One of the many churches of Cusco.

May 22nd

Buenos dias. It’s early afternoon on Saturday and time for a break. A few hours of walking around the city and constantly being asked to buy something, or eat at such and such a restaurant, or if I want a message was about all we could handle.

Tangent: Honestly, there are so many women asking if I want a message (“massage friend?”) that I have a hard time believing at least some of them don’t come with a happy ending.

Now it’s time for a break (mostly because we’re not used to the altitude and even the slightest hill is difficult).  Just a chance to sit, write a little, read a little, pontificate a little, and just disconnect from it all.

The disconnecting part is a little harder than I thought it’d be. We’re in an urban center with all the amenities one would have at home. Besides the internet cafes and bars with tv’s showing english programs I also have my cell phone.

In order to keep in touch with the Missus and let her know how I’m doing periodically I contacted my service provider and made sure my phone would work in Peru for a nominal fee and fairly decent rates.

But the relief and comfort of being able to chat with the Missus has left me open to receiving calls and texts from others (Scott, I got your text and will not be going to the pub to watch the hockey game as I am in Peru. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner but the $0.50 for the text didn’t seem worth it).

Peruvian flats

The next four days will be different, however. There is no cell phone reception or internet on the Inca trail and I’m looking forward to it. I’m excited about focusing solely on the task at hand and on the beautiful scenery around me.

But that’s mañana. For another 16 hours it’s traffic and crowds and dogs barking and noise. That’s still part of the experience, though, I suppose.

Hasta luego.

May 23rd

It has begun. Though, they definitely don’t rush you into it. After picking us up just before 7am we drove around Cusco picking up other travelers and the all-important porters (henceforth, I will refer to them as sherpas despite it being geographically and linguistically incorrect).

We then drove for almost two hours along narrow and winding roads till we reached the town of Ollantaytambo. There, we grabbed a light breakfast, bought some water and a wooden walking stick (a broom handle that had been painted and had designs carved in it).

Feeling incredibly like a gringo we then continued driving for another 30 minutes before stopping and unloading in what appeared to be a soccer field. From here on we will be walking.

Walking down the road about a kilometer we reached Km 82 and the entrance to the Inca trail. It also happens to be where the train station is for the less adventurous types (there are no roads to Machu Picchu).

The first couple of hours we covered is an area that is known as ‘Peruvian flats.’ Back home we’d call it gently rolling hills. All in all, it was a very pleasant stroll.

Raymond and I had sherpas to carry most of our gear (we’re on vacation and trying to support the local economy), which amounts to about 15kg of stuff (31.5 lbs for the metrically challenged).

The ruins of Llaqtapata.

Beyond this the sherpas also carry all the tents, cooking gear (including propane tank), food for 9 people for 4 days, and emergency supplies. Each of them carries around 25 kg on their backs.

Lunch was spent in a dining tent set up on a soccer field that tilted at a very unfortunate angle for whoever was the team on the downhill side. Lunch was comprised of asparagus soup, garlic bread, chicken, rice, potatoes, avocado, and coca tea (coca tea will be a staple for duration of the trip as it helps with altitude sickness and gives energy).

After lunch we continued up the trail with a couple of steeper sections but nothing too bad. We stopped for a short break on a cliff over-looking the ruins of Llaqtapata, which was a farming community along the river.

Our guide gave us a a brief overview of Inca spiritual beliefs that can be viewed in their architecture, as well as explaining the functional uses of the buildings.

Sun setting on our first day.

From there it was two more hours; through mountain brush and a little mountain forest, through a narrow valley along a rushing stream until we reached our campsite in Wayllabamba.  A couple of small buildings for the locals to call home and a couple of flat sections to pitch our tents.

We’ve made camp  and dinner should be ready soon. With the sun almost completely down I’m mostly relying on moonlight to write.

Dinners ready, time to run.

~Kbshea

The hills surrounding Cusco through an alley.

I recently spent some time in Cusco, Peru and hiking along the Inca trail to Machu Picchu. If you haven’t been, go. 

May 20th.

 It’s been just over a year since my Nicaragua adventure with Raymond and it’s time we went on another. This time it’s off to Peru.

 More specifically, we’re heading to Cusco to hike the Inca trail to Machu Picchu. Four days of strolling through the Andes and high-lighted by climbing over Dead Woman’s Pass.

 The conclusion of our efforts will be to arrive first thing in the morning at Machu Picchu, a religious and agricultural center of the Inca empire nestled high in the mountains.

But a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Or in this case, with the first of three flights.

Like any trip, I’m excited for the adventure, for being outside of  my box and being unplugged from all the usual emails, phone calls, and ads that are forced upon us in a steady stream of information (most of which is useless).

Sometimes it’s nice to just unplug and recharge. But before any of that can happen I have about 17 hours of travel time ahead of me.

I think it’s time for a nap.

The Plaza de Armas in Cusco.

May 21st.

Buenos noche. I made it. It took a while but I’m here in Cusco, Peru and, to be honest, I’m exhausted.   

It’s about 7:30pm local time and even adjusting for the change in time zones there is no way that I should be this tired. Raymond and I even took a two hour nap this afternoon.   

But, if you figure in the 20+ hours of travel, the three hours of combined sleep I managed to get while flying and the 3,400m change in elevation then it starts to make sense.   

We still managed a bit of walking around and grabbed a bite in a couple of touristy places, including an Irish pub.Our reasoning is that with our hike starting at 6am the day after tomorrow it would probably be in our best interest if we kept the early to bed, early to rise routine going.   

The plan tomorrow is to take it easy. Maybe check out some of the sights that are close by and pick up a few odds and ends that we’ll need for the trek.   

So far, the altitude sickness that I’ve been anxious about for the past month seems to have manifested itself in a couple of hours of light-headedness, fatigue and a bit of shortness of breath when walking uphill.   

I figure another day and a good night sleep and we’ll be ready to tackle the Andes. Not that we have a choice.   

Time for bed.   

~Kbshea

I’m happy to say that I’ve now joined the youtube nation and can now offer you our first home video for public consumption. Enjoy.

~Kbshea

I rarely use the word ‘epic.’ In fact, I’ve campaigned against its overuse and firmly believe there should be a fine for mis-using it. 

Note: A sign that something is indeed epic is if it has been made into a movie or a best-selling book. Therefore, your weekend in Vegas was not epic unless it inspired the movie, ‘The Hangover,” in which case you may use the word ‘epic’ and should be applauded. 

But I got really close to using it this past weekend. In the five days leading up to our ski adventure it dumped 100 inches of snow on our mountain resort. Over 8 feet of fresh powder! It was truly amazing and our timing couldn’t have been better (we planned the trip about a month before). 

When we got there it was still snowing and would continue to do so intermittently throughout the day.  

Skiing through the trees

 There was so much snow that the ‘groomed’ runs had 4 inches of powder covering them. There was pow-pow everywhere and I was giddy as  I stood at the top of mountain looking at the winter playground below my feet.  

Rest time at the ice bar on the back side

 What were usually knee-jerking, bone-rattling moguls were now soft, fluffy pillows of bouncy goodness. There was no fear because falling was almost fun (like playing in a foam pit). The only drawback was the serious potential for losing equipment in the 3 feet of snow.  

Buddy looking for his ski in 2' of snow

 Then, for a few minutes, the clouds lifted and the world opened up around us to reveal a spectacular winter scene of the mountains and Lake Tahoe in the distance. One of those days that make me appreciate my fortune in life. 

 ~Kbshea  

Lake Tahoe in the distance

But here in the city by the bay this has meant rain, lots of it. So much in fact that there have been legitimate concerns of flooding in some areas.

I feel permanently damp and cold. But as the Irish say, ‘There’s no bad weather, only the wrong clothing.’ So, armed with an umbrella, a raincoat, and rain appropriate shoes I make my way through the sodden city. Spending as little time outside as possible as I go.

Charlie, on the other hand, doesn’t have the same options. Everyday the good people at On the Go Pet Care pick Charlie up for an hour of leash-free frolicking in the fields, parks, and beaches around the city.  And he loves every minute of it.

For one glorious hour (plus travel time) he gets to carouse with his chums (about 5 or 6 other dogs in the group), chase dogs chasing tennis balls (Charlie doesn’t do the fetch thing), and feel the wind through his floppy ears as he bounds through the tall grass and sandy beaches.

Note: Charlie actually resembles a rabbit when he runs.  Or a teeter-totter. When the head is up, the bum is down and vice versa.

These walks happen rain or shine and, as I mentioned, it’s been mostly rain lately.

Tangent: Last Monday there was so much rain that the gophers had been flooded out of their holes and onto the open field where the dogs went. Once off-leash the dogs quickly abandoned their tennis balls for more unpredictable and lively toys.  It took the poor walker the next 45 minutes to get all the dogs back on leash (no gophers were harmed in the making of this post).

So, for the past week Charlie has gotten wet. Really wet. Being 2 inches off of the ground does not lend itself to staying dry in pretty much any weather condition.

You know how your towel in the bathroom will start to smell a bit like mildew if you don’t let it dry completely or use it for too long before washing? Well, that’s the way Charlie now smells.

It’s not so much the wet dog smell as it is the mildew smell. Thank goodness he’s not a longhair.

The long and the short of it, it’s time for a bath because Charlie stinks.

~Kbshea

(Note: I actually have a video of this but I’m too cheap to pay for the ability to upload videos so you’re out of luck. So instead, here’s a pic of Charlie and me napping just because it’s my favourite time of day.)

It only lasted a few seconds but the sensations it triggered have continued on. As a first-timer I was confused, excited, and concerned all at the same time. Even to this moment I’m still grasping with the meaning of it all.

The thing is is that I’ve thought about it before.  I’ve tried to picture what it would be like, what it would feel like, how I would react, what the aftermath might be like, how it would alter my life.

And in the end, I’m no longer the same person I was when I woke up this morning. I’ve grown, I’ve matured, I’ve moved that much further away from the childlike innocence I once knew.

And in a way it makes me sad.

For almost 3 decades I’ve based my life on a few basic principles. One is that you don’t eat yellow snow. Another is that the dump-and-chase is a very effective offensive. And you won’t score on 100% of the shots you don’t take.

But finally, and most importantly, I’ve built my entire life on the very solid foundation that the Earth below me does not move. (Yes, I understand that we’re technically all moving and some ridiculous speed as the Earth rotates about its axis and circles the sun, which in turn rotates about the Milky Way galaxy.)

But, relatively speaking, the Earth is solid below my feet.

Until today. Today my Earth moved. At first I barely noticed and I only really started to pay attention once I realized that the old firehouse (circa 1890) I work in started creaking and groaning.

I thought I knew what was happening. I’d read about it and heard about it enough times. And the fact that it was unlike anything I had ever experienced made it fairly obvious to me. But I wasn’t completely sure.

It wasn’t as violent as I know it can get so I didn’t know if diving under my desk was an appropriate response so I hesitated. Then the confirmation came. I heard those definitive words, “It’s an earthquake.”

The sky is falling!

That was it. Under the desk here I come. But then it stopped. I was caught half-way out of my chair bent towards the sanctuary that awaited me under my keyboard.

Slowly, I relaxed back down into a sitting position but then I tensed again. I’d heard about aftershocks and tremors. What if this was just a beginning tremor and the main show was still to come? I didn’t know if I could handle another jolt to my world and my nerves.

Then I looked around the office and the normal sounds of the office – keys being tapped on keyboards, filing cabinets opening and closing, people talking on phones – returned to my senses.

It turns out only a few people even noticed the same Earth shattering moment that I had. Really?! Are they so blasé that the Earth shifting and crashing against itself in titanic proportions below their feet is of no concern to them?!

Holy crap! For those of you who have never experienced such a unintuitive event I can’t help. I have no way of explaining it in any way that will make sense to you. I mean, the fecking ground and building around me moved!! Holy crap!

Apparently, it was a 4.1 magnitude quake that happened about 45 miles away. Apparently this isn’t so bad and pretty far away. I don’t care. The fecking ground moved.

In the end I’ve dealt with this in the only sensible fashion, I had a few beers. That way, if the ground moves again I can just blame it on the debilitating effects of alcohol.

I had a relationship with my world. A relationship built on trust. That trust has now been shattered. I’m not sure if I’ll ever recover from this.

Okay, I probably will, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Here’s to a more stable tomorrow.

~Kbshea

No, this was a complete absence on my part. It wasn’t intentional, it just sort of happened. I had intentions of writing and even managed to scribble down a few pages in a notebook but it never quite found its way to the virtual world.

So what changed that I would go from at least managing a few hundred words a week, if not more, to not even a consonant for over 3 months?

Life happened I suppose. I started a new job in early June, which took away any time during daylight that I had previously spent writing.

In late July I began playing in two different hockey leagues, which accounted for any energy I would have otherwise had on those nights.

Also in July I started seeing a trainer at the gym about once a week or so. Basically, I spend a bunch of money to have a small mountain of a man kick my a$$ for an hour. That makes sense…only in America.

And finally, in September I joined a road hockey league. I’m serious. Every Saturday 6 teams face off against each other at a local middle school from September till about March. There is even a draft (I was the #2 pick overall behind a goalie).

In the end, I’m playing ice hockey two nights a week, road hockey Saturday morning/early afternoon, and making my way to the gym one night a week. Basically, I’m just tired.

And when I’m not doing these things, the last thing I want to do is sit in front of a computer doing self-imposed homework when I could turn around and spend time with the Missus and Charlie.

But here’s the crux of my dilemma, I still have a bunch of random thoughts and opinions that need to get out and the Missus is getting a little sick of hearing absolutely all of them. And Charlie offers absolutely no feed back other than unconditional love, which is nice, but not productive.

When I write, I am forced to edit, review, revise, and even spell check before I release my thoughts to the ether for fear that someone will read it and ridicule me for my naiveté or poor grammar (it’s not a strong fear, but it’s there).

So here we are, back from a 3 month sabbatical, refreshed and ready to amuse the 4 friends and relatives that actually take the time to read this. I can’t promise to be a prolific writer, but I’m hoping that when I do write it will at least be entertaining.

And finally, one of the things you all missed while I was away was that once a year we dress Charlie up (Halloween). Normally I am completely against dressing dogs up in quasi-human clothing. It disgusts me. I’ve thought about starting a petition to create a law to ban it. But then something like this happens:

His look of disgust at my betrayal says it all.

If that isn’t the cutest bumblebee then I don’t know is.

~Kbshea

The sister-in-law has a habit of holding Charlie vertical with one hand under his hind quarters and one hand on his chest. I’m not sure if this is comfortable for him but he gets really excited every time he sees her so maybe he does.

So there they are, watching some video when there is an audible tooting sound. It unmistakably came from Charlie. Charlie has definitely farted before (that little dog can clear a room) but it’s always been silent.

This is the exhaust end. Beware.

There was a pause of astonishment that this usually silent killer had decided to give his best impression of the horn section.

Then came the realization that the sister-in-law had her one hand directly covering Charlie’s posterior and she was holding him right beside the Missus’ head.

This made me smile and for once you really could blame it on the dog.

~Kbshea

Ps. Fart jokes are always funny.

My brothers and I, accompanied by our significant others, and my very-good-best-buddy descended upon the city for a weekend of cowboy-inspired shenanigans.

As I mentioned in my last post, the catalyst for our gathering was the Calgary Stampede.

The Missus and I arrived by plane Friday night around 9pm. Historically, travel by dogsled has been a cheaper, albeit lengthier option of travel but the effects of global warming have all but shattered the passenger dogsled industry in the more southernly stretches of Canada.

We were met at the airport by the older brother  (note that older does not necessarily imply more responsible) who we’ll call “Doctor.” He quickly whisked us over to a small party being hosted by the younger brother and his “lady-friend” (his words, not mine) who we’ll call “Pinky” and “the Brain” (I’ll let you figure out which is which).

My very-good-best-buddy, we’ll call him “Raymond,” had already arrived and managed to pull together some team jersey’s for us.

Being a few hours behind I quickly donned my jersey and dove head first into the action with a can of Pilsner in one hand and a gong in the other. After all, this was “Gong Show ’09.”

The night progressed as they usually do. We drank slightly faster than is truly responsible. And we told embarrassing stories about each other and poked fun as our way of saying we were glad to see each other (when you grow up with 3 brothers there aren’t a lot of “I” statements being made).

By midnight Doctor and Pinky’s shirts were sufficiently shrunken from the dryer so we could now hit up a bar and our first taste of the Stampede night life.

The tell-tale signs that you’ve found a Stampede caliber bar are the bails of hay out front (in case your horse gets the munchies).

We walked in to a live band in cowboy hats playing country music. Perfect. We saddled up to the bar, ordered a few pitchers, and got down to business. We drank, we danced, we made comments about the people who were uglier/skankier than us. It was a good time.

But like all good times, this one came to an end right around last call. Doctor put Mrs. Doctor in a cab and Raymond left to find his truck where he was going to grab his over-night bag and make his way to the condo where he’d be staying.

Note: We found out the next day that Raymond decided that a cab ride would be too expensive so he slept in his truck. At least it’s a king cab.

Pinky and the Brain led us back to their condo where the Missus and I passed out on the blow-up mattress. Doctor decided that the couch would work for him.

Time to get some rest before the real show begins.

~Kbshea

No such thing as a little gong.

It took less than 48 hours but noise we made on the weekend of July 10 will resonate through my memory for years to come. Plus, we had an actual gong to legitimize the festivities.

The usual suspects were there: two of my brothers and and their significant lady-friends, my very good best buddy, and the Missus. And the playground we’d be playing in? The Calgary Stampede.

For 10 days at the beginning of every July Calgary hosts the largest outdoor rodeo on Earth along with a large midway and agricultural exhibition.*

Along with the bulls and the blood, the dust and the mud, are rides, games, fried bread in various forms, livestock shows, farm equipment sales, and cowboy hats. Oh, and did I mention that there’s beer? And lots of it?

For those 10 glorious days the entire city of about 1 million inhabitants magically turn into tourists in their own home. It’s amazing.

Because here’s the dirty little truth: there just aren’t that many cowboys in Calgary. Maybe 15, 20 tops. This is ironic because Calgary is known as “Cowtown.”

Real cowboys.

All the real cowboys (and cowgirls) come from the surrounding countryside, the Great Plains of Canada and the US, the vast expanse of Texas, California, and the Land Down Under.

So, for the other 93% of us, the Stampede becomes an excuse to indulge our secret John Wayne fantasies right down the the public drunkenness, bar fights, and scoring with the damsel in distress.  With every bar, restaurant, beer garden, and corner store offering drink specials, mechanical bull rides, radio-style contests, and much more, things have a tendency to get messy.  And not just because of all the cow patties and road apples.

Showing off the guns.

So messy in fact that, according to my younger brother, the crime rate goes up; divorce cases increase; drug use, alcohol consumption, and prostitution sky rocket; emergency wards are flooded; and, apparently there is a spike in the birth rate 9 months later.

Tangent: I find this last one a little iffy. Conception in July means a spring baby, which is quite common if one is trying to avoid pregnancy during the hot summer months (I hear it’s very uncomfortable).

Regardless, the Stampede is a gong show. So we decided we should be there. Part II will be up in a day or two. Stay tuned.

~Kbshea

* This claim may or may not be true depending on which factors used to determine “large.” The National High School Finals Rodeo has the most participants (about 1,500). The Stampede is by far the largest rodeo in Canada and it’s $2 million purse ranks it as one of the richest rodeos around.