One does not simply walk into the Fish River Canyon

In the cold, early hours of a Saturday morning, the last of June 2014, we headed off to rendezvous with the rest of our ragtag ‘fellowship’, and to complete a journey that was years in the making. A journey that for some would be part tribute, for others part bucket list, but for all, pure adventure.

Although the first day of our adventure into Namibia’s foremost tourist attraction was kicking off on a typical Cape Winter’s morning, the real origins of this adventure go back about 2 years (and perhaps even further) to a conversation with my late friend, Grant. At one point in the conversation Grant told me he was really keen to hike the Fish River Canyon. While Grant continued waxing lyrical about the potential awesomeness of this hike, my mind had been doing Olympic-quality summersaults back to my teenage years and the National Geographic magazines I had read, filled with the promise of adventure. Flashbacks to dusty images of the great rifts in the Earth’s surface and my sadly forgotten plans to explore them. Now, while Grant will always be remembered for his wisdom, kindness, and sense of adventure, the one thing he will not be canonised for, and he would be the first to agree with me about this, were his organisational skills. A few days later I made a reservation for 6 people to hike the Fish River Canyon in the June school holidays of 2013.

Unfortunately, it turned out that that the 13^th year of the 21^st century would prove somewhat unlucky as Mother Nature reminded us that even with all our good intentions, our meticulous planning and our enthusiastic preparations, we are still at her unpredictable mercy. Due to insufficient rain, and a subsequent shortage of water in the canyon, the hiking trail was closed for the 2013 season.

We took some solace in the fact that we were able to roll over our hike booking to the June holidays of 2014 which in some ways was fitting as Grant and I would then be able to check off this bucket list item as a way of celebrating our 40^th birthdays. Tragically, however, Grant passed away in January leaving a big hole in our lives. Grant’s passing provided us with another reason to make sure we would be fit enough and strong enough to complete the hike, as now we would be hiking it in memory of him.

So there we were, 6 against 1000… kilometres to Ai-Ais, Namibia that is. After a brief coffee break, and, for some, a not so brief bathroom break, we drove out of Piketberg. With homemade crunchies in hand we headed north up the N7. Spirits were high, music was playing and not even the ‘stop/go’ road works were able to curb our enthusiasm. ‘Shoptalk,’ having been dealt with, and then banished, our trusty iron steeds were able to eat up the kilometres to Springbok in relatively quick time. With a quick stop to spot the rare “Northern Ape” and a slightly longer stop to refuel at the legendary Springbok Lodge we headed off to cross the border at Vioolsdrif.

Having made such good time, you can only imagine our despair at seeing the ridiculous queue to go through immigration. Especially after I had convinced everyone that the border crossing would be relatively painless. As it turned out though, compared to getting into Namibia, leaving SA was in fact painless. After the South African customs officials had satisfied themselves that we didn't have any illegal substances hidden in the small cooler box on our back seat, and us having ‘declared’ that we were “fabulous, doll”, we drove over the bridge to enter Namibia. With a stern slap of reality we were reminded that we were still most definitely in Africa. Hours later with passports stamped, cross border transport permit in hand, and darkness having descended, we drove out of the border post compound. Ironically, nobody even checked the small receipt that had cost us 3 hours of our lives. One mediocre Wimpy meal later, we steeled ourselves for the final 120 kilometers of sand road to Ai-Ais.

Rolling into Ai-Ais bleary-eyed and with one warm Tafel beer to share, we picked a remote campsite away from the noise of the campers energetically frolicking at the warm, outdoor swimming pool, and bedded down for the night. While it was a really chilly night, it was bearable and on the upside, would be the coldest we would have to endure on our adventure.

The next morning, after the obligatory ablutions and a quick breakfast, we packed up our campsite. With the deftness of Tetris masters we squeezed 6 people and 6 fully laden hiking packs into one car and headed off to sign in, 70 uncomfortable kilometers further down the road, at Hobas.

The term ‘fellowship of the canyon’ came about in the weeks preceding the hike, when one of the guys likened me to Gandalf, saying, “You’re like the Gandalf of our group as this hike would not have happened without you!” This then lead to back and forth email banter and jokes about walking, or not just walking, into Mordor/Namibia (Not that Namibia is in anyway as deathly depressing as Mordor, it is in fact an incredibly beautiful country that no photo can do justice) and the eventual assignation of Lord of the Rings characters to each of the hikers. Our ‘fellowship’ comprised 5 teachers and an accountant and the first test of the ‘fellowship’ happened at Hobas.

One of the prerequisites for hiking the canyon is a completed medical form from your GP. So what does one do when you arrive at the check-in only to find that one of your party has left his medical form in the other car… at Ai-Ais? You could, A, drive the 70 km back and fetch it, or B, baffle the official at the check-in desk by all talking at once, pressing different amounts of money in his face to pay for the entrance fee and repeatedly change the number of people in our group from 6 to 5 to 6 and then back to 5 again. While this was admittedly dishonest and I am not proud of our deception, I can say without doubt that the hiker in question who had forgotten his medical form, had suitably ‘soiled’ himself while hiding in the bushes at the bottom of the car park, and he bought the first round of beers at the trails end.

There are two commonly suggested ways of going about the descent into the canyon. The first is to descend late in the afternoon before your official first day of hiking, and to then camp on the beach at the bottom in order to start walking early the next day. The second is to descend as early as possible on the first day, as the descent is for most people quite literally the most taxing part of the hike. We ended up doing neither! With the car safely parked, packs comfortably adjusted, the prerequisite pre-hike photos taken, and some tourists chuckling at our declaration of “One does not simply walk into the Fish River Canyon!!” we only began our decent at about 11am.

The first few hundred meters of the descent are near vertical, and without the chains anchored into the rocks, the path would be quite treacherous. However, the path is well worn and the exhilarating descent simply set the tone for the next 5 days. Let it not be mistaken, your quads will take a pounding on the descent. No amount of “Huba squats” can prepare you, but what does make it easier is the singing of old campfire songs like “Oh you can’t go to heaven”, “The quartermaster’s store” and a few other more bawdy ditties. It took us a steady 2 hours to get to the bottom where we found a shady spot and stopped for lunch.

All the write-ups will tell you that the first two days of the trail are tough going and that if you can cover around 10km on each of these days, you will have done well. By about 16:30 that afternoon, and a difficult 4km under our belts, despite being “two gunsie in the canyon” we decided we had had enough for one day. We scouted a section of river-view property with all the amenities needed for a nights camping, i.e. flat, close to water, out of the wind, suitable rocks for unpacking gear onto, and if possible, a healthy supply of twigs and branches for the storm kettles. General consensus decided upon such a property and we claimed our ‘home’ for the night.

The above mentioned storm kettles and their presence in among our camping gear actually deserve a blog entry all of their own, but it will suffice to say that these little contraptions of wonder are amazing, and supplied the vast majority of our boiled water during the hike. They were also responsible for cooking a few prime cuts of Kessler chops and the reheating of the odd pork sausage. Most importantly though, they helped keep some of the more ADHD members of our party productively entertained for long periods of time.

That night we had the first real taste of unspoiled skies. The stars were unbelievable magnificent, and after pointing out one or two satellites to one of the guys, apparently the first time he had ever seen them, with whisky filled hip flasks in hand we delved into the mysteries surrounding the beginnings of our universe. Having put the still unsolved creation-evolution debate to bed, we soon followed.

The next morning, day 2 of our hike, began the same way most of our mornings would, with the coppery orange canyon-tops being brought to life by the rising sun. The first night had not been cold and we had all managed to sleep quite soundly. This was probably a good thing because had we been awake to witness what was evidently a rather large water monitor laying down its tracks next to our sleeping bags at some point in the night, I imagine all manner of pandemonium may have broken loose.

Breakfasts of digestive biscuits, rusks, oatso-easys and coffee got us going with our morning routines and before long we were back on the trail. The second day had two major goals on the agenda. The first was making sure we sighted the infamous Vespa, a sad remnant of a once ambitious attempt to ride the Fish River Canyon Trail on scooters in 1968. The second was a potential swim in the hot sulphur springs. In between we were privileged and humbled to meet an 80 year old man, pimped out in a bowler hat, feather boa and neon yellow socks, who was doing his 20^th hike in the canyon. General consensus was that if this man twice our age could do this, we had nothing to complain about. Sadly, we found out a few days later that this inspirational old man had had a fall and been forced to take one of the emergency routes out of the canyon.

Having had the delight of spotting the Vespa, and the disappointment of not being able to swim in the hot sulphur springs, and notching up a respectable 14 km, we eventually found a suitable spot to set up camp for the night. While we were pretty chuffed with ourselves for choosing a sweet piece of beach, with adjoining rock pools for having a comfortable wash, and plenty of fire wood for a campfire, Mother Nature once again reminded us who is actually in charge. At about 11 that night she whipped up a wind storm of note. Despite all our best efforts to create barriers with back packs, angle ourselves away from the wind, and tuck ourselves up well, the sand that was blown around for the rest of the night literally found its way in, EVERYWHERE! The only upside was that the wind was in fact a warm one and kept off the winter’s chill.

Day three dawned crusty-eyed and blustery, and as we watched the first light creep over the canyon’s edge, most of us were filled with a sense of contentment. We had survived the night, a new day had dawned and we were all feeling strong and healthy, if a little sandblasted. Two of the guys had developed blisters and were having to do constant maintenance on their feet as they walked. To their credit though, they never complained and never slowed the group down. They did however work their way through a fair amount of blister plasters, band aids, gauze, Vaseline and Myprodols.

The third day of the hike was witness to a monumental effort on everyone’s part to notch up some serious mileage. There’s a reason why you need to be relatively fit to complete this hike. The terrain you traverse changes every few kilometers forcing you to adjust your rhythm and pace accordingly. At times you are trudging through thick river sand for kilometers, at others you are focusing on keeping your pack balanced as you boulder hop over large expanses of scree. And in between you are doing your best not to turn an ankle as you hobble over stretches of cobble-like pathways. 24 km later, after long continuous discussions about the ‘Aristotle Ergo’, and some ‘snide’ remarks about being on the ‘cusp’ of manhood, we eventually passed the 40 km mark and made our camp for the night.

The long day’s walk left most of us with that tired-yet-content feeling of having accomplished something special, and not even the usually witty, dinner time, “LCHF, what would Noakes say?” conversation could keep us from crashing out early. Our campsite for the night had all the prerequisites and the little breeze that came up in the night didn't deter our rest.

Day four provided us with another of the highlights of the trail. Not long after breaking camp, just as we were making our first river crossing for the day, we spotted two of the legendary wild horses that live in the canyon. Apparently these peaceful animals can be quite elusive, so we felt quite fortunate to have witnessed them.

Before long we came upon the 50 km mark and the presentation of the first big, group decision. Some of our party felt we should stay true to the course of the trail and follow the river as it meandered south. Others felt we would not finish in our allocated time if we didn't take the short cut that skulked off just behind the distance marker. After much debate, relative logic (very much a head decision and not a heart one) won out. We shouldered our packs and climbed up the side of the canyon. Climbing out of the canyon sounds much more dramatic than it actually was. Towards the end of day 3 already though, the canyon had started slowly widening and becoming progressively shallower. The climb was still a good workout though and did provide a different view of the Namibian landscape for us to appreciate.

The second of the two short cuts we took on day four took us past the grave of the brave German soldier Lieutenant Thilo Van Trotha, who was shot down, aged 28, in the relative prime of his life. The somber moment we spent reading his story left many of us in a contemplative mood, thinking about close friends we had lost. Some of our hiking party were about the same age as poor Thilo, and I think for them his early demise perhaps struck home a little harder.

Having paid our tributes to the fallen soldier, and having had another close brush with a surprisingly quick water monitor, we set course for ‘the causeway’, another landmark on the trail. Looking back at the trail from the vantage point of ‘the causeway’ we were awed, once again, at the magnificence of the Fish River Canyon and its ever-changing landscapes. We passed the disappointingly well-locked up ‘tuck shop’, whose presence at this point of the hike is mind-boggling, and made us wonder if it is ever in fact open. By mid-to-late afternoon we were feeling the 20-odd kilometers we had covered that day and found ourselves a good spot to set up camp for what would turn out to be an eventful night.

With the promise of a hot shower less than 24 hours away, we settled for a quick wipe down and rinse at the river’s edge instead of our usual end-of-day soak. As we dried off and filled our water bottles, upstream from our wash spot of course, we noticed a troop of baboons scampering along the ridge of the canyon on the opposite side of the river. This lead to a couple verses of ‘Bobejaan klim die berg’ and a few hikers’ tales (not too unlike fishermen’s tales when you think about it) regarding narrow escapes from baboons and other wild creatures. Having wiped off the day’s dust and grime we went through our dinner time routines for the last time. The last of our supper provisions were washed down with the remaining mouthfuls of whatever had graced our hip flasks, and any remaining after-dinner treats were dealt with around the campfire. One by one we bid the campfire circle goodnight and crept into our sleeping bags.

At around 4 the next morning we were all jolted awake by the fiercest baboon’s bark ever heard by man. (Hikers’ tales remember?!) Seriously though, it was loud. Loud enough that we suspected the bark, and its ensuing replies, were emanating from somewhere a little too close for comfort. What followed was a veritable comedy of events. One of the guys, who had been sleeping on the periphery of our campsite, moved his bedding and gear, all at understandably frantic speed, in the near pitch dark, to in-between the rest of us. Another one decided that all that was needed was to reply to the baboons, and so began to bark repeatedly at the top of his voice. Other guys decided that simply bashing some pots and pans together would create enough of a cacophony to make the baboons think twice about coming nearer. And still another guy decided the best course of action was to fire up the storm kettle and make a cup of tea. Somewhere between the tea, the human barking, the musical pots, and the hasty sleeping spot evacuation, the baboons moved away and we all slunk back into our sleeping bags. Whether or not they had even been that close we’ll never really know. Sounds and distance in an eerily silent canyon can be dangerously deceptive at night. Most of us managed a little more sleep, although, to be honest, I think we were all keeping an ear open for any repeat intrusions.

Dawn broke with not a baboon to be heard or seen. As we lay in our sleeping bags watching the reds and oranges of the sunrise melt into the great deep blue African sky, my heart saddened a little knowing that this was the final day of our epic (in the true sense of the word) adventure. Dinner pots and breakfast pans were scoured and packed away, water bottles filled and final layers of blister plasters and Vaseline applied. One last search for the elusive purification tablets still produced no results, although we had not actually been very diligent about using them anyway. None of the hiking group had experienced any ill effects from drinking the river water.

Day five presented a mixed terrain trail again, with a fair amount of bouldering, trudging through sand, and the ever annoying cobble-hopping. Fortunately there was enough firm ground in between that made the going bearable and we made good time towards the end point. We debated on one logical short cut to make the distance manageable and after a few false starts found the path we wanted. The path did disappear from time to time, but we trusted in our sense of direction, and the Google Earth printouts to keep us going in the right direction. We stopped one last time to lunch on biltong, tuna, pro-vitas and cheese wedges, all washed down with sachets of Game. Then, with energy replenished and the renewed vigour that comes from knowing the end is not that far off, and more importantly that real food awaited us, we tackled the final kilometers of the hike.

I can honestly say that it all ended too soon for me. The signs of civilisation started to appear, and before we knew it we were climbing up the stairs from the river bed that lead to the campsite. Ai-Ais is still inside the Fish River Canyon, although at this point the walls have lost most of their height, but retain enough to make you feel you are still walking inside the Earth.

At the backpack hitching post, across the road from the bar, we ‘tied up’ our bags, took the all-important ‘trails-end’ photos, and proceeded to share broad smiles, handshakes, congratulatory back-slaps and hugs to celebrate our triumph over the 80 kms of Fish River Canyon trail. There is something in a shared triumph that cannot be convincingly expressed in words, but that bonds people for many a year. The elation we felt at having conquered this trail was matched only by the perfect temperature of the beers served at the bar. Raising our glasses and toasting Grant, without whom this hike may never have happened, we made short work of our beers. Behind my dusty sunglasses I shed a quiet tear and choked back the lump in my throat, knowing that Grant would have been in his absolute element in this canyon.

We checked in at the hotel, received our room keys, and while some set off in search of the hot springs to soak their weary muscles, I set off to fetch the car parked at the starting point of the hike. The drive back to Hobas was decorated with gemsbok, springbuck, rusted old cars and amazing vistas and gave me opportunity to reflect on what was truly an unforgettable experience. A hike that will easily go down as the best trail I have ever had the privilege of hiking, with a 'fellowship' forged in comeradic adventure. One does not simply walk into the Fish River Canyon, but if you ever get the chance, take hold of it with both hands.

  

Road trip June/July 2008

So, last year June/July I went for a little drive with 3 friends, a couple of tents and a roof-mounted space saver. We left from Leesburg, Virginia and after driving southwest to the Gulf of Mexico, west to the Pacific Ocean, North East to Lake Michigan, and east to the Atlantic Ocean, all with random stopovers in between at various points of interest, we then headed south, back to Leesburg Virginia. All in it took 5 weeks and we covered about 14 000 kms, give or take a kilometer or two.

People warned us before we left that, “4 people in a small sedan would end badly” and that, “You will be sick of each other after two weeks!” Admittedly there were a few occasions where mildly terse words were shared and teeth were gritted, but for the most part the intrepid adventurers got on famously. The little band of travelers included my Aussie mate Andrew, Andrew’s Dad Colin, Andrew’s American girlfriend Meghan, and yours truly.

35 days through 29 states allows you to see a lot of stuff, both absolutely random (like Foamhenge, a life size reconstruction of the famous Stonehenge made entirely out of Styrofoam) and mind-blowingly breathtaking (like the Grand Canyon and Monument Valley). I know how boring looking at somebody else’s vacation photos can be, so I have decided to just share with you the highlights of my trip.

Memphis, Tennessee:
Home to both Beale Street with its famous blues bars and clubs, and Graceland, Elvis Presley’s home. The music and atmosphere on Beale Street was awesome and there seemed to be a never ending festival feel that permeated through everything as we walked up and down trying to decide where we wanted to listen to some old school blues music and dine on gumbo, barbeque and other southern fried delicacies.

Graceland, Elvis’ home snuck onto my favourites list. I have never been a huge fan of “The King” but after touring his home and the various museums set up in his memory, I was gob smacked by the extent of his accomplishments. I left Graceland with contradictory feelings about Elvis of both opulence and humility.

Monument Valley, Utah:
Natures artistry at its best. For me, it was one of those places where, while sitting in silence on the top of a huge rock, the power of the forces of nature can be experienced, illustrated in the way the sandstone and shale has been eroded and shaped over millions of years.

Grand Canyon, Arizona:
Again, it was one of those places on earth that have to be seen to be appreciated. We were fortunate enough to witness both a spectacular sunset and a superb sunrise over the canyon. Andrew, having visited once before, remembered the route of a walk that took us about halfway down into the canyon and afforded us some special views of the canyon.

Hoover Dam and Las Vegas, Nevada:
Both of these were just so unexpectedly mammoth in their presence that they couldn’t not make it onto my favourites list. The temperature at the gargantuan concrete behemoth that is the Hoover Dam was pushing 45ºC which was an experience in its own.

Las Vegas didn’t disappoint the expectations that I had created in my mind. We left our hotel, The Riviera, at about 9:30pm, and took a six hour walk up and down ‘the strip’ stopping at various casinos and hotels including Ceaser’s Palace, The Bellagio and New York, New York. The energy and the excitement, along with the heat, didn’t abate for even a second. I even flushed $10 down a slot machine just to say I have gambled in Vegas.

San Francisco, California:
A highlight for two solid reasons; I got to run across the Golden Gate Bridge, and I caught up with an old friend and blog-inspirer, the BCB.

Lake Tahoe, California:
This was probably one of the biggest highlights of the trip for me, as it was so unexpected. We had not planned on stopping there but once we saw the crystal clear lake and the quaint little towns, it was a definite highlight for all of us. In winter it is a skiing and snowboarding Mecca, and in summer the hills offer running and mountain biking trails galore and the lake begs to be swum in.

Yellowstone National Park, Montana & Wyoming:
Just awesomely beautiful, and because I got to see ‘Old Faithful’, grizzly and brown bears, a bald eagle and some moose. (Or should that be meese?)

Dubois, Wyoming:
Meghan’s cousin’s home. We spent a day hiking and fishing at a lake called Jade Lake, up in the mountains. Incredibly pure and peaceful.

Chicago, Illinois and Boston, Massachusetts:
Both awesome cities with great bars and people. In Boston we walked the Freedom Trail through the city and took in some of the US’ most significant history.

After all was said and done, it was a road trip of a life time and one that will live on in my memory, and my photo book for years to come.

And we're back...

After a few months in the cyber wilderness, that and settling back into life in Cape Town after being a citizen of the Northern Hemisphere for a year, I have given the blog a mild makeover and decided to brag about some of my road trip exploits around the United States of America. However, 14 000km (or about 9000 miles) in 5 weeks definitely deserves its own post, so watch this space.

In the meantime I will be casting my sometimes cynical, sometimes sarcastic and often times skeptical eye over life, in and around Cape Town.

Right now though I need to be part of an ever so important discussion over who should win the prize for scholar of the year in grade 6 for 2008, cause it is so important who the top academic in the grade is when you're 12 years old.

Life's Cruel Blessings!

Life is governed by cycles. The cycles of the moon around the earth, the cycles of seasons, the cycles of man-made schedules that govern our days. There are beginnings and inevitably there are endings.

I have never been good at the endings part. The cycle of yet another academic school year has ended and some of the people I have had the incredible joy of meeting and becoming friends with are now moving on. It hurts! I have never been okay with idea of not seeing someone again, especially someone that I have become close with. I get it that feeling the sadness and the emptiness of that person’s departure indicates that the relationship was real and sincere, but it doesn’t make it easier.

An ending means that a new beginning is about to happen though. The cycle of life continues. The sadness will become bearable, and eventually fade, and the excitement of the adventure will arise, phoenix-like, from the ashes.

I once heard a saying;

“People come into our lives in three different ways,
Some, for a reason,
Some for a season,
And some for a lifetime!

To the wonderful people who have come into my life for a reason, or for this season, I salute you and thank you. Know that your departure is not taken lightly. Those that have come into it for a lifetime, I’ll see you soon!

61º N 150º W and then some…

I have been back from Alaska for almost ten days now and I haven’t been able come up with some smart angle to describe my trip into the Arctic Circle. But then that is perhaps the exact effect that Alaska has on you. Not the proverbial ‘speechless’ description, but simply that Alaska is not fancy, it doesn’t try to be clever, and it doesn’t have illusions of grandeur. Alaska simply is. It is real, it doesn’t make excuses, it is raw and it is unforgiving. At the same time its pure beauty reaches in and touches you in a way that you can never forget.

I spent a week in various places, and in that time I came across very few people who were born and bred Alaskans. Every one of these Alaskan immigrants that I spoke to made an almost identical comment. The comment was one that I too uttered on more than one occasion in that week. The comment being, “Alaska is a place I always wanted to see!” They had all heeded the call and found some way to make a stay of varying lengths in America’s 49th state. Many of the guide books and biographies set in Alaska make a similar statement intimating that a little piece of Alaska stays with you when you leave. That little piece that stays with you, in my opinion, is a simple unadorned realism that transcends the superfluous nature of living in modern times.

But before I get ahead of myself and come across as a Zen touting tree hugger, let me explain my reason for heading north into the Arctic over Spring break, while all my colleagues headed south to the equator. As a young kid I saw an advert for J&B whiskey on television featuring the Aurora Borealis and a Polar Bear. I don’t recall the connection between the scenery and the whiskey, but I do know that those swirling, dancing lights left an impression on me. Witnessing the Northern Lights became one of the things that I had to do in my lifetime. And let me tell you it is so worth the time and money spent to get to Alaska. Nobody can actually describe what it is like actually witnessing the Aurora Borealis first hand, and I am not even going to try, save to say that for about two hours around midnight of March 17, 2008, I was oblivious to the -30 degree temperatures and was completely in awe of one of natures most incredible phenomenon. I have included some photos below that give you an idea of what I witnessed, but again they don’t even come close.

After that the rest of my trip was spent dog sledding, snowmobiling, flight-seeing and just simply ‘being’ in the raw beauty of Alaska. I toured around Fairbanks, popped in to see Father Christmas in North Pole (yes, it is an actual place, and no, he wasn’t home), strolled around downtown Anchorage and just for fun went snowmobiling again.

In Transit.

I am busy sorting through my digital mountain of photos from Alaska. As soon as I have cropped, lightened, darkened and generally edited to my liking I will post a report on my completely phantasmagorical trip. In the meantime I want to share some of the observations I made while in transit between the East and West coasts of this country.

1. Why is there Braille lettering on the overhead reading light button? Did they think this through completely?
2. Why is there a disposal specifically designed and marked for hypodermic needles in the lavatory of the airplane. I don’t even want to know who is using so many needles that they deemed it necessary to have a specific disposal.
3. The little Asian woman in the seat across the aisle from me is tapping her foot in time to my music. The interesting thing about this is that the music is in my head!! Freaky!
4. In the 60 minutes I have been sitting in the waiting area of the Minneapolis airport, there have been at least 8 public announcements for people to retrieve lost items from security. I can understand misplacing your keys. I can understand leaving a book somewhere. I can even see how you might forget your coat. But I am having trouble understanding how you can misplace your fishing rod.
5. Some completely useless facts from the pilot. The airplane weighs about 115 000 kg. 15 000 kg is accounted for by passengers. The flight from Minneapolis to Anchorage used 24 000 liters of fuel.
6. The 10 year old kid in the seat next to me convinced me that the chewing gum he offered me just before landing had edible paper around it. It didn’t. His response; “If the worst thing that happens to us today is that we eat a bit of paper, I think we’re in good shape!”

In honour of peanut butter.

I like peanut butter. Many people my age, and many younger and older than I, graduated from school with the help of the energy and the nutritious ingredients on a good old fashioned peanut butter sandwich. Not only were they a good breaktime snack, but peanut butter sandwiches were also a good form of hard currency. I occasionally traded them for cheese sandwiches with the boy at the desk next to me and I swapped out with the boy at the desk behind me for his strawberry jam sandwiches. Peanut butter sandwiches are also the food fight weapon of choice. Nothing sticks quite like peanut butter when hurled at the right velocity! Peanut butter sandwiches are also the ultimate fast food. What is quicker to prepare than a layer of creamy (or crunchy) peanut butter on a slice of bread. Peanut butter can also be accessorised. It is easy to add a smattering of jam (or jelly if you're American), syrup or even honey. Peanut butter is ageless, which doesn't mean it keeps forever, but rather that I still enjoy a peanut butter sandwich 16 years after completing high school.

However, yesterday, my world was thrown into temporary turmoil. While choosing my next jar of peanut butter, I came across two new somewhat disturbing options. Cashew butter and almond butter! When did peanuts' snooty cousins, cashew and almond become a spread? Why would you even want to mess with the legacy that is peanut butter? Now while I will try anything at least once, and I am aware of the health benefits of both cashews and almonds, I am proud to say that I placed a jar of organic peanut butter into my shopping trolley and brought it home with me.

Long live peanut butter!