Favorite Adventure Books

I’m incapable of choosing one favorite book, but I’m willing to say these are ones I think are excellent and I recommend them.

Adventure books first. I’m drawn to them because I like reading about people who have been challenged and how they respond to it. Sometimes they have chosen the extreme, but in any case, their character is revealed in how they react.

Endurance, Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage, by Alfred Lansing.

The Worst Journey in the World, by Apsley Cherry-Garrard.

Both of these books tell the story of Antarctic exploration in the early 1900s and amazing survival. Good reads on a hot summer day.

Touching the Void, by Joe Simpson Reveals how an injured mountain climber survived. I’ve read it twice and still find it amazing.

Deep Survival, Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why, by Laurence Gonzales. He writes about folks who get lost. It explains a lot of the reasons some survive and some don’t. He talks of a mental map on how reluctant we are to change it when contrary facts are presented. I felt that this applied to many facets in our lives.

Honorable mentions: Into Thin Air, A Personal Account of the Mount Everest Disaster, by John Krakauer. I’ve read a lot of books about climbing Mount Everest, and I like the early ones the best – Mallory and Hillary, when the climbers created their own success. After reading this account of the 1996 season, I’m thoroughly discouraged by reading anything about later Everest climbers. Too much commercialism and trashing of the mountain.

What are your favorite adventure books?

Abortion Before Roe v Wade

Today I’m looking back almost 60 years, several years before the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision legalized abortion in the United States.

I was a college student in Southern California and went to student health for a pregnancy test. It was unfortunately, for me, positive. This was not my first pregnancy; my first ended in relinquishment and adoption. I tried several forms of birth control. None worked, obviously.

When the young doctor gave me the results, I was not happy. He said, “It’s okay. You can give your child up for adoption.” Without explaining to him that I had already gone that route, I replied, “I’d rather kill myself than do that again.” Note: this was for emphasis. I had no suicidal thoughts or tendencies.

Somehow, I heard there was an underground network that could arrange an abortion. Abortions were illegal here at the time. It still amazes me that it was a minister at a local church that helped me find a doctor in Mexico.

[This next part was written the day after the procedure.]

I was given the name, address, and phone number of a doctor in Mexicali. I called him Tuesday night and got an appointment for Saturday morning at seven. I was to wait in the car until the building opened. My dear, thoughtful friend, Len, and I left Riverside Friday evening. I was nervous, but we talked easily of many things, including the abortion and our feelings and apprehensions. This pregnancy was not his responsibility.

Before getting a place to stay on this side of the border, we drove around Mexicali to locate the office. He didn’t want to have to be searching for it the next morning. The streets weren’t marked clearly. We finally found a place and it scared me. It looks rundown and maybe abandoned. We left to go back to El Centro to find a motel. On the way back it really hit me. I cried and kept wishing we wouldn’t go back in the morning. I had no doubts about wanting the abortion, but I wasn’t sure what I was getting into here.

Saturday morning, we waited a few minutes outside, found a door that was open, and went up to the second floor. We couldn’t find the doctors office. There were two doors with doctors names on them, but they were the wrong names. This added to my nervousness. As we stood in the rather grubby entry room at one of the offices, a nurse opened the door and motion us to come in. It was eerie. We asked if this was the right doctors’s office and she said, “Bueno.”

A few minutes later, a man knocked, and she let him in. He smiled and greeted us. He went into the other room and put on a white coat. We went into his office which was beautifully furnished. Two walls of bookshelves, his degree in medicine from a university in Ohio, a big wooden desk, comfortable chairs, and a couch.

He took my medical history and did a brief exam. My blood pressure was normal. He listened to my heart and said I was nervous. He would give me two injections to calm me down (maybe one was for dilation). One of the shots I think was Demerol. He told Len it would be $400.

Len was still with me and we talked again of many things. I tried to describe my feelings because the nervousness was going away. I felt a little dizzy, but very calm. I had started to cry when he gave me the shots. Only after they took affect did I realize how scared I was.

The doctor returned and motioned for me to go into the other room. He told my friend to stay in the office, not to answer the door or the phone. I felt dizzy as we went into the operating room. The doctor held my left wrist and the nurse inserted a needle into the veins in my right arm. There was a rubber tubing that went from the needle to two bottles hanging on a rack. One bottle was dextrose solution and the other, I don’t know. She inserted another needle into the tubing (presumably sodium pentathol). I was asked to start counting. I remember getting to four, but later the doctor said I got to 25.

When I started to awaken, I felt comfortably warm and rested. The doctor was holding my right hand and the nurse was somewhere nearby. I think I first asked if it was over and he said yes. I couldn’t believe it; I felt no pain. I asked the question four more times. It was a little frustrating to know I was doped up and not able to shake it. He asked me if I was a student. I asked about his regular practice. We both commented on the need for change in the US laws. He was very nice and quite reassuring. I asked him if Len could come in and he said yes. First though he gave me some instructions and I told him to tell my friend because I maybe couldn’t remember. Then, shortly after Len came in to hold my hand the doctor left the office. The nurse came and went several times to check the flow of blood. Each time she showed me how much but I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

Len said the doctor had come out about 9:30 and said everything was OK. I just had to wait for this one bottle to run out. Again we talked. He had spent the time reading some of the doctors medical books.

Finally, the nurse indicated that I was finished. She removed the needle and asked my friend to leave. She spoke no English, but was very nice. I’d gotten sick twice as I was coming too, and she held my head up. Her manner was very reassuring. She cleaned me up and dressed me. I told her I was like a big baby – she laughed. I sat up for a few minutes to see if I was too dizzy. I said I was OK and we thanked her and left. I was dizzy and shaky, but wanted to leave. I was sick again when we reached the car but felt OK as we crossed the border.

In Calexico, we bought some crackers and I drank part of Len’s Coke. We stopped in Indio – he hadn’t eaten at all. I wasn’t hungry, but ate a small sundae.

I was home about 2:30 Saturday. My hormones were going crazy. When he was gone, I cried, mostly from relief I think. I wrote him a thank you letter – crying all the time. Then I took two tranquilizers and went to sleep.

This morning everything seems OK. The doctor had given me some sulfa tablets and something in case of bleeding. He also gave me some penicillin for injection.

I feel fine. The worst times were the 10 days between seeing the results of the pregnancy test and entering the doctors office. I remember nothing of the operation. No pain ever.

[This is the end of the part I wrote at the time.]

After a few days, the bleeding didn’t stop so I went back to student health to see if there was a problem. They gave me antibiotics, but would not give me pain pills. This was because it said in my file that I was suicidal. No, I never was. In any case I healed – physically and mentally.

The pain from the adoption/relinquishment lasted for decades. It wasn’t even addressed for almost 15 years. For the illegal abortion, I have no regrets, no remorse, except for not having found effective birth control. It was maybe the next year when I could get a loop. That worked perfectly for me. And within a few years, abortion was legalized in the United States. I became a part of history, a part that I hope we won’t return to.

Why Truth or Consequences?

A frequent question: Why did I choose to live in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico? Mind you, this was over 20 years ago.

I wasn’t happy living in southern California. I had moved there to take care of my parents near the end of their lives. My brother had generously given me a job so I could support myself. But even our little town of Lakeside was too crowded and too conservative. I had gone one night to see ‘Bowling for Columbine’ in Del Mar. It was such a relief to be in a crowd of like-minded people. I realized I needed to find a place where I fit in better.

It also had to be a place I could afford, which ruled out anything within 100 miles of the coast.

I checked quizzes online. I think one was called ‘Where should I live’ or something like that. It asked questions, like do you want a town with a symphony, near water, big town, small town, mountains, desert. It was quite fun.

The closest responses that appealed to me were Lone Pine and Bishop on the eastern side of the Sierra mountains. I did a road trip up that way to check it out.

One feature I knew I didn’t want was a highway that was also the main street. Makes a town too busy, too difficult to cross the street. That ruled out Lone Pine. I also learned that if I bought a house there, water rights were not included. I could not drill a well on my property because Los Angeles County owns the water in Inyo County. That did not sound good. Water is life.

The Rio Grande

My best friend had moved to Santa Fe the year before and we had traveled there before that, so New Mexico was definitely on the list. The online quizzes suggested Silver City and Raton. Another road trip.

Roadrunner

Silver City was appealing – university and location, but it was bigger than I liked and surrounded by mines. I wondered if their water was affected.

See art everywhere

On the way to Raton, I saw signs for Truth or Consequences. I couldn’t resist the name. I stayed a few days. I picked up a copy of the Artist Directory and decided that any small town with that many artists was impressive. It was summer. There was no movie theater then, but a guy (Mo?) went to the park with a sheet, projector, and movie. There was a coffee shop Coffee Tea or C; two bookstores, Black Cat and Xochis; two newspapers, and a great restaurant White Coyote. I could live here.

This town reminded me of Lakeside in the 1950s when I was growing up, but with artists and hot springs. Scruffy, artistic, quirky. Perfect. Oh, and only one traffic light in the county. I teased my family and friends in San Diego with the idea of only one traffic light. It’s difficult to imagine that there.

Pelicans

I made the decision to live here before I even knew that there were pelicans and sandhill cranes at the lakes, and crystals, fossils, and petroglyphs in the hills.

Update: Coffee Tea or C is gone, but we have Passion Pie now; still have two bookstores, but only one newspaper; White Coyote is gone replaced by other good restaurants. And we now have a movie theater. Alas, there are now two traffic lights. Some call it progress.

Found Photos

Over two weeks ago, I posted descriptions of trips I had taken. I was fortunate to have a lot of the photos from those days 50 years ago, but there were a couple I could not find. And I knew I had them somewhere.

This is the sister boat to the one we took down the Congo River.  First class on the right, third class on the left, and second class in the middle.

This is the woman we met who was in first class and has the very popular Congolese hairstyle. 

And today I found the photos. That makes me happy, but it also makes me so frustrated. I’m tired of not being able to find the things I know I have. Maybe it’s time to get rid of more stuff. End of rant.

Africa: Cameroon to UK (6)

After the slow relaxing boat ride down the Congo River, we shifted gears and began flying. Our first flight was from Kinshasa to Douala, Cameroon. The Nigerian consulate where we needed to go for visas was in Buea. I have no photos from here and remember little, except that I bought a beautiful leather handbag here. I later lost it on the London underground.

We flew to Lagos Nigeria. Again, no photos, and no memory of it, except that Lagos is huge.

Our last African stop was Niamey, Niger. We stayed over a week with volunteers. It’s a fascinating, very Arabic community. And hot in April. We slept on the roof of the apartment. The one image I carry in my mind is a morning that I woke to riders galloping down the road. Beautiful Arabian horses and men in flowing robes. One of those times when I’m not sure which century I’m in.

From there, we flew to Paris, and because we missed our connection, the airlines put us up in an elegant hotel. Quite a change from our rooftop in Niamey. I had seen a bit of the world, but I had never seen a stocked refrigerator in a hotel room! The next morning we were in London. Peter picked up his bonus check.

Twelve African countries in 83 days.

Africa: Democratic Republic of the Congo (5)

We entered eastern loop Congo at Kasindi and made our way to Beni. We often stayed at various church missions. Our next stops were Oicha, then Lolwa, Mombasa, and Bafwasende. One of the rides, we sat in the back of a flatbed truck with a load of bananas, another time on top of the canvas cover.

We spent a lot of time waiting for rides. Sometimes there was just one or two vehicles a day. In one place that we waited, we met local people who were basically hunter-gatherers. They demonstrated their skill with bows and arrows that were surprisingly powerful and accurate.

Somewhere along here we were invited to stay at a church of the Brethren (a US denomination). They invited us for dinner, which was very thoughtful. But around two bites into the meal, the pastor asked Peter if he had found Jesus as his savior. This is not a question than an Englishman is used to. It was a quiet meal after that.

There was never much traffic on the roads and very few visitors in this part of the country. We attracted crowds several times as we waited for a ride. African hospitality is amazing as we were often offered food by folks who had little.

One of our days was at a Roman Catholic mission. The priest was delightful and relaxed. He showed us the new church they were building. He said most of the workers consider it their church, but many are not Catholic. He didn’t care. They were part of the community. A strong memory here is that he made his own banana liqueur. It was the most potent drink I have ever had.

Unfortunately, after one of those days, I woke up with huge welts. Obviously, I’ve been bitten by something and I felt lousy. Intestinal distress. We waited at a local store for a ride, but there’s not much traffic here. I lay down on the concrete porch of the store. The local ‘mayor’ was alarmed. He didn’t want a foreigner dying in his town. He flagged down the first and maybe the only truck and insisted they give us a ride. The driver wanted me to sit up front with him and his assistant. I would rather been in the back with Peter, but I was more comfortable up front.

It took a few rides and a couple of days to get to Bafwasende and I asked to get off there. At this mission, the priest was away, but the caretaker invited us in. They filtered their water, and I was so dehydrated that I drank a lot of it. I always felt bad because I took too much, but I think it saved me.

We got a ride the next day to Kisangani (previously named Stanleyville) and checked into the Stanley hotel (now called Hotel Kisangani). Nicely old-fashioned. I did see a doctor there, but I had mostly recovered anyway. (Side note: I don’t know what it was, but it resembled malaria. Months later, I would have mild reoccurrences until it faded.)

After a few days, we booked second class passage on the boat to Kinshasa going down the Congo River. First class was an apartment and quite expensive. Third class was sleeping on the open deck. Second class gave us bunks and fencing for security for our packs. We were served rice and stew out of big pots.

The boat never stopped, but every time it went past a settlement, people came out in canoes and drifted with us for a while. They sold food and crafts. Often the passengers would buy things to sell in Kinshasa.

We made the acquaintance of an elegant woman in first class who invited us up to see her cabin. We talked about the traders in the canoes. She said they sold grubs that she liked, but she wasn’t going down and bargain. Peter offered to get some for her and he did. These are almost fist sized white grubs. Such a delicacy. Her lunch had been delivered and she traded us her fried chicken for these live grubs. Best deal ever. It had been a while since we’ve had fried chicken.

After three days, we passed by Mbandaka. Two days later we were in Kinshasa. We stayed with Colin Archer, a volunteer for three nights. Kinshasa was one of the most expensive places we had been.

I was trying to get a visa for the Republic of the Congo so that we could continue to hitchhike. As with many countries, Americans were not welcome in Congo Brazzaville, so we resorted to flying to Cameroon.

In Kinshasa, I was able to get visas for Cameroon and Niger. There I would try to get a visa for Nigeria.

Sadly, this ended the hitchhiking portion of our trip, but we still had wonderful places to visit.

Africa: Kenya to Uganda (4)

After Kilimanjaro, we hitchhiked to Mombasa and stayed at the Palm Court hotel. We also stayed with two volunteers, Paula and Janet. Then for three glorious days, we camped at Diani Beach.

Diani is a wide beach of white sand and we had it to ourselves. We went snorkeling. Peter picked up a beautiful cone shell – neither of us knew it was venomous! But there was no injury, just relief.

Our next stop was Nairobi where we camped in the city park for two nights. The diary says we also camped at “The Village” for two nights, but I have no idea what that was. From there, we posted shells and books home.

Fabric from Nairobi

We stayed with Ed and Linda Collins in Njoro. And went from Njoro to Jinja, Uganda.

Kampala was our next stop and we stayed for four nights. This was an exciting time in Uganda. Idi Amin had overthrown the Obote government in late January – just seven weeks earlier. The brutality he became known for had not surfaced yet. The local folks were jubilant, dancing in the streets. Amin had allowed the return of the Kabaka’s body to Uganda. Obote had denied it previously. So many factions. We were fortunate to see the city before the purges and atrocities started.

One morning, we were at an art gallery that had beautiful batiks. I told the owner they were spectacular and he said I should talk to the artist who was in the shop. The artist invited us to his home. It took a couple of bus transfers, but we found it. It was on the grounds of a hospital. His partner lived in an iron lung. Together, they made the batiks. A stove for melting wax, a table to work on in one room and the iron lung in another. I can’t think the fumes were healthy for the man in the iron lung. We bought a small image of an elephant from them.

Later that day we took the train to Kasese and the next day to Queen Elizabeth Park. We stayed there for only one night, but it might’ve been the most memorable. There was no designated campground. The rangers told us to put up the tent wherever we liked. We found a grassy patch that would be a comfortable spot for our tent and sleeping bags. It was comfortable until the middle of the night when we heard shuffling, munching sounds. A quick look let us know it was hippos. I thought hippos lived in water. Who knew they came out to graze at night? They were attracted to the same grassy spot we had chosen. They are huge. If they had walked over a tent line or two, they wouldn’t notice. If they walked over the tent itself, I think it would only be mildly annoying to them. But they did not. And we did not stay a second night. This was the only time on the entire trip that I was afraid. 

It was safer to hitchhike into The Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Africa: Kilimanjaro (3)

The flight from Zanzibar landed in Moshi near Mount Kilimanjaro. We decided to climb the mountain despite not having any gear or warm clothing. It was summer and we traveled light. We set up camp in a small campground near a hotel in Marangu.

That’s me on the hotel grounds with Kilimanjaro in the distance.

Somehow, we found two men, or they found us, who would guide us up the mountain and carry most of the weight, including food for several days. This was before the days of the now popular tour groups who generally go up from the west side to Kibo. That’s the highest peak at 19,340 feet and the most photographed. But there is also Mawenzi which is an older volcanic cone. Between them is a wide saddle at 15,000 feet.

At a hut one of our guides and me.

We were on the Marangu route, which is 30 miles with huts. I looked at it today and the huts there now have 60 beds. In 1971 they had about eight or ten bunks. Guests now are supplied with mattresses and pillows. That’s a big change from our time there. I wouldn’t trade.

Our team with Mawenzi in the background. The saddle between the two cones is at 15,000 feet elevation.

We saw only a few other hikers. Our guides went ahead of us and had a meal prepared when we got to the hut. Such luxury!

Me on the trail. Didn’t have to carry much.

At the saddle, Peter decided not to go any farther. He was feeling the effect of altitude. We could see the last hut several miles away at the base of Kibo not much higher than we were. Without any violence, I convinced him to go as far as the hut. We knew nothing about altitude sickness – not smart, but young and strong. At the hut, we rested, but I felt terrible.

The summit hike started in the middle of the night to get a sunrise at the top. I stayed snuggled in my sleeping bag. Peter successfully reached the summit, wearing all our jackets.

Peter returning from the summit.

In the same day he returned, we walked all the way back to our campsite. That’s about 25 miles for me and 35 for him. It took five days to get to the top. I was 25 years old. That tent had never before looked so good.

Africa: Tanzania (2)

After 16 days on the road, we arrived in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. We stayed with Paula and Louise, British volunteers, for three days. We wanted to go to Zanzibar, but weren’t sure of the best way to get there.

The romantic way was to go by dhow, but there was the fear of being stalled if the winds died. The fastest way, and the most expensive, was to fly and we did.

View from our hotel.

On Zanzibar, we stayed at the Tanzania Rest House. We toured the island with a guide and we wandered through Stonetown.

Man climbing the palm with no safety gear.

Cloves. This island smelled so good!

People were friendly and hospitable, but it never felt as if anything was geared toward visitors. Travelers yes, but not tourists. I don’t remember seeing or meeting other travelers.

The next day we flew to Tanga and then found our way to Marangu at base of Kilimanjaro. It’s hard to believe that we spent only two nights on Zanzibar. It deserved weeks of exploration.

Africa: Swaziland to Tanzania (1)

Fifty five years ago, February 1971, Peter and I set off from Swaziland (now eSwatini) on a backpacking trip through Africa. Peter was a British volunteer, like the U.S.Peace Corps. His contract was complete and he had a limited time to return to the UK.

We shouldered packs with a tent, sleeping bags, a pan, stove, and a few clothes. It was summer. Okay, he carried most of the heavy things.

Our first day we hitched to Johannesburg, South Africa, and stayed with other volunteers. Peace Corps, IVS, and VSO volunteers were always welcoming to other volunteers for a place to stay. It is a low budget, fun, generous hospitality that we experienced on the whole trip.

Two days later, we hitched rides to Gaborone, Botswana.

In northern Transvaal one of our rides was with an older Afrikaans couple, farmers in the area. They drove what looked like a big American car. In the backseat was a small African boy, maybe eight years old. It was okay that Peter sat in the back with him, but the couple didn’t want me to sit there. They wanted me to sit in the front bench seat with them. I protested gently so I could sit in the back. They were otherwise a gracious couple. They invited us to stay with them to help them with their English. The farms there are huge. It’s not very fertile land. When we got to their road, they still wanted us to stay, but we continued hitching to Botswana.

From Gaberone to Bulawayo, Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) we took the train. Hitchhiking was not easy on that stretch. We stayed in Karoi and then entered Zambia, staying in Lusaka for a few days. Peter had to get a new passport as he had several South African stamps in his. These are the days of apartheid and having South African stamps in a passport was a problem in other African countries. We could request the stamps on a loose piece of paper so they could be removed. Also I needed a visa for Tanzania.

Hitchhiking the next leg got us to just past Serenji, Tanzania. This was the first place we used the tent. It was a lightweight canvas, two-person pup tent. Heavier than today’s tents. Lucky for me Peter carried it. We both had backpacks. A Kelty aluminum frame for me and an older style rucksack for Peter. We cooked dinner on a small stove in our one pan. Usually rice, onions, and whatever meat was available. African markets are wonderful And almost every town had one. Wish I had pictures of all of them. Fresh produce, meat, and handicrafts.

The tent is to the right of the combi (VW bus).

We had a tiny date book that we entered where we stayed but not much else. Our next night we slept in a VW bus just east of Tunduma. I don’t remember why. The next night we made it to Iringa where I bought some fabric. Then we had a night in Mikumi.

We never stayed long because Peter had only 90 days to return to the UK to get his volunteer bonus. Somewhere in these days in southern Tanzania, we were invited by one of our drivers, maybe of the VW bus, to visit their White Fathers’ mission to the south. I really wanted to go, but Peter had a deadline so we couldn’t. This was my first taste of compromise in a relationship. Didn’t particularly like it, and was probably never good at it.

On our 16th day, we reached Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.