The Things I Carry

San Jose, California
September 30, 2001

A few days into my Nepal trek - don't carry too much or you too will have a sore back. I had about 50 pounds of stuff.

My new Eagle Creek World Explorer backpack refuses to accept one more thing. Not a roll of film. Not a waaaahfer thin mint. One-third of my clothing and equipment still lie on my bedroom floor, mocking my planning and packing skills. Doooooooh! Revelation: a 5,100 cubic inch car engine is big, a 5,100 cu in backpack is not.

My medical kit hogs the most space. Covering every possible medical contingency, from blisters to broken bones, the custom designed and meticulously arranged gear takes up the size of a large dictionary: Band-aids, gauze, Kerlix, EMT shears, cloth tape, tweezers, Hibiclens, Second Skin, moleskin, latex gloves, ace bandage, butterfly stitches, iodine, Ciproflaxin, Flagyll, Benadryl, Larium, Vicadin, Motrin, Immodium, and condoms. I could support a SEAL team in Afghanistan. I must be getting old.

Nothing in the pack feels familiar to me. I just bought everything new since ‘regular’ clothing does not ‘work’ when backpacking around the world. This endeavor requires more ‘specialized’ gear, made of new fabrics: polypropelene, capilene, bergelene; everything ends in –ene, except my Gore-tex. I flip over the label on my new clothes: 100% polyester. Wait a minute, this is what our astronauts wear!? High-priced polyester, which fashionistas lampooned in the Eighties?

Backpacking, as I discovered driving across America, is not cheap. No longer content with Army-Navy surplus, we carry $300 Eagle Creek packs, filled with $50 Columbia convertible pants (“Two zippers open makes you comfortable. Three makes you a pervert”) – I love that!

Columbia shirt with epaulets $45, Patagonia boxer shorts $30, North Face fleece $65, EMS thermals $60, North Face rain jacket $225, Merrell hiking boots $140, and my favorite Thor-lo hiking socks $14 (four pairs)…and a slipped-disc carrying all this…priceless.

Some guidebooks suggest three categories of gear: essential, nice-to-have, and luxury, when packing for a trip. After two weeks of staring at the array of stuff on my floor, arranged like a surgeon’s tray, I cannot tell the difference. Years of business trips spoiled me; I wore a suit, packed an extra shirt, tie, and toiletries, then hopped a cab to JFK. Packing for climates from tropical Amazon jungle, Antarctic wasteland, Saharan desert, and Himalayan highlands boggles the mind. I decide to cut my packing list in half, solving my dilemma. Setting aside supplementary gear ‘packages’ at home, one for mountains, one for tropics, one for Antarctica, I will rely upon Mom and FedEx to keep me properly equipped on my journey.

As I travel, I expect that new acquisitions of native garb, with resplendent colors, will replace worn ‘high-tech’ clothes as I meander. Local products might beckon, despite the Gillette, J&J and Duracell products lining shelves from India to Uruguay. My pack, meticulously filled with oh-so-familiar items from home, will give way to more new, exotic finds. After all, isn’t shedding the familiar and embracing the new what travel is all about?

New York, New York

New York City
September 17, 2001

I stepped out of the cab on Astor Place and Broadway, blocks from my old studio, in Union Square, where crowds gathered around candlelit memorials. It’s 9 pm Monday night, September 17th, the day after my 35th birthday, which I did not fell like celebrating.

The flight from SFO to JFK was full, despite my expectations of few travelers. The line at the airport missed expectations also, as I breezed through check-in and the security check in eight minutes, leaving me three hours to wait for the flight. My requested window seat gave no view of the devastation since the plane arrived at night.

I decided on my birthday that I needed to return to my home of the past three years and see for myself what happened to the city I consider to reflect myself most. United Airlines put me on a flight the next day, using 25k miles.

The next morning, I walked down Seventh Avenue to Houston, turning away at the West Side Highway to proceed down to Canal Street, then heading East. Along the way, my eyes sought out the two landmarks that normally dominated the skyline this far downtown. Nothing. Yet the lack of any debris in sight lent a surrealism to the view. No towers stood, but neither any evidence of their destruction.

The Mobil station on the West Side Highway at Canal sat behind tables of supplies and piles of clothes four feet high. Yellow plastic tape reading, “Do Not Cross,” stretched around the pumps and across the street like a strand of spider web. Police, camouflage clad Guardsmen, and NYPD Cadets stood behind the blue sawhorses, now ubiquitous throughout the downtown area, checking IDs.

I trudged East, each street heading South blocked by some combination of law enforcement, lines of people pulling hand luggage, wearing backpacks, and gesticulating with documents to the sentries.

Strolling past one group, I found myself behind the barricade, small knots of people wandering South, the streets bereft of any cars other than police cars, fire engines and black Suburbans with concealed sirens on some clandestine mission.

Making my way down Duane Street, my nose first caught the acrid scent of burning man-made material, talked about on TV ad nauseum. Stores and restaurants hid behind steel shutters, some windows bearing hasty flags or placards exhorting support. Dust piled in crevices and coated windows, papers of all sorts danced at street corners.

I emerged at Chambers and Greenwich Street, two blocks from ‘Ground Zero,’ where only three months earlier I took my friend from Beijing to the observation deck and rooftop of Tower Two for a sightseeing trip…my first time…and last time. I sat in the lobby of the WTC many times in May, waiting at TKTS for a chance to see Contact, or Fosse, or Chicago for half-price.

I stood and looked past a chain link fence at the wreckage. Behind me, a knot of hard-hat and fluorescent vest wearing workers stood at a makeshift McDonalds. The stand looked strange, sans cash registers. People in all manner of uniforms, BATF, Secret Service, FBI, DEA, NYPD, NYFD, moved past me as though I stood next to a moving walkway. After a while, I felt guilty just observing, like a rubbernecker at the crash of the century. Helpless. Useless. Maybe these people felt that way also.

Their eyes, glazed over, possessed the thousand-yard stare of war veterans. Dazed, only partially comprehending the input around them. Minds fighting to assimilate the enormity, seeing only bits and pieces at a time. Little grief showed, only shock. Later, in the mirrow, I saw the same in my eyes.

I kept busy the rest of the week, not allowing my mind to come to a rest, which meant trying to comprehend what was now incomprehensible. Around me, the city seemed to go through the motions, buying bagels, drinking beer, walking the dog. I spent morning coffee, lunch, afternoon coffee, pre-dinner drinks, dinner, and post-dinner drinks with all my friends I could contact. Relieved to do something that we did all the time, pre-WTC.

Conversations tended toward the subdued, like when one person is distracted or preoccupied. But now everyone was. Perfunctory greetings gave way to the hush question, “Is everyone you know OK?” Then we turned to the tales, each person remembering with perfect clarity…the moment. The moment they heard, saw, or were told breathlessly by another, that the World Trade Center had been blown up. A frozen instant.

The week evaporated in a moment, filled with a kaleidescope of scenes, visions, stories, but lacking emotions. I did not cry once. Why, I cannot tell you. But this experience was shared by most of my friends, each coping with the emotion like an unfolding flower, opening at its own pace.

I played golf Sunday with my old golfing chums, reliving the good ol’ days. Burgers on the Upper East Side afterwards capped off the day. The 4pm streets filled with cars, taxis, bikes, pedestrians, and dogs like any other Fall day in New York. My friends and I argued over golf rulings, as usual. For an instant, one could believe that none of this had happened.

My trip the next morning to JFK by cab seated me behind Singh Pandit, the driver. Of course we talked about the bombing and its aftermath. He talked of some discrimination and gestured toward the panel van ahead of us, its rear window filled with the turbaned mug of Bin Laden, “Dead or Alive” underneath. Speaking loudly through the plexiglass shielding him, we both lamented the WTC tragedy; but held onto the hope of a blossoming of greater compassion, understanding, and empathy among humankind.

Bandon Dunes

Bandon, Oregon
August 25, 2001


"The first tee is yours." Said the golf club pro, a moment later I stood at my car changing into long pants and my spikes.

Two minutes and I stand on the first tee of Bandon Dunes, a 357 yard par four, dogleg right. The sun hangs about three-fourths of the way along its path, maybe two more hours of light left.

Without any warm up, I stroke a four iron into the fifteen mile per hour breeze. Thwack! A crisp shot as I relax and swing smoothly, but the ball balloons into the air and lands a mere 160 yards out, but in the fairway. I shoulder my bag and walk off the tee box. There seem to be no carts here; and I did not ask at the pro shop.

I debated whether or not to play Bandon Dunes as I drove down Highway 101 from Portland. Over the five hour journey, I finally decided to go for it, despite the $175 green fees.

When my car turned the final corner into the compound, where a two story wooden lodge, in modern Ikea style, overlooked the true links style course, I hopped out full of excitement.

The course lies adjacent to the azure blue Pacific Ocean, ranked #3 by Golf Magazine for Top 100 Courses in the US. I can see why.

A little haggling gets me on for $60 and a $270 room for $100. Nice to see how sympathetic people are to someone driving and golfing across the continent.

I play smoothly, hitting crisp iron shots and a couple wayward fairway metals, but the low cut gorse makes balls easy to find off the banged up, thin links fairways; true to form with not one level lie.

On the eighth tee, the lengthening and orange shadows vanish as the sun dips behind some low lying mist, coloring the sky an iridescent pink. Finishing my nine in graying twilight, a silver sliver of a crescent moon appears, hovering over the silhouettes of the wind bent trees.

I retire to the dining room for a nice cabernet and Cohiba, looking forward to a full round of 18 holes tomorrow morning.

Y10K

Jackson, Wyoming
August 6, 2001


Y10K! My car has 10,000 more miles on it now. It rolled over to 52,000 miles in Las Vegas. I retreated to the glitzy, kitschy, cheesy, yet mesmerizing land of excess a couple days ago. I left New York 62 days ago, much longer than the 45 days I expected it would take me to cross the country.

I stopped in Vegas when the trip became a mission of checking off blocks, rather than enjoying each moment. Something known as vacation or travel burnout; something rarely experienced for me when working since it takes at least a week on the road to enter this state. I found that two days in Vegas reset my fun meter and allowed me to once again wonder and marvel at things.

The days blended together with so many meals consisting of fast food consumed while I steered with one knee, rushing to the next destination. Most names ring familiar: Dennys, McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, KFC, Wendys. Others not so familiar: Shoney's, Waffle House, Golden Corral, and egregiously non-PC, Bojangles (only in the South, of course).

Also, cheap hotels do not exist in the US for the most part, Motel 6, Comfort Inn, Hampton Inn (not down the L.I.E.) and Super 8 run minimum $40 per night and average $55-60. What happened to the gonzo cheap days of Hunter S. Thompson-esque road trips (and the trunk full of psychedelics).

Jackson, Wyoming, lay next on my path, the trans-US trip now two-thirds complete. Here, further recharging took place in a wonderful log home near Teton Village, where my friends family built a house and guest house. I played golf today at Teton Pines, guest of the CEO of AT Kearney (friend of my hosts).

My second shot on the par-4 18th, a 8-iron pushed right, thwacked off a tree and kicked hard right another 15 yards, landing in the rough near VP Cheney's house. Just in the shadows of a tree, a Sercret Service agent sits in a golf cart, watching the fairway bordering Cheney's backyard.

I wonder if I can go hit the ball. Do I need to ask permission? Should I leave it? How do I look like a hapless golfer (not too hard)? I decide to tromp thru the long grass looking for my ball, consciously ignoring the armed man twenty feet away, no doubt some sniper's crosshairs also locked onto my Titlelist cap. I find the ball and pitch it on the green. "Nice shot," says a Secret Service agent.

My car will probably see another 4000-5000 miles before I arrive home in San Jose in late August. But I feel an important lesson has been assimilated. Travel's ultimate purpose is to see things in a beginner's mind and be touched by what we see. When this does not happen, one needs to stop and rest for a while so as to remain in the present and not just go through the motions.

"Running to Stand Still"

Moab, Utah
August 6, 2001


Me relaxing at a riverbank cafe in Vietnam...finally!


The chicken Caesar salad still sits on my table, only half-done after 20 minutes. I feel like a cow chewing its cud. My first meal after fasting for three days.

I decided to chew real slow, savoring each nuance of flavor and each subtle change in texture of my food. I feel like the kid whose mom tells him to chew 100 times before swallowing. Mastication seems close to masturbation.

My tongue must be forced to push the sludge back to my teeth and cheeks, away from the ravenous esophagus, always trying to suck the food away. Not swallowing takes practice, like at the dentist.

Chewing and working takes focus. Resistance to our ingrained chew -swallow - next bite takes discipline.

My meals in NY resemble a meat processing plant, with its never-ending chain of animals humming along. Knife, fork, spoon, chopsticks dance at our plates. Sea bass, lentils, and garlic mashed potatoes disappear in moments.

We rush our meals.

Actually, we rush everything. I rushed to finish my 18-holes of golf today, although alone with no-one behind me. People blaze past me on the highways at 80 MPH. I drum my fingers while pages load on a T1 line, frantically alt-tabbing through three pages of Netscape to see what loads first.

My friend's t-shirt bears the zietgiest of our times: "Instant Gratification is not Fast Enough."

We try to squeeze in events between the ticks of the clock, always fighting time, our most precious commodity. Too bad we cannot buy some at the CBOT.

I do not know why I feel rushed most of the time; even though my life has no concrete goals for the next two years. Maybe an answer will make itself known.

But, now I have to run, my Palm is chirping, my cellphone ringing, and I am late to get...somewhere.

Well, at least my Mom will be happy...I chewed my veggies.

As Pink Floyd says in their lyrics:

"Every year is getting shorter;
never seem to find the time;
plans that either lead to naught;
or half a page of scribbled lines."

Cave Diving

Bonne Terre, Missouri
August 2, 2001


I step off the wooden platform and splash into the clear water below, like a layer of smooth glass. The frigid water penetrates my booties, gloves and hood, jarring me awake. My buoyancy vest holds me on the surface, ripples bouncing off the cave walls send light reflections to and fro like a frenetic disco ball.

I wiggle my body, encased in a 5mm wetsuit, two layers in fact bind my torso and discomfit my crotch. I kick my legs a bit to try and loosen the suit in all the right places. Wince.

To distract myself, I glance down below me and see twenty feet down the odds and ends of this once active lead mine: pick, ore cart, timers shack, railroad tracks; all submerged here 150 feet below the surface.

My past dives took place mainly in warm ocean water and I hardly wore a wetsuit, let alone two 5mm layers, a hood and gloves. Now I know what an astronaut feels like, layers of protective clothing and critical life support equipment. A constrained view of the world through a mask, this requires me to constantly turn to and fro to see around me as peripheral vision is impossible.

The other five divers and two guides form up and we submerge to 50 feet under the frigid water. Swimming slowly down a vertical shaft we round pillars of rock, five feet in diameter which run from the unseen bottom past us to the surface of the water, which looks like a layer of plate glass above us.

Lights suspended in the cave above cast surrealistic shadows on the wall, yet the light leaves everything in shades of gray, a colorless world of only light, dark and nuances in between

We swim through a 3-D system of tunnels, sideways, up & down, and diagonal, I get disoriented and find myself breathing heavy, which I never do. The air hoses tangle in my vest, I pull at hoses to find my air guage, my breaths come in shallow gasps. I check my air, fine; but suddenly I look up at the guides who signal me to move up with a flashlight. My bouyancy turned negative during my thrashing and I sank deeper into a verticle shaft. Adding air to my vest, I rejoin the group.

The dive seems like an endless struggle of bouyancy control, breath control, trying to unbind the wetsuit in my groin; and in-between all this, taking in the ghostly world of the Bonne Terre Mine.

The Mine is located in Bonne Terre, Missouri; the name meaning good Earth. After the lead mine closed in the early 1900's an enterprising husband and wife team bought the mine and turned it into a deep earth dive site in the early 1980s. National Geographic Adventure magazine rates the mine in the top ten of US adventure travel destinations.

My second dive goes smoother as I adjust my lead ballast weight during the break. The cold remains difficult to adapt to; but at least the wetsuit binds no more.

Atlantis Flies

Cape Kennedy, Florida
July 12, 2001

The shuttle Atlantis, lifts off on STS-104.

"Ten nine eight seven six five four...main engine ignition..."

The pale white shuttle gleamed under orange strobes as sparklers burnt off any excess gas under the engines.

At five miles distance, the spacecraft, with its white booster rockets and orange fuel tank, looked like a child's toy sitting alongside a erector set.

A voluminous billowing of grey-white smoke, glowing orange in places, rose up and swallowed the scene.

"three two one...we have LIFTOFF!"

Scattered clapping around me, one collective intake of breath as the black-pointed nose poked out from the cotton balls of smoke. Rising in slow motion, upon a pillar of orange white flame, the Atlantis stretched away from the launch pad, surging up on a single white leg of fire and smoke. I dropped my binoculars and took in the brilliant fireball rising into the early morning sky. Thin cirrus clouds glowed incandescent, pulsing like a fluorescent light being turned on; the horizon shone and long shadows danced across the water.

Yet the night remained otherwise silent, un-breathing, unmoving; like a dreamy vision.

Suddenly, a thunderous boom swept across the dark lagoon and grasslands, engulfing the crowd on the causeway. A collective hue and cry rose up, we shouted with exhilaration, joy, and triumph. I heard myself cheering, laughing and crying. Our sounds lost themselves in the rumbling crescendo which shook the air around us.

The detached voice from mission control rattled off key points in the shuttle's escape from our Earthly bonds. A slight orange glow as the booster rockets separated, falling away from the whiter flame of the shuttle engines. Three minutes later, the blue fire shrank to match the remaining night stars, and became lost in the heavens. The Eastern horizon began to glow a lighter blue.

Reflecting on the moment, a common silent hush befell those around me. More than just the 104th mission to space, the heaven-ward gaze into the infinite reminds us of the mystery of our owns lives and the poignant hope embodied in our dreams.

"Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth..
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."