at a party. He was now on his way home to set up our beds if we wanted to stay the night, and in the meantime she could offer us trucha and canelazo. If you've been keeping up with my postings, you already know that trucha is trout, and for a detailed explanation of canelazo you'll have to scroll down a story. But suffice it to say that it's served hot and it's got alcohol in it. Which seemed perfect right about then.

About the same time that our trout was served (fried, and whole, complete with scales, head and tail), El Negro arrived in his Chevy Blazer. He made sure we were comfortable, and then explained the accomodations. He told us that he had just one bed, but he was sure it was plenty big enough for him, his sister, and the four of us. He let that idea soak in for a minute before laughing and telling us in English that he had lots of rooms, and a bed for each one of us. Funny guy!

Then he went inside, put on some Simon & Garfunkel at high volume, and turned on a disco ball above our heads which had somehow escaped our notice. El Negro knew how to entertain. He also came back outside and joined us while we ate. This wasn't the first time I'd been presented with a whole trout, and I knew what to do with it. But I have to admit, while I did take a bite out of the head I didn't eat it all, though I did enjoy the crunchy tail and fins. Vince, on the other hand, relishes the idea of eating a fish down to the spine and did so with gusto, especially enjoying the head and eyes, if his detailed description of the texture and flavor was any evidence. The meal also came with mote, a variety of large-kerneled corn similar to hominy, in this case fried with egg. I found out later that this was an unusual pairing of foods, fish obviously being eaten more on the coast and mote a traditional crop of the high mountains. But they went well together on my palette, and the canelazo rounded out the meal nicely.

El Negro, for his part, had emerged from the building with a large frothy mug of yellow beverage which he explained was a Pilsener blended with a raw egg. The rest of us opted not to sample this drink but we did enjoy his company and the ambience, which had shifted again with the change of music from 60's singer-songwriter folk to dancehall reggae, played even more loudly. I suggested that we play some cards and we settled on a round of rummy. El Negro played as well, often remarking about his malas cartas and other examples of his rotten luck.

As the weather cooled off further, El Negro thought it might be a good idea if we retired to one of the rooms where we'd spend the night, to stay warm and keep playing cards. We went to the room Vince and I'd be staying in, and upon seeing that there was a nice comfortable bed and a sorry-looking bedroll on the ground for sleeping, we both agreed that whoever won a round of rock-paper-scissors would get the bed, which I won, best two out of three.

After we'd played cards for a few hours we reached a natural pause in the game and I noticed El Negro was shuffling the cards with some dexterity, so I asked him if he knew any card tricks. It turned out he did, and he showed us one that stumped us all. I did happen to know a trick that it reminded me of, though, and I asked him if he'd show it to us again. He said he'd do better, he'd show me how the trick worked once and I could try to do it again myself. Luckily, the trick worked similarly to the one I knew after all and I was able to reproduce it without any trouble. Heidi had already gone to bed at this point, but Vince and Lauren both remained stumped by the trick, which I still haven't gotten around to showing either one of them.

Then El Negro mentioned that he knew another trick, this one involving a banana. He explained that he could slice a banana from the inside, using a knife that would never actually touch the fruit, and while the peel would remain intact, upon opening it, it would fall into evenly and cleanly sliced segments. He proceeded to demonstrate the trick with a whole banana, which he let us examine first. Sure enough, it looked like a regular banana, nothing unusual about it. Then he stood a few feet back from the yellow fruit, now resting ominously on the card table, made a few cutting motions with a knife, and told us to look at the banana again. There it was, same as before. Didn't look any different to us. But when we opened it, sure enough, it fell into slices. The peel on the inside was cut, but on the outside it was whole and smooth. Then El Negro wiped off the knife on a towel, where some banana pulp was left behind.

El Negro, for whatever reason, had deemed me worthy of learning this trick as well. I managed to learn the trick pretty easily and recreated it for Vince and Lauren a second time. They were thoroughly confused by this piece of trickery and a bit upset that I became the sole inheritor of our group. I pacified them with the explanation that before they returned to the States I'd show them how it's done. While I won't reveal the mystery to you here, when you see me I'll be happy to demonstrate this piece of mystical know-how I learned in the rainforest of Ecuador. It gives me a bit of a headache to perform, but if you're entertained enough to offer me a beer afterwards I'm sure that ought to relieve it.

At this point we were well into the early morning hours and we all decided it was time to call it a night. I slept great in the big cozy bed and it seemed as though Vince did as well on the floor. That morning, I got my first true glimpse of our surroundings, unfettered now by the cover of night and rain, but still enveloped in a thick layer of clouds:




















The cloud cover proved relentless throughout our day of hiking, from this early morning view seen from the patio where we had spent our time the night before, to the first waterfall where this story began, and all the way up a mountainside to a second waterfall. Walking around inside of a cloud gave everything we saw a surreal quality, as though we were exploring the threshold of someone's dream about the Ecuadorian countryside.

Indeed, after a few hours of hiking it dawned on me that finally, after nearly five months of living in Ecuador, I'd stumbled upon a near likeness of my own dream from before arriving here, of what this mountain country must look like. Sure enough, I guess my pre-conceived notion wasn't too far off the mark after all. Except that besides this one particular landscape, Ecuador offers virtually every other type of countryside I'd ever seen before as well, plus several that I never had.





















During our walk to the second waterfall, having climbed up a steep and slippery trail that more than once demanded that we humbly get down on all fours and trudge along, we found ourselves in a sort of foggy, high mountain prairieland.



















This dreamlike pastoral setting was complete with various livestock. It seems like no matter what mountain I climb here, regardless of how steep and strenuous the ascent, there's always a cow at the top leisurely munching the grass, serenely looking at me, its very presence humbling my once-great physical achievement of the climb.

The clouds seemed thicker here than anywhere else, and besides contributing to the mystical quality of the environment, they also added to the element of risk. We had to hike up two or three level plateaus like this one, each stretching out to the left and the right as far as the eye could see, which here was only a few dozen yards. Our trail disappeared once it led us here, and another one, which would lead us to the falls, laid somewhere at the top, amongst many other trails just like it. Getting turned around anywhere in the woods is disorienting, but with clouds as thick as these and with surroundings that all look the same, we could easily wander around for hours looking for the right path.

Fortunately Heidi's previous visits here were still fresh in her mind and she led us to the correct trail with little hesitation. The second set of falls, not far from these open and misty plateaus, was no less impressive than the first, and if these cascades were not as picturesque as the first we saw, they dropped a greater a volume of water and were all the more amazing to us after our long and beautiful hike to reach them.




















We spent a good deal of time at these falls, enjoying the refreshing mist that they sent flying everywhere as they rolled down the cliffside, and also enjoying the opportunity to take a break from hiking before we began the descent back down the muddy mountain trail. Our return journey was spent largely in silence, all of us in an almost meditative state engendered as much by the serenity of the foggy green hills as by the mighty waterfalls at the top.

Once we reached the bottom we found El Negro and his sister feeding a group of teenagers who'd arrived to enjoy the nearer of the two falls we'd visited. To entertain them, our hosts had put on some Cumbia music played at an even higher volume than the music we'd been treated with the night before. It seemed El Negro had a library of albums for any occasion or perceived taste in music of his guests. We were fed another delicious and fortifying meal, and were then offered a ride back to Cuenca in the Chevy Blazer, as El Negro had some family business there and would be driving there anyway.

Our drive back seemed to take minutes, and we even got a ride downtown, just a few blocks away from each of our two apartments. Another free ride from the country to the city, twice in a row! But I'd better not talk too much about my luck. Instead, I offer you a photo of our host, here pictured with Lauren, in front of his kitchen:

Galapagos

The image above, a juvenile frigatebird maneuvering itself deftly around the channel between the islands of Baltra and Santa Cruz, was among my first impressions of the Galapagos islands. I had the good fortune to spend eleven days on a few of the many islands in the archipelago, with a group of several other teachers from CEDEI. We barely scratched the surface.

Here pictured with a partially-molested Galapagos tortoise in the highlands of Santa Cruz are Coreen, Emily, Alena and Chris, a group of friends and teachers at CEDEI, all from the fine nation of Canada. Molestar, a perfectly innocent Spanish verb meaning "to bother," is often seen written around the island, as advice for what not to do to the animals. Our literal English translation was quick to follow and insinuated itself into our casual conversations. Galapagos tortoises, as it turns out, are very easily molested. Walk within a few feet and they draw all their extremities into the safety of their considerable shells, while making a deep hissing sound. A few seconds later, though, they get over their nervous reaction and hesitantly begin to withdraw from the confines of their natural defenses.

This is Jenni, a naturalized Iowan and former roommate of mine, here seen next to a very sun-burnt individual who might also look familiar. Shortly after our return from the Galapagos, Jenni got on a plane back to Iowa, where she can currently be found playing cards with her extended family before moving to our nation's capitol. This photo was taken late in the evening at one of Puerto Ayora's many bars, all of which obligingly play "Legend" by Bob Marley until all hours. The many songs produced towards the end of Bob Marley's career seems to be ritually played throughout the bars, restaurants and boats of the islands, so for a more authentic experience, I recommend that you find one of his later albums and play it for the remainder of this story.

Here you'll see Jason illegally posing inside of an exhibit at the Charles Darwin Research Station. A few seconds after this picture he was caught by a volunteer and publicly chastised. This Research Station is beautifully situated on the beaches north of Puerto Ayora and has as its mission to protect the unique wildlife of the islands. The Station takes its name, of course, from the man for whom the animals there served as an important inspiration for his theory of evolution during his 5 year voyage, and understandably so. A trip to the Galapagos is a walk back in time. There are very few mammals living there, and so reptiles and birds dominate the ecosystem, filling niches in the environment presently occupied by larger mammals in most other parts of the world. It's no surprise, then, that such a one-of-a-kind place has attracted the curiosity of visitors from around the world.

The Galapagos was quietly claimed by the nation of Ecuador many decades ago, long before the concept of eco-tourism had flourished. Today, 90% of the 600,000 visitors to the Galapagos each year come from countries other than Ecuador, and from the looks of the many tourists we saw in Puerto Ayora, they almost all come from places outside of Latin America. It's an unfortunate irony that most Ecuadorians have never visited the incredible national treasure that these islands are. While the cost of entry is considerably less for Ecuadorian nationals, the cost of flight and expenses on the islands are prohibitive for the majority of the people here.

That said, the tourism business there is booming, perhaps too loudly for the peaceful animals and plants that belong there. Already Puerto Ayora. the largest city in the Galapagos, has grown to over 15,000 residents, all vying for a piece of the pie offered forth by the bloated masses of the northern continents. While this number may seem small, the pressure that such a human population places on an ecosystem like the one here in these islands is great enough to have warranted measures put in place by the government, which are viewed as draconian by some. For example, there is an effort to prohibit new immigration to the islands, as well as to remove those whose residence there date to after 1998.

Indeed, life on the Galapagos is an exercise in controlled socialism, with the intention of limiting the impact of human presence on the islands as much as possible, while enabling the profits of tourism to continue to flow. Fishing, for example, is limited to "artesanal" practices, that is, use of the old-fashioned line and hook. The area of ocean protected around the island has expanded and contracted - but mostly expanded - as a result of the constant push and pull of the government and the local population.

Even these measures fail to protect entirely. While talking to a Peace Corps volunteer living in Puerto Villamil, a smaller village on the island of Isabela, for example, he told me about a fishing trip he went on where they inadvertently caught a baby sea lion and were unable to remove the hook. The metal barb had driven itself deep inside its cheek and after struggling with the frightened creature for some time, they ultimately threw the baby back to the sea, where its fate was questionable.

All this in mind, our time there remained an amazing interaction with the wildlife who continue to go about their lives blissfully unalarmed by the presence of humans, a behavior shared by precious few of the wild species left on the planet. Among the most numerous of these animals are the marine iguanas, little dragons living on the ubiquitous black volcanic rock that built the islands.




















My first experience with the iguanas was on the beach at Tortuga Bay, easily the most beautiful beach I've ever seen. White sand with grains nearly as soft and tiny as refined flour powders the shoreline amidst occasional outcroppings of porous black rock. Stretching as far as the eye can see, with a tableland above full of massive opuntia cacti with trunks the size and texture of a ponderosa pine's, the beach is made better still by the fact that, due to the fact that most visitors to the Galapagos are confined largely to cruise ships, we were nearly the only ones there each time we visited it.

Seeing a proliferation of opuntia cactus - close relative to the nopal cactus with which I'm so familiar and have written about previously - so far from the mainland where it most likely originated was amazing as well. While the animals of the Galapagos have gotten most of the attention for their adaptations, the plants there are no different, having specialized noticeably from one island to another. For instance, on Santa Cruz island, the opuntias, with their characteristic paddle-shaped branches and big flowers, are distinct from many of those on the mainland for their large trunks:




















There are, instead, on islands such as North Seymour, very similar opuntia cactus, whose outward appearance is virtually identical to those on the rest of the islands, with the exception of their lack of tall trunks, which would keep their juicy paddles separate from the ground by several meters:




















Why would these two types of cactus have developed so differently on two different islands? The answer most likely lies with the iguanas, such as this one, basking in the sun on North Seymour Island. The iguanas on North Seymour eat the paddles of these cacti, able to reach them easily without a tall trunk keeping them out of reach. On the other islands, the opuntias with paddles low enough to be eaten by creatures like the iguanas were selected out, while those with tall, robust trunks unable to be chewed lived long enough to pass such an adaptation forward.




















So why would the cacti on North Seymour be an exception? After all, there are iguanas like this one to be found all over the island. As it turns out, these iguanas were introduced to North Seymour by a scientist in the 1950's, as an experiment. They started eating opuntias, which are more scarce on this island 50 years later as a result.

Those on the other islands, incidently, while safe from the likes of the reptiles by virtue of their height, can't protect themselves from another introduced species, donkeys. The donkeys have figured out that they can use their hooves to knock down the tall opuntia cacti and then suck the juice from the insides of their trunks. There have been many measures to limit the populations of invasive animal species such as donkeys, goats, rats, cats and dogs, some easier to implement than others. For now, despite the meddling of humans and their introduced animals, the opuntias are still plentiful. Another species, the famous Galapagos tortoises, from whom the islands take their name, are another story.




















These giants, gentle and slow, count the Galapagos as one of the few places left on earth where they can survive. They have arguably been exploited more than any other Galapagos species, especially by pirates who used to use the Galapagos as a hideout before attacking vessels going to and from the pacific coast of the Americas. Seafarers learned that the tortoises could be stacked on board and survive for months without food or water, providing a handy source of meat for the crew. As such, several of the many subspecies of Galapagos tortoises were driven to brink of extinction by this practice.

One subspecies now has only one member left, an elderly male named Lonesome George. He now lives on the Charles Darwin Research Station, in a habitat with two females of a similar subspecies. He refuses to mate with them for unknown reasons; with him goes the fate of a species as close to the brink of extinction as it gets. George, for his part, spends his days relaxing in an easy retirement. Here he is from behind, in what is apparently a rare sighting, as he typically stays in hiding during visiting hours.




















Tortoises seem to be one of the few Galapagos species to have a fear of humans. Get too close, and they hide in their shells, sometimes drawing their head, tail and feet inside so fast that their shells fall to the ground with a heavy thump. Their reactions are understandable considering their treatment in the past centuries, and they live long enough to perhaps bear as many mental scars as the rough shells they develop after 150 years or so. This reaction, sadly, is exactly why they were so easy to capture. Sea travelers needed only to step up to them, watch them retreat into their shells, and then haul them upside-down to their ships.

Today, it's not seafarers that the tortoises ought to fear, but by another species introduced inadvertently by those sailors from long ago. All the species of tortoises on the islands are at great risk due to rats introduced by humans and their ships. The hungry rats find tortoise eggs buried in the sand and make short work of them, and the proliferation of these pests on the islands have made it virtually impossible for the tortoise eggs to hatch in the wild. Without human intervention, at this point tortoises would probably not be able to survive this infestation. As a result, young tortoises are hatched and reared at stations such as this one before being released into the wild once they're of sufficient size.

In a habitat near George's at the research station was a group of males, not nearly as old as George but still huge and formidable. The visitor's walk through the station takes you right through their habitat, where it's possible to get probably a bit closer to the animals than they'd prefer. This one, rather than being scared, seemed interested in this strange creature to have entered his presence:




















Indeed, this group of males got a little riled up by us hanging around, and one started charging me. Of course, with his pace, by the time he got near me, I managed to take a few pictures, stand up, and walk away casually. Having succeeded in driving me off and ire still up, he then began intimidating one of his companions and a round of deep, reptilian hissing ensued. We decided it was time to go.




















The next day we took a boat tour around the south shores of Santa Cruz and one of the outlying islets where we were able to do some snorkeling. Here, we swam with the sea lions, the largest native mammal to the islands. They spend a lot of their time laying around on the beach, warming themselves in the sun after a fishing trip. They also find themselves laying around on boats, harbors, docks, and pretty much anywhere in Puerto Ayora that people will let them.




















This one, if you can't tell by her grace, is a lady. The females of the species are sweet and playful, as are the young males. The older males, on the other hand, are blustery and belligerent, belching and growling and posturing at anyone who gets too close to their territory or their females. Even when by themselves, they tend to be more impatient than the females, as was evidenced when we passed one sleeping on a docked boat. As we motored around it, it raised its head grumpily and belched a loud protest at us for disturbing its rest, before flopping its head back to the floor.

There were plenty of sea lions the next day as well, as we took a longer excursion to North Seymour island, known for its extensive bird populations, and less so for the sea lions that greet you on the shore upon your arrival. One of the first sights we saw was a baby sea lion with barely enough energy to get out of our way as we climbed the rocks up to the trail carved out through the desert landscape of the island.




















Some people may try to tell you that there are seals in the Galapagos, but as it turns out, seals don't live anywhere near this far south. There's not a lot of visible differences between seals and sea lions, at least not to the average onlooker, but this baby above can show you the one characteristic trait that distinguishes the sea lion: ears. Seals don't have the little floppy lobes like the ones this sleepy little guy was relunctantly modeling for me.

The last and perhaps most entertaining of the animals I'll mention here is the blue-footed boobie.




















These odd-looking birds have some of the strangest behavior of any animals I've ever seen, and due to their lack of fear of humans we got to see them indulging in quite a bit of it. Not the least of which was their mating ritual:




















This is a male, showing off his stuff to a nearby female. First the male selects a female, who does a good job of playing coy while he shows off his wings, his big, blue feet, and his ability to build a quality nest, as evidenced by how well he picks up little sticks and branches in his beak. All the while the female alternates between feigned lack of interest and a careful observation of his spectacle. The white stuff all over the place, by the way, is bird poop, a clear sign that these birds have been at home on this particular island for many, many years.

The mating ritual, as it turns out, lasts for several hours, and so we ran out of patience before witnessing the act itself, which was probably better for everyone involved. There are many other incredible animals and plants unique to the Galapagos which we had the good fortune to witness, but this has already been probably far more than enough for one story! Here's where I bid a farewell to the islands, hopefully not for the last time.