Ski season is just around the corner! Since I am traveling and headed to warm and tropical Thailand next, my season will be a bit delayed this year until I arrive in Hokkaido, Japan in mid-January. Still, November days bring me thoughts of winter and dreams of snow. This post is from an article I wrote for Backcountry Magazine back in 2016. Read the original post here.
One by one, beads of rain race down the window; tear drops reflecting the mood of this gloomy, midwinter day. The final scraps of snow from the last storm cling to the edges of my roof before gravity pulls them to the earth. Individual crystals of snow are swept away by the maddening flow of liquid, while others disintegrate into the soil, lost to the depths of the world. I hunker in my Bend, Oregon home, watching the streets fill with the morning showers. What was once a wintery world washes away like a withering thought. And in all this rain, I dream of powder.
…
I remember a time, not too long ago, when I would dance with the mountain; a rhythmic waltz in which mind, body and snow become one; an experience known only by subject and mountain: the art of skiing. As I stand at my window, rain pattering down outside, I close my eyes, feeling myself slide down the white slope, bouncing in and out of turns, legs springing and compressing into perfect tele position, each pole plant marking the birth of the next turn. The snow is thigh deep, yet I feel no resistance as I swiftly glide through it. Looking downhill, I spot my ski partners reapplying skins to their skis at the bottom of the glade. The warm sunlight transitions to the cool shadows of the looming lodge pole pines. I sense that I am invincible, completely seized by the wonders of gravity. With my companions expanding into my vision, I attempt one last turn, punching downhill with my uphill arm and, the next thing I know, I am flying.
I smash face first into the deep, soft powder. In a jumbled mess of skis, legs and poles, I surface with snow caked onto my face and crammed inside my ears. Smiling and laughing, I fall back and lounge in the powder pool I just created.
…
I startle out of my daydream as the rain intensifies. Powder skiing as I remember it is restricted to this lone image. The winter world that I became accustomed to every year after the last of the November leaves would descend from the trees is absent.
Staring out into the rain, I remember my days as a child, pressing my face against the window, rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, to watch snow fall from the heavens. Seeing this magical crystallization of water came with a cluster of possibilities: snow days, the nearing of Christmas, the beginning of ski season. Now, I look back on these memories and remember all the enchanting goods that snow brought, and I think to myself, what will my future children see? Will they know the joys of snow as I did, as so many that came before me did? Will they know what it feels like to ski powder, the type that owns no bottom?
I often wonder what will become of skiing. The days when a foot of fresh justified skipping school, the early morning tours where the skintrack was the only sign of civilization and the endless journey of strengthening mind and body that came from climbing mountains and skiing back down.
Is all this only a fleeting memory that will be washed away with the snow, an idea lost to the past and a dream that will be never be realized? What does the future of skiing hold in this time of melt? For thousands of years, it has provided humans with more than just sport: a livelihood, a mode of transportation, a way to gather food when deep snow made it impossible to walk, and a relationship with the mountains that will vanish into deep crevasses.
As rain patters our January roof, I wonder, am I part of the last generation of skiers?
If you are planning on attending the Oktoberfest festival in Munich, Germany and looking for a complete, all-inclusive, How-To guide, turn away now and look elsewhere, this isn’t it.
Well, it was supposed to be, but considering I only spent two days at the festival and was suspended in a constant, hazy, half-blackout state the entire time, I don’t exactly remember many of the details, certainly not enough to write a half-decent post about it. Nonetheless, I went, I drank, and I may not remember all of it, but I know I sure as hell experienced it and enjoyed every second of it (until I had to check out at 10am the next morning and take a four hour train to Berlin…that part sucked).
Anyways, here’s the worst Oktoberfest guide you will ever read…enjoy!
What’s Oktoberfest?
Simply put, Oktoberfest is the largest beer festival in the world. Around 6 million visitors from around the world attend and nearly 8 million liters of beer is consumed each year. The festival is held in Munich, Germany and runs from mid-September to the first weekend of October and has been held annually for over two hundred years.
Oktoberfest is an important part of local Bavarian culture and most attendees will dress up in traditional lederhose for men (literally translates to “leather pants”) and dirndls for women. One common misconception, which my ignorant self also made, is that these are costumes specific for Oktoberfest. They are actually traditional Bavarian dress and are often worn at weddings, or even just during everyday life. In addition, while the festival is characterized by binge drinking and partying, it is also a family event and many families with small children will be running around.
Accommodation
First thing anyone planning on going to Oktoberfest needs to know is that it is VERY expensive. All the hostels raise their prices during the festival season and many are fully booked months ahead of time. Of course, I did no such planning and waited until just two weeks before to look for rooms (not advised). The cheapest place I could find was called Jaeger’s Munich for 55 Euros per night ($63USD) and I actually got extremely lucky as I booked the last available bed there. After that, prices went up to 120-140 Euros per night (for a hostel dorm bed!!). I did hear stories about a massive tent outside the city that sleeps hundreds of people for 20 or so Euros a night, but as I have my laptop and all my camera gear with me, I was not too keen on leaving these valuables in a tent with a couple hundred drunk strangers wandering around. So I sullenly paid the extra price for a (relatively) comfortable bed and security.
I was originally planning on staying at Oktoberfest for five days, but once I saw the prices, decided I could only afford two. Turns out, two days was more than plenty and I honestly don’t know if I would have survived five days of that much beer consumption.
Finding an Outfit
In addition to accommodation, finding a pair of lederhose or a dirndl can be quite costly. Cheap, low quality lederhose can be found for 70-80 Euros while a decent pair will run well over 100 Euros. For a really nice pair, like the locals have that are supposed to last a lifetime, can be anywhere from 600-800 Euros. A dirndl will likely be between 100-200. For someone like me, who has limited luggage space and would only where the outfit once, buying an expensive pair of lederhose does not seem very reasonable. It is perfectly fine to attend without a traditional outfit, and many people do, but you will surely stick out. Plus, if you have a serious case of FOMO like me, dressing up is a large part of the fun!
Luckily, I found a place called Bavarian Outifitters that rented outfits. A pair of lederhose costed 33 Euros for a day. Socks and shirts to complete the outfit costed an extra 15 Euros, but I just wore my own shirt underneath (if you don’t have a button up shirt–preferably checkered or plaid–I would rent one as you will look pretty dumb wearing a t-shirt under your lederhose). For women, a dirndl cost just under 50 Euros for one day. The nice thing about renting from Bavarian Outfitters is all of their outfits are of high quality and you will look great at the festival! However, if you are attending the festival for multiple days, it would likely be cheaper to buy one.
What to Expect
Honestly, don’t go in with expectations because once you go in, anything could happen! The only certainties are that there will be A LOT of people and you will drink A LOT of beer.
For example, when I arrived in Munich on my first day, I wasn’t even planning on going to the festival until the following day. As a solo traveler, I was focused on meeting friends at the hostel and finding a group to go with the next day. As it goes, I immediately met a good group of guys at the hostel bar and we all decided to walk to the festival to “check it out” and get a lay of the landscape. Of course, this was all very naïve thinking as once we got in, we ended smashing several beers (the beers come in liters so one liter is equivalent to about two pints) and consequently got hammered. So much for just checking it out.
Oktoberfest is kind of like one big county fair, but where everyone is dressed up and wildly drunk all day. On the outside portion, there are carnival rides that spin, twist, drop, swing, and launch you (I didn’t go on any because I’m certain I would have vomited) and no shortage of food stands serving delicious Bavarian treats like currywurst, sausages, and pretzels.
The main partying occurs in the tents, however. Actually, they aren’t exactly tents, but large convention- hall-style buildings that are shaped like tents. Anyways, there are over ten of these, each with a slightly different vibe and atmosphere. The two largest tents, the ones I went to, are the Paulaner tent (easily spotted by the giant rotating beer glass above it) and the Hofbrau-Festzelt. These tents hold several thousands of people, but if you don’t have a table reservation you need to get there early to find a spot. We arrived at the Paulaner tent around 3pm on a Tuesday (the weekends are much more crowded and good luck finding a table at one of the main tents there) and were unable to find an open table. We then hopped over to the Hofbrau-Festzelt where we found a table upstairs a bit away from the main stage.
Most tents have different options for beer including lagers, weizens, pilsners, and radlers. It’s definitely a marathon, but I found it extremely difficult to pace myself because 1.) I wanted to finish the large beer before it got warm and 2.) the liter glasses are so heavy when they are full that the only way to relieve your tiring arm is to drink the liquid down. On a side note, the waiters and waitresses at Oktoberfest are incredible as I saw some of them carrying 6 full beers at a time and somehow weaving there way through the overcrowded tents without spilling a drop. All the tents also serve food.
I didn’t go in any of the smaller tents, but I heard from those who did they are also wild and a bit easier to find seats at since there are far fewer people, as everyone is focused on the large tents.
All the tents I went to had a stage with a live band that played a mix of traditional German folk music and drinking songs and popular English sing-along songs like Sweet Caroline (my least favorite song in the world. Read my post A Summer of Salmon: What it’s Like Working in an Alaskan Salmon Processing Plant to find out why) and the YMCA. Those who are a few (or several) beers in stand on the benches of tables to sing and dance along.
This is the point where I essentially blacked out and the rest of the details are very foggy. All I remember was a lot of beer, a lot of singing and dancing, and finally, a lot of stumbling back to my hostel.
I hope this guide helped, somewhat, if you are planning a future trip to Oktoberfest, or at the very least, I hope it kept you entertained.
The situation I find myself in:
The world is spinning; I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t hear. I am currently submerged underwater, traveling at breakneck speeds down a frigid river littered with rocks, drops, holes, and class III-IV whitewater. Picture a load of laundry mid-spin cycle: that would be my current situation, completely at the mercy of the current and the force of gravity. I reach for the surface, but I’m not entirely sure which way is up, or down for that matter. All I see in front me is the violent whirling and foaming of water, and my paddle, which thrashes wildly as I desperately attempt to hold on. How long have I been underwater?
How I found myself in this situation:
We had just put in on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, the beginning to a weeklong rafting trip through vast forests, ceaseless canyons, and untamed wilderness. A combination of my novice-level kayaking ability and murky water due to recent thunderstorms has resulted in me flipping my kayak and swimming through a rapid within the first mile. Six days, 99 miles left to go, and I already have soggy clothes and lungs full of water. What a way to start this trip.
At the time, I was a recent high school graduate, preparing for my first year away at college. In a couple weeks, I would move from my hometown of Bend, Oregon to Idaho, where I would live away from home for the first time. That summer was spent buying books, packing boxes, and gathering all the items needed for the year ahead. I remember it all feeling so surreal, like I was leaving one life and entering another. As I am an only child, my parents were likely also anxious as I prepared for my departure. Since we had traveled extensively as a family throughout my childhood, they wanted to send me off with one final family trip, one we always dreamed of: whitewater rafting down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River.
Now, this is not an easy trip to pull off. Due to popularity that lead to high levels of traffic in the summertime, one must either apply for a permit—which can take years to receive—or join a commercial trip—which costs thousands of dollars. Furthermore, Mother Nature must be on your side. We had actually attempted to run the Middle Fork twice before, but were turned away when wildfires closed down the river. Luckily, I have an aunt and uncle who guide on the river and were able to score us discounted spots on a commercial guided trip. The fires were absent this year and it seemed like the third time really would be the charm. Except now, I find myself sopping wet and cursing myself in the middle of this unforgiving wilderness.
A question I keep asking myself:
I will be starting school soon and have no idea what to study. What will be my major? What will I do with my life? These questions rattle around in my head and become increasing louder as move-in day approaches. Additionally, it seems each person that hears I am starting college is equally curious of the answer to this question, further compounding my angst.
“What are you majoring in?” repeats a guest on the trip as I stare back blankly after the first time she asks.
“Umm…I haven’t decide for sure but I’m thinking business…yes, business.” No offense to business majors but this seems to be my default.
“So, what do you want to do with that?”
Oh, fuck. She went there. Isn’t there something else we can talk about? Anything else? I usually like to let a far-superior future version of myself decide these important life questions, but no matter how much I attempt to avoid them, they keep recurring like a bad Chainsmokers song.
A day on the Middle Fork:
A trip on the Middle Fork includes six days and fives nights of epic whitewater rafting down 100 miles of untamed river through landscapes that range from dense spruce and Lodgepole pine forests to desert canyons. Gourmet dinners of grilled salmon, roasted fresh vegetables, and Dutch oven baked desserts consume our evenings and nights are spent reminiscing on who had the best ‘swim’ of the day—which always seems to be me—before crawling into sleeping bags and dozing off under the stars.
It’s day 4, my kayaking skills have dramatically improved since that dreadful first day as I expertly navigate the first set of the Tappan rapids—one of the more notorious series of whitewater on the river, ending with Tappan Falls. I watch as my companions, one by one, successfully maneuver the rapid. First the oar rafts, followed by the paddle boat, then the kayakers; finally, it’s my turn. This is the largest waterfall I’ve run to date, but I remind myself to lean forward and keep paddling through it. As the nose of my kayak begins to drop over the lip, I make one final vertical stroke, accelerating through the air and landing at the base a few feet below. Cold water splashes all around me and the jolt of the landing throws off my center of gravity, but I remain upright. Ecstatic and brimming from ear-to-ear, I join the others, who have eddied out below the falls.
That evening, we enjoy a meal of fish tacos and margaritas at camp. This is one of the most sought after campsites on the river, as it is nestled just below the confluence of the river and Loon Creek, where a short trail leads to a natural hot springs pool along the creek. The river is littered with hot springs along its course, but this is one of the few campsites that is within close proximity to one.
As I lean back in the warm pool, I feel the muscles in my back and shoulders slacken from the tightness caused by dozens of miles of paddling. I sip a chilled PBR—my drink of choice for river trips—while chatting with my parents, my uncle, and two cousins who have joined us on the trip. My gaze wanders into the distance. The warm hues of the sunset illuminate the sky with shades of orange and smears of lavender, while a steady, yet calm breeze makes its way through the canyon, stirring the pines as it passes by. We are all quiet for a moment, absorbing the serenity of the wilderness around us.
A journal entry I wrote on wilderness:
Wilderness is an interesting concept. First, there is true wilderness—the wild, where the law of nature governs and man is just another mortal inhabitant of a deeply primitive and interconnected system. On the other end, there is legislative Wilderness; note the capital “W,” plots of public land set aside to be protected from development and human influence. The question is: does this planet really contain any land that has not been impacted in some way by humans? Is there any true wilderness left?
The Middle Fork flows through the heart of the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness—the largest federally protected Wilderness area in the United States outside of Alaska. This place feels wild. The air is crisp; the river flows free, and wildlife roam without determent. Yet, human influence is ubiquitous. Each summer, thousands of tourists flock here to spend a week rafting and camping along the celebrated river. We pass countless other groups each day. Campsites must be reserved beforehand, and only a limited number of groups can launch per day. There are times I feel more at a theme park than a remote wilderness.
For all that, there are still moments of pure awe. This happens usually at night, whilst lying beneath an unobstructed starry night sky, listening to the crackling of a dying fire, and the distant lonely howls of wolves that lurk in the woods beyond. This is when I feel truly wild. I begin to think we need more places like this, that the world needs more places like this.
What I’ve learned as we near takeout:
On day 6, we conclude our journey as we emerge out of Impassable canyon, joining the waters of the Main Salmon as it makes its way towards the Snake, then the Columbia, before ultimately reaching the Pacific Ocean. Our takeout is a few miles below the convergence of the Middle Fork and Main Salmon.
As we float the final miles towards the takeout, I hear a faint whine in the distance. It sounds like that of a mosquito, but I can’t quite make it out. The sound grows louder and sharper as we approach, until it overpowers the acoustics of the flowing current. At that moment, a large speedboat breaks the horizon line, whizzing towards us as its engine pierces through the breeze. A group of hunters standing towards the bow give us a friendly wave as they pass us and continue their crusade upstream. Following the course of the river, cars ramble by on the highway leading back to the town of Salmon. I realize I’m no longer in the wilderness.
Over the course of the last six days of rafting, five nights of sleeping under the stars, and 100 miles of traveling by boat—entirely at the speed and mercy of the river—I find myself with a clear mind and a new perspective on the days that lay ahead. I carry the lessons of the wild with me as I re-enter the civilized world: to be patient and follow the current, eventually it will lead to your destination; to lean forward and keep paddling in times of stress; to take a moment to admire the grandeur of what is around you. It’s true that there may not be any true wilderness left, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t still places that are worth preserving. This is one of those places.
The situation I find myself in now:
At the time of this writing, I have just finished my four-year degree, graduating with a Bachelor’s of Science in Environmental Studies—a decision largely a result of that trip down the Middle Fork four years ago. I am about to depart on a one-and-a-half year journey traveling around the world where I hope to seek out more wilderness and further fine-tune my life and career path. To this day, I still carry with me a passion for wild places and for preserving them. Whoever coined the term ‘River of No Return’ got it spot on. In many ways, the person who ventures down the river does not come out the same. In others, a piece of that person stayed behind, endlessly calling him back to the wild.
I’ve been on the line for twelve hours, four more to go. The whining white noise of factory machines fill the background, interrupted by Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline, which has cycled around for what seems like the 10th time today. Fuck that song. Day and night blur together; the days blur together. How many 16-hour shifts have I worked in a row? I presume it has been about two weeks. A bone-chilling cold seeps through my rubber boots and wool socks. I’m used to it by now—my big toe has already lost the feeling in its tip. Salmon guts cover me from neck to toe and the smell of fish has become immune to my olfactory senses. My hand is starting to cramp, but salmon carcasses continue gliding past me on the conveyer belt and I continue carving fillets with my knife. I feel as though I am cemented in a never-ending cycle. One hundred thousand pounds and counting processed today.
The airport in King Salmon, Alaska is little more than a small warehouse with a luggage carousel. Only two flights depart and arrive each day: one in the morning and one at night. A combination of a lust for adventure and a depleted bank account has brought me here to the sockeye salmon capital of the world. I would spend the next month working at one of the numerous salmon processing plants in the town of Naknek. Each summer, thousands of fishermen and workers flock to this tiny town on the Bristol Bay shore seeking riches from the annual salmon run. For most, this is their version of the gold rush. I glance around at the dozens of nervous, eager faces that arrived on my flight. I can’t help but think to myself, “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
It helps to think of a shift as four separate four-hour shifts. I’ve learned that the first one is the worst as I basically sleepwalk through it. The person next to me is attempting to have a conversation but my brain struggles to find the words or motivation to keep up. I just smile and nod, continuing my work, hoping my lack of focus doesn’t result in an amputated finger. Don’t look at the clock. Damn, it’s cold in here. Every four hours we get a break to warm our bodies with coffee or spend our hard-earned money on cigarettes, the only commodity one will find around here. I feel myself gaining energy as the day progresses. I sense my shift is almost over. Don’t look at the clock. My feet have been aching since lunch, my hand has glued itself into a claw from cutting fish all day, and the biting cold is piercing deep into my core. I play 20 Questions with my comrades beside me to distract myself from the discomfort. I know I will soon be able to eat, shower, and crawl into my warm bed, my one area of privacy, where I can forget work for a few hours, and dream of returning home to freedom.
The fishery I work at is located a few miles outside the town of Naknek. Upon arriving, I am humbled by the wildness of Alaska. The air is saturated with the scent of salt…stinging my nostrils, the shrieks of seagulls and Bald Eagles cut through the sky as the birds scour the shore for dead salmon, and the rusted carcasses of old retired fishing boats litter the shipyard. The temperature is cool, but comfortable, and the sky is an ominous gray, as it would be most of my time here. I know there is nearly 24 hours of sunlight in summer this far north, but that doesn’t matter when it’s always overcast and you work inside all day.
The first day is pure chaos. It feels like the first day of summer camp, or move-in day freshmen year, as I make myself dizzy scampering around in a frenetic whirlwind attempting to meet as many people as possible. Soon, we are herded into the mess hall for orientation. A large, burly man who looks like he’s seen too many Alaskan winters greets us. His thunderous steps rattle the floor as he walks, and the stench of stale whiskey diffuses outward each time he opens his mouth to speak in what resembles more of a growl than a human voice. I was convinced that if I saw him in the dark I would mistake him for one of the many brown bears that roam the grounds around camp. This is the plant’s production manager.
After orientation, we are given a tour of the plant, which includes the mess hall and break room, a large production facility where all the salmon is processed, the docks and shipyard, and several dormitory-style bunkhouses where we would share cramped rooms with up to five other roommates. Personal space would come at a premium this next month, but little did I know the impact all these new people would have on my life.
The alarm startles me from my sleep. I lay in my bed for a few moments cursing the Earth’s rotation for spinning too quickly. What I would give for a full eight hours of sleep. I’m lucky to get six. Every minute of sleep is precious and one must make sacrifices in order to gain or lose more. Eating breakfast requires losing a half-hour, a shower 15 minutes. I decide breakfast is non-essential. I’ve been a little sick for the past few days and quitting and going home to Oregon is always on the back of my mind. There are fewer and fewer faces each day as the season wears on. Nonetheless, I drag myself out of bed and limp my way to the production facility. Time to start the cycle again: work and sleep, work and sleep. Each shift begins with the monotonous routine of clocking in, donning the processor attire of hairnet, safety glasses, and gloves, and securing a spot on the assembly line. A couple weeks in and I know most the people in my department; inherently, I like some more than others. Today, I am stationed next to two fraternity brothers from Chico State, a recent high school graduate making extra money for a backpacking trip to Southeast Asia, and an older Filipino man who has spent the last 15 summers working as a salmon processor. The conversations we have seem insignificant at the time, but this is what gets us through the long days. Here, everyone is connected by a shared struggle.
During the peak of the salmon season, typically beginning in early July, the plant is in production 24-hours a day. We are divided into three different shifts: A-shift starts at 4 AM and ends at 8:30 PM, B-shift from 12 PM to 4:30 AM, and C-shift from 8 PM to 12:30 PM. Within these three shifts, we are further separated into various departments. The production plant runs as a systematic, well-oiled machine, a continuous cycle. Once the salmon arrive from the boats they are unloaded at Fish House—where the heads and guts are removed; from there, they are sent to the Fillet department, responsible for removing spines, fat, bones and any other unwanted parts until a neat fillet is all that is left; the high-quality fillets are then sent to Vacuum Packing, and finally packed into boxes and prepared to be shipped out by the Packing department. I am assigned to C-shift Fillet.
In Fillet, there are three main jobs: those who cut, those who pick bones, and those who grade. I would primarily cut, and with fillet knife in hand, slice off belly fat, spines, and any leftover fins. We would cut off as much as we could, leaving bone-pickers to do exactly that: pick bones. Graders would determine which fillets were of high quality and would be granted the honor of being sent to vacuum packing, or which were doomed to be frozen and grinded into dog food. We did this 16 hours a day. For the next month, this would be my reality. A reality governed by salmon and sleep.
We play games to pass the time and keep ourselves sane. 20 questions. Never Have I Ever. Would You Rather. Sometimes we even invent new ones using the unlimited pieces of salmon lying around. A classic is to creep up behind someone and carefully lay a small piece of fish on his or her shoulder without being caught. Some people could go hours without noticing they had salmon on them. When the supervisors weren’t looking, we have even had a few salmon fights, flinging bits of fish back and forth between lines with our knives. These games, although childish, and not quite sanitary, are the memories that stick with me. The days of work all blur together, but it is the conversations I have and the people I share them with that I will always remember.
People are starting to be sent home. The boats are bringing in fewer and fewer fish, marking the near of the season’s close. Each day I say goodbye to new friends I’ve made and check the list to see if I’ll be on the next flight out. 16-hour shifts turn to 12, and then 8. Naknek lacks much entertainment when there isn’t work. We pass the time with bonfires on the beach and boozing at the bar. I feel my strength regaining in my body, my blood recirculating, and for the first time in three weeks I am neither sick nor sleep deprived. The fact that I will be home soon propels me forward. Finally, the day comes. I am given two days notice for my departure. Two days until I am home. Two days until I am free.
There is a famous National Geographic photo of a large male brown bear standing atop a waterfall catching salmon that leap over the falls in an attempt to continue their migration upstream. I decide to spend my final day in Alaska at Brooks Falls in Katmai National Park, where this photo was taken. I’ve actually been here twice before, when I was much younger on fishing trips with my dad. But this time would be different. This time I am here to reflect. I spend the day, camera in hand, watching bears roam up and down the river, cashing in on the sockeye salmon season just as I had. When I arrive at the falls, there is one bear fishing at the base. He catches salmon with ease, fattening up for the long winter. In an hour, I count 12 fish that he consumes. Downstream, thousands of salmon line the river from bank to bank, vying for the optimum spots for making the leap over the falls. They are so abundant the river seems to run red.
I watch these salmon and think of all they had to go through to get here, a never-ending cycle of life and death. Past all the predators in the open ocean, the scores of commercial fishing boats, the bears, and finally, this challenging jump over Brooks Falls and into the promise land, where they can complete their several thousand-mile journey and life’s mission to spawn and die in their home stream. Only a fraction actually makes it. I think of all the processors I worked with who quit because it was too demanding, or were sent home due to injury or illness. Then I think of the ones who helped me make it through the last month, whether it was a simple conversation or some stupid game. Like everyone else, I came for the quick money. But I also came for another reason. I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to break myself down physically and mentally, because I knew if I could make it through this, I could make it through life’s next challenges. This was the single most demanding thing I had ever done and I had succeeded. The cycle has ended. I had made it. Just like the salmon.
Oh, Ko Phi Phi—the crown jewel of Thailand. Where warm turquoise waters meet bleach blonde beaches and wooden longtail boats glide over lively coral reefs and under towering limestone cliffs. A picturesque destination for honeymooners looking for a romantic getaway and young backpackers in search of booze-brimmed beach parties—this island archipelago has a little something for everyone. Unfortunately, what makes this gem so appealing is also what makes it one of the pricier and more over-crowded destinations in Thailand.
After studying in Bangkok for over three months, the Andaman Islands were the final leg of my journey before returning home to the States. At this point in my trip I had exhausted much of my funds and just wanted to squeeze out one last grand adventure before saying goodbye to Thailand. My partner Ashley and I arrived at the pier on Ko Phi Phi Don with little money, some spare clothes, a tent, and a bottle of Hong Thong.
Taking our tight budget into account, we wanted to utilize the tent as much as possible. I had read about a place called Green Beach Camping Resort on the far side of the island that offered camping spots for a few Baht a night. Sticking to our cheap-o no-unnecessary-costs budget travel agenda (read my Thailand budget travel post on the ISA Student Blog here), we deferred to hiking across the island rather than paying for a longtail to ferry us there. According to Google Maps, the hike was only about an hour. How hard could it be, right?
We stopped for directions to the trailhead and the lady we asked thought otherwise.
“Oh no, bad idea. It is very hard for you.”
Maybe we should have taken her advice. Nonetheless, our pride and ignorance proved too great and we continued on. Neither of us was prepared for what would come next.
The next couple hours were spent climbing up to four different viewpoints that overlooked the island, bushwhacking around snake-infested underbrush, and wandering through dense jungle with only Google Maps screenshots for navigation. Eventually we arrived at the new and shiny megaresort Phi Phi Island Village and walked through a quaint village adjacent to Lo Lana Bay, where Green Beach was located. Once more stopping to ask directions to the camping area, we were met with quizzical looks from the locals.
“I wonder if this place actually exists,” Ashley inquired.
As if on cue, the path looped around a corner and appeared a large wooden sign with ‘Green Beach Camping Resort’ lazily painted across it. We followed the trail to what we presumed to be our final destination, drenched in sweat and relieved to at last lay our packs down.
Instead, we found an open grassy area filled with scattered trash and a small deserted open-air structure—which I assumed to be the front desk. The yard was littered with empty Chang bottles, pieces of half-burnt firewood, and various forms of discarded plastic—bags, bottles, boxes, etc. It was obvious no one had been here in months. This is not how TripAdvisor portrayed this place to be.
There weren’t any other cheap accommodations on this side of the island and walking all the way back to the pier was not an option for either of us at this point, so we decided to set up camp in the vacant lot. Not one minute into setting up the tent, an old, wiry local approached us. The man had rough leather-like skin, showing the years of labor under the sweltering Thailand sun, and shaggy gray hair that shot out in all directions. He didn’t speak English but spoke to us as if we could understand everything he was saying. The man’s voice rose and it didn’t take long to realize that we were being kicked out.
Well, shit.
We resorted to the beach to weigh our options. Lo Lana Bay consists of a long stretch of white-sand beach, flanked by rocky shores on either side. A simple sea gypsy village sits along the shore to the left. The inhabitants live in modest wooden homes perched on stilts and spend all day weaving fishing nets and collecting shellfish. It is only possible to reach the village during low tide when the rocks are exposed.
I think it was Ashley who suggested we take one of the abandoned homes for the night.
The sun would soon dip below the horizon and it looked like we were staying on the beach that night, which wasn’t the safest or most legal option, but seemed to be our only one considering the circumstances. As we began to accept our fate, a group of westerners paraded by, joking loudly. They started along the rocky outcrop, towards the sea gypsy village. Just before reaching the village, the group took a sharp left, scrambled up a steep hill, and disappeared into the jungle.
Curious as to where they went—and frankly, just down on our luck—we followed. We reached the hill, where a lone rope tied to the end of a tree at the top was the only source of stability. After reaching the top, we descended through thick jungle until it opened up and revealed the most pristine beach I had ever seen, nestled in this little cove between immense karst cliffs that jutted out of the sea on either side. Here, we found the westerners, a tour group led by their guide, Paul, a jovial Englishman who has been living on the island for the better part of five years.
I looked to Ashley and smiled.
“I think we found our spot.”
We shared drinks and laughs with our new friends and watched the sun expire for the night. Soon the group would make the long trek back to the pier, leaving Ashley and I to our private beach paradise.
The next few days were something out of a dream. We kept to a daily routine of waking up to the crashing of waves on the beach, and going for an early morning swim before lying out to dry under the warm sun. Phi Phi Island Village Beach Resort is a luxury resort catered towards couples and families and had all the amenities including beach bungalows, gourmet international restaurants, and an infinity pool with a view of the jade-tinted Andaman Sea. Only a short walk away, we put on our best act as a honeymooning couple and spent the afternoon relaxing by the pool and indulging in all the resort had to offer (like complimentary dumplings served poolside!). No one thought twice of us.
Once the day began to wind down, we made our way back to camp, stopping for supplies in the village first—the essentials of water, Pringles, and rum. We strolled along the beach, made our way over the rocks, gave a modest ‘sawatdee’ to our neighbors in the sea gypsy village, and returned to our beach, just in time to watch the sun set over The Land of Smiles.
