Fall and winter squash

It’s rare these days that when I’m traveling for work I take an extra day or two for personal time in any given location.  Trips are often fast and furious, and by the time they are over, I usually want to be home, in my seaside sanctuary, sleeping in my bed, and having control of my own life.  But in the last 2 or so months I’ve made 3 trips to Europe, each of which has left me feeling somewhat sold short as I’ve hardly any time to confirm to myself that I was in fact in a new, exciting place by taking in the foreign sights and sounds.

Borough market

With this last trip to London for the Leader’s in Performance conference, held on the grounds of Stamford Brdige, just west of London, where Chelsea FC plays their home games, I decided to tack on a few extra days.  The conference was great and the speakers were world class, but when it was all said and done, all I could think about was making my way over to Borough Market, London’s premier outdoor farmer’s market, to see what the fall harvest would bestow upon chefs and shoppers.  And to make the situation even more enjoyable, not only would I have a full Saturday to spend perusing the market (and the adjacent Tate Modern), I would have a kitchen to cook that evening and another mouth to feed.

By the time I walked into the market on Saturday morning I was tired and somewhat travel weary.  But all it took was a few steps along the market’s perimeter and immediately a smile came across my face (or at least I felt like smiling…expressing emotion externally is not my forte), and I was immediately pulled in by the sights of fresh foods and the sounds of a bustling atmosphere.  Like any good market goer, I decided I’d make a first pass through to survey the offerings before deciding on what to buy.  I had no idea what I was going to cook, and figured I would determine a menu as I walked from stall to stall.  I was immediately pulled in by Applebee’s (not that Applebee’s) fish shop and cafe and did a survey of their daily catch.  It was decided that sardines would be a key player in dinner.

Sardines.  I’ve had a craving

Fresh greens

Sausage

The market was all it was cracked up to be – plain and simple.  It was crowded on a Saturday afternoon, but somehow I find navigating my way through crowds to be more calming that stress-causing.  It’s as if I’m able to take all the energy and frustration of the people elbowing their way up to vendors and through narrow passages and invert it into something else.  I love the feeling of anonymity, I can move amongst a crowd at my own pace, being particularly present and perceptive, and all the while feeling like I’m getting the best of everyone by fully digesting and appreciating the situation.  I love the energy and the role I play in it all.  I ultimately ended up walking away with ingredients for a comprehensive dinner and feeling as if I had the full market experience.

My favorite part of Borough Market is all the exotic and game meats.  You can find anything from ostrich to boar to fowl.  But I decided to keep it fairly mainstream as I’ve got a few hunting trips coming up over the next few months, and plan to be securing my own game birds and mammals.

Fowl

Mushrooms

As for the menu I created:

Sardines with fresh dill and mint

Mushroom medley with beef and ale sausage, and an ale, balsamic, and licorice sauce

Cumin pork tenderloin with a persimmon and pork back topping

Fish eating a fish

I was not in an ideal recipe-capturing environment, so did not document the dishes themselves.  But stay tuned as over the next week or so I plan to recreate them here on the Rooted blog.

Somewhere near the end of my college career I remember sitting down with my then swim coach Gerry Rodrigues in his office alongside the pool deck at UCLA, seeking advice on how I should approach my path as a triathlete.  Gerry was a guy that had been around the sports of triathlon and open water swimming (a former world champion himself) for a long time.  After having swam with him for a few years and listened to his anecdotes and his general “approach” from between lane lines, I considered his opinion pretty valuable.  He made a remark that resonated with me at the time, and has resurfaced countless times since then in so many other areas of my life.  He told me that, “If you’re going to try and be a professional triathlete, you better enjoy the process.  It’s a long road, and the rewards aren’t many.”  Well the rewards are all relative, and as the need for financial stability out of college drove me away from really pursuing the sport further, I found that I could apply Gerry’s advice to just about every activity I’ve picked up since – and then to life as a whole – including a long couple days of hiking.

This past weekend two friends – Danny and Ryan – and I hiked Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the contiguous United States.  Prior to Saturday morning the only experience I’d had with Whitney was on a family road trip as a kid, when driving up the 395 en route to Mammoth my dad pointed it out as a mountain to remember.  He had the tendency to point out just about everything so as I usually did while growing up, I made a minor note then largely ignored the significance of having such a behemoth right in my backyard.

Then about a month or so ago Danny asked me if I wanted to hike Whitney (mad Rooted points), knowing all well that there was no way I’d decline.  Apparently our friend Ryan, who has recently had the tendency to talk me into physical outings I’m completely under-prepared for (side note: I think in the last week through car rides and camping I’ve spent more waking hours with Ryan than his wife has), had applied for a Whitney permit and gotten it through the lottery system.  So for the second Friday night in a row, we loaded up the car with supplies, waited out LA traffic, and drove off to a remote location – this time the Trails Motel in Lone Pine, Ca.  When we woke up we got some bad coffee, then made our way to pick up the trail pass.

Arriving at the Trails Motel after hours

Covert

Mt. Whitney is not a technical hike, but at fourteen and a half thousand feet, it is up there.  And with an elevation gain of about 6,000 feet over the 11 miles from the portal to the peak, Whitney poses a big day on your feet.  None of us take (I say “take” as opposed to “get” because in reality we can all “make” the opportunity to do just about anything we want) the opportunity to go backpacking all that often, so instead of trying to rush through the experience and bang it out in one day, we decided to enjoy it for what it was worth and spend a night on the mountain.

Starting with fresh legs

Over the course of the 30 or so hours we were out on the trail, there was plenty of time to do some thinking, including thinking about what I think about backpacking.  I felt as though having walked my way up to one of the highest points in the US, it was paramount (no pun intended) that I have some sort of great revelation.  Although I was waiting for something new and profound to come into my head, whenever I was uncomfortable on the trip, it was older words, what Gerry had said about “enjoying the process,” that kept coming into my head.

Out on the trail I came to realize that as far as “hiking” goes, I am pretty indifferent.  Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and forget that your feet hurt a little bit and your shoulders are sunburned.  The reward?  Standing on top of the highest peak in the lower 48 is a cool feeling, though not life changing by any means.  Getting bad sleep at 12,000 feet isn’t exactly “fun.” But when it came to the process, here is where I found satisfaction.

Eastern Sierra Meadow

Taking a breather near trail camp

Taken as individual bits, there isn’t much about hiking Whitney that is fun.  It requires driving, picking up permits, packing bags, hauling packs etc etc.  But the process of it all is an experience, and without the process, I wouldn’t have been able to see the new and beautiful things that the Whitney trail has to offer, nor would I have been able to spend quality time with friends making the memories that we did.  It’s unlikely I’ll remember another weekend doing the same old thing at home – but an adventure with buddies is unforgettable.  Even with a weekend designed around a single goal – the summit – that will not be the memory that stands out the most.  Nor will it be my sunburn or the light headache I had for a good majority of the time on the mountain.  Instead it’ll be a collage of images (particularly when Danny vomited and a marmot later ate his barf) that remind me of the process, and how enjoyable the whole thing was.

Edge of the world

Part of the process is enjoying rye

Whitney was a great experience, and I could not overlook the fact that on Father’s Day I was standing at 14,500 feet on the mountain my dad had pointed out however many years before.  I gave him a little shout-out as others made phone calls or sent messages (yeah, apparently cell phones work on the top of Whitney – though I opted to leave mine in the car), and considered myself lucky to be in the shape I am to allow me to do the things I do.  I plan to keep it Rooted, keep it compelling, and keep the adventures coming – all the while enjoying the process.

Summit with burritos

Our flight took us from Los Angeles to San Salvador – then about a 20 minute flight to Guatemala. I was starving upon touching down (I had no time to grab food.  We almost missed our flight in LA after Danny put up resistance to going through “the cancer machine” as he told the TSA member at security.  I don’t blame him, but I wasn’t in the mood to converse with airport staff, so I took my dose ionizing radiation in stride). My hunger drove me to pay a supreme gringo price at an airport restaurant (there were literally pieces of tape over the real prices) for some very questionable meat.  My stomach came out unscathed, but a trip to the drinking fountain in SAL is what likely landed Danny the microscopic hitchhikers he brought back to the US.

The boards proved to be little problem leaving GUA airport, as we hoped into a van headed to Antigua with a few other foreigners.  The van driver even managed to round up some rope after my discouraging looks convinced him he wasn’t going to throw the boards on his roof rack without securing them.

Antigua is one of my favorite towns in Central America.  It is a colonial city, and leaves a lot to be revealed since the majority of its open spaces are behind walls and building facades.  The streets are cobbled, and behind any given door can be a beautiful courtyard, authentic dining room, or neighborhood guacamole stand.  Although we planned to have a mellow trip of surfing, we figured with one night in Antigua we would see what kind of trouble we could find.  We found some.

After a quick stop at our hotel, which was conveniently located about two blocks from the central plaza, we set out to scope the evening scene.  Danny was intent upon meeting some interesting Guatemalans, and I had no objections.  It took a few good misses (and numerous offerings of cocaine) before we found a spot where we were moderately comfortable with the scene.  The place was called the Casbah.  It had a similar vibe to many a bar in LA, with lots of youngish Guatemalans making full use of their Saturday night.  Though at least in my own heard I felt much more in my element, because in Guatemala when a popular song came on, I had an excuse for not knowing any of the words…or artist….   Anyway, we grabbed some ceviche (very good, mind you) at the bar and took a seat.

After some SSL (Spanish-second-language) small talk, it turned out that the awkwardly dancing guys that some of our new found friends had been mingling with were in fact the bar owner and his buddies.  Go figure.  And on top of this, the little lady who had cozied up to Danny was now being very insistent we come along to the owner’s house after things at the bar shut down for the “after party.”  With an average bedtime of about 10pm (note, “average.”  There are many a night I’m in bed before 10pm), I’m not sure how many after parties I’ve been to in my life – so why not start now, in Guatemala, on our fist night there, with some people we’d known for about 15 minutes.  Danny and I played out the scenarios in music-inhibited conversation, and figured why not (in fact, we came up with quite a few reasons why not, but disregarded all of them and went along anyway)?

A few blocks of speeding through the cobbled streets of Antigua in a new, overcrowded black Chevy SUV and we’d already been pulled over by the Guatemalan police.  This seemed to bother few in the car, yet debate with the authorities carried on.  Then for a few moments, at least for two American surfers, things got a little interesting.

When you’re in your tinted out Prius creepin through the Whole Foods parking lot, listening to Biggie and Tupac rap about guns, you feel tough (of course you turn down your music if anyone with a shade darker skin pulls up next to you with their windows down).  But when you are in the backseat of a stranger’s truck in Guatemala, headed to an unknown location, and the driver hands over a Glock, you wonder if things get hairy, “am I in fact as tough as Pac?”  Danny saw it, I saw it, and then he muttered exactly what I was thinking, “Par for the course.”  At least we knew the cops now had the gun, though, we were pretty sure that wouldn’t be the only one around.

No shots were fired, the police got their bribe, and we carried on.  The house wasn’t too much further, and we had done our best to remember our way home (not easy in a city where every block looks just about the same).

The house wasn’t in fact Mateo’s (the bar owner), but another in his crew – and Israeli ex-pat with an undisclosed profession living in Antigua.   It was conspicuously nice, opening up into a big open courtyard, and decorated with beautiful Latin American furniture and art.  Though not entirely free flowing, conversation was interesting at times.  One of the guys we were with, Ricardo, supposedly owned an independent Guatemalan newspaper, and was undoubtedly well-educated on global and local current events.  Despite the conversation, it had reached a point that we determined no more good could come of the situation.  So after gathering up what bits of information we could about the beach town we would head to the following day, we said our good byes and started the walk home.

Unmolested and without wrong turns, we found our hotel.

You may be wanting a bit more excitement to this story, but trust me, we were satisfied with the ending we got.  On a follow up note, later in the trip we met a few other Guatemalans that worked at another bar in town, and they confirmed Mateo was a nice guy.  On a second follow-up note, the whole gun thing was legit.  Apparently it’s no problem to be carrying a gun on your person in Guatemala – you just can’t do so and be drunk.  This makes perfect sense to me.

My typical day at the surf house began with soft light coming into our lofted bungalow – directly into an open-air window then filtering through the tiny holes in my mosquito net like water through a sieve.  With semi-comatose impatience, I’d lift my head to see any peaks breaking just offshore.  Kind of like camping, there becomes no need for a clock…when it’s light it’s time to get up.  I knew that through the night the wind had shifted back offshore, glassing over the bumpy sea, and that there was a pot of coffee waiting at the bottom of the wooden stepladder leading downstairs.  With a full cup, I’d walk the couple steps out onto the black sand (really, a grey ash) beach for a full dawn patrol inspection.

In the week I was in Paredon, the surf was predicable.  The wind patter is the same each day, slightly offshore or nonexistent at dawn, then as the land heats up through the morning, the cooler air from the ocean is borrowed and slowly drawn in, becoming a steady onshore breeze by about 1 or 2 pm.  Just as the day before, and the day before that, and every other day, the wind dies down in the evening, and as the land yields its warmth, the temperature-steady ocean draws back the wind it had out on loan.  This is the cycle of rise and fall, give and take.

Knowing this pattern, and that I’d have at least 5 or 6 hours to exhaust myself in the water each day, there was no rushed or hurried feeling to get on it first thing.  There was no crowd all trying to get in a surf before work or school and no “urgent” emails to attend to.  There was nowhere else to be (or go, even if you wanted).  Each time I paddled out in the morning, I did so alone.  Other surfers staying at the house would paddle out at various times, but none were too bothered by the schedule of anyone else.  Usually there would be a local surfer within site somewhere down the beach, and occasionally a small group would drift to the same peak.  It can be fun to surf and chat with the locals, because beyond what we were doing on floating foam boards in the water, there is not much else we’ve got in common (maybe Jack Johnson…too).  But living in California, and surfing with a few thousand of my closest “bros” every time I paddle out, I was generally content to shift a few hundred yards down the beach for some “Zen me time.”  No one cared. Though the weekends are a different story, when groups of Guatemalans from the capital show up, each representing their interpretations of imported surf culture.  Pero por la mayoria, todos estan tranquilos.

On days that I did it right, I’d time my surfs and meals to perfection.  The morning session was great each day.  There is something supremely satisfying about walking down to the beach minutes after waking with nothing but shorts and a board, and getting into an ocean without even a suggestion of a chill. After an hour or so, I’d head back in, eat a proper breakfast (generalmente, Guatemalan “tipico” with eggs, beans, tortillas, fried plantains, and the surf house’s signature pineapple hot sauce), have another cup of coffee, and get ready for the main session.  That would last anywhere from an hour and a half to three hours, depending on the swell, tide, and winds.  Around the ten o’clock hour is when things just seemed to work the best.  If the sun was out, you’re best to leave your sandals waiting for you on the black sand beach…

The rest of the day was filled with food, drinks, and naps.  All drinks are based on an honors system fridge. Take what you want, and mark the board.  After more than a few hours in the surf, beverages went down easy.  We’d kill time during the day reading and writing, sometimes throwing on the fins and going out for a bodysurf, playing volleyball, jumping in the pool, or simply lounging.  By the time the sun went down and the sand had cooled off enough to walk on, cocktails were on the mind as was the communal dinner.   No one made a big to do about the evenings, though there was plenty of fun to be had.  In the back of everyone’s mind, we all knew the wind was shifting offshore, and the surf we’d seen deteriorate the afternoon before would soon again be head high and glassy.

As for giving up a secret spot…the people who run and work at the house were genuine people whose business I have no problem supporting.  Though if you want me to tell you where to pull off the highway somewhere north or LA on big south swells, take the walk out to the bluff, and see the lefts line up….you’re out of your mind.

I’ve got a few more blog posts to come, but in the meantime, hopefully you enjoy some bits and pieces of our trip to the music of honeyhoney – a local Venice band.

-Casey