Snow: Gift of the Norwegian Gods

Back in Namibia, when I ask the expat kids what they miss most, they say: grass to play in. That's fair, considering the majority of the yards in Windhoek consist of rocks, dirt, or pavement. Our kids however, miss having snow. Even if given a choice between grass or snow, the cold white stuff wins every time. So when we went up the Loen Skylift (about 30 min from Stryn) and saw patches of leftover snow, it was clear we'd be spending all day there.

The Loen Skylift only opened in May 2017, but has since brought thousands of visitors to the top of Mount Hoven (1,011m) for spectacular views of the fjords and surrounding mountains. Everyone piles into one of two cable cars to be delivered to the top in under five minutes. The summit offers various trails across the top as well as advanced technical climbs that require skills in rappelling and rock climbing. I had a burning desire skip the lift altogether and hike it both ways: a) because I am a cheapskate - it cost the four of us 1,210 NOK, or 155 USD, and b) taking the lift felt so weak. But at the moment, the trails descending the front of the mountain haven't been completed yet. We would have had to walk 6km on a two-lane highway (with no safe pedestrian access) and then ascend a diagonal trail to the top. I swallowed my inner Scrooge and paid. 

Luckily we did get plenty of hiking in at the top where we had a picnic among the crunchy lichen. We even coerced the grandparents into taking family pictures before letting the kids off leash to play in the snow. While they threw snowballs at each other, we had plenty of time to people watch. There were some interesting birds in the vicinity. Interesting, as in half-naked, half-baked, twins in matching shorties and tasseled bikinis; shirtless, shoeless toddlers oblivious to the snow, tiny pebbles, and terrifying cliff edges; photo staging enthusiasts who carried a snowman down the trail to pose with.

Before we headed down, we stopped for beers and a bathroom break. Margo was washing her hands when I noticed her backpack was still filled with snow. I reached in for a handful and launched a snowball at the back of her head, right in the bathroom. Hilarity ensued, at least for the Schlinks (especially Margo, who thought it was great that her mommy broke behavior protocol). Other women stood there with mouths hanging open, deeply disgusted that I threw a snowball indoors. In a room, mind you, that needed all the help it could get in the cleanliness department (grossssss!) Damn. I went there. But nothing could bring us down because the snowy mountains are where the Schlink family thrives.

The Father In Law saying howdy! Credit: Mark

Down below, the town of Loen.

Matching 2017 family t-shirts designed by Deets:
Scotland's national animal is the unicorn; gradh means "love" in Scottish Gaelic.
Norway's national animal is the elk; eventyr means "adventure" in Norwegian.

Heaven.

Soaked socks, butts, backpacks.

Real true smiles.

A nice place to sit.

Isle of Skye

The Edinburgh Airport car rental place is a hilarious thing. Even with use of those luggage carts that steer all weird, it's easy enough to walk from the terminal and directly to your chosen rental company. However, if you are coming from the city via taxi, it's another story. No taxis are allowed into the lot, which meant that the kids, grandma, and I got to sit by the side of the road with ten thousand pieces of luggage strewn about while the dudes dealt with the paperwork. No worries, it gave our carsick boy plenty of time to barf in the grass and take a nap, and Margo to practice her jumping jacks and harassing custard faced brother. From here, we would drive to the vastness of the Isle of Skye: a legendary archipelago stuffed with peninsulas, lochs, and towering mountains. Plus a bunch of green stuff like grass and moss.

Scottish roads are delightful, as are the adorable towns along the way. We drove north and enjoyed watching the flats turn into rolling hills and into mountains. Thick forests surrounded both sides of the winding road, sheltering village off shoots from highway noise. We made a pitstop in Dunkeld, once a choice getaway location for Beatrix Potter back in the day. She enjoyed this place for good reason: with everything in Scotland, if it's not beautiful, it's cute and historic with well made stone bridges that cross over its seemingly endless supply of rivers and lochs. Plus it was Dunkeld where tales of Peter Rabbit took form. It's a cute story: Potter, a frequent letter writer to sick children, ran out of things to say to a particular boy and segued into a tale involving four rabbits.

Eventually we drove into Inverness and craned our necks searching for the Lochness Monster before stopping by Black Isle Brewery for thirst management. After two other stops that involved mediocre cafeteria food, and a flat tire repair, we arrived to Dornie, population 360: the most adorable town in existence. It contained the following: two bars, one grocery store, one cafe, and one 13th century castle. Mark had rented a three bedroom cottage that was filled to the brim with floral design. Carpets, walls, curtains, beds, and pillows were adorned with varying flower prints. Our AirBnB host was a sprightly woman dressed in a bright blue raincoat, sensible trousers, and thick wool stockings (please no shoes inside, mind you!) who showed me how to turn on the television, washing machine, and thermostat. All of it was so endearing and cozy I never wanted to leave. 

From here, our ventures commenced with days filled with hiking, boating, driiiiiiiving, and drinking beer. I tried a mess of whisky and faked my way through it. I can appreciate the thought, effort, and history behind it, but man... while I loved having a warm belly, I did not love the raging heartburn. 

We gawked at cyclists, campers, and backpackers slowly making their way in the sodden rain (one had to assume it would and could rain at any moment- and it did). As it was high-season, there were many travelers in the area. Some literally camping on the side of the road and we watched more than one tent bail out pooling water, which I imagine circulated right into the ground and back side their tents. 

Among other things we spotted many waterfalls that changed in size on a regular basis from the rain. Trickles transformed into giant cascades in a matter of moments, rushing down hill with impressive force. We visited fairy pools on a rare dry moment, which are a magical series of trailing waterfalls that eddy off into crystal clear pools. Mark and I drove by historic castles, shuddering at the thought of life 500 years ago. We passed by 1000's merino sheep, some of which are actually feral, according to the hungover zodiak boat guide, and peered at the sea lions blubbed out on rocky beaches. But the big excitement for me was seeing the famously hairy Highland cows. So exciting apparently, that I forgot to take a picture of one. 

My dude sitting pretty in Dornie.

So many layers of flowers.

I love a good fake fire,
but  if you wonder what will happen
if you try to dry a shirt on one... just don't.
It wasn't me nor my husband- for the win.

The unbelievable manicured backyard of our cottage.
There's potatoes growing in here somewhere.

Eilean Donan Castle built sometime in the 1200s.
It's by far the MOST photographed castle in Scotland.

I hid here while the rest of the family followed the masses
 inside to marvel the crown jewels or something.

And now a crappy castle: Duntulm, circa 14-15th centuries.
 I'm not sure where the sky went in this photo.

 The suits! They do nothing! Except Deets'.
He stayed bone dry and had the most fun.
Castle Maol in the background. 500+ years old, maybe?

Bog cotton. Very dreamy.

My overly brave girl who said "to hell with being dry."

Water water everywhere.

Highland leaders of the pack.

Mark capturing the fairy pools.

One of the many fairy pools.
Credit: Mark

Kilt Rock Waterfall. While those are rocks (not ice)
in the ocean, it sure as heck felt like it was that cold.

Camping and assorted surprises, like hot water

The Gondwana Resort agent glanced sideways and whispered, "Ma'am, are you sure you want to go camping? That camp site has basically nothing. No shade, no trees, no water." I looked right back her, internally terrified that my skull would end up on the dusty plain with a snake creeping out of it, and responded with as much bravado as I could muster: "Absolutely. I love camping. I do it all the time." 

I haven't camped in maybe ten years. And not once with kids.

Audibly sighing, the woman completed my transaction and I walked out of the office shell-shocked that I intentionally booked a camping trip to the Namib-Naukluft National Park, staying at Gondwana's apparently sparse, remote camp site. Here, we planned to see Hartmann mountain zebras in the mountainy parts, and hike the famous Sossusvlei dunes in the sandy parts. The agent did say that we could drive 6km to the actual lodge to use their swimming pool and dine in their restaurant, a consolation prize for our insanity. 

I had about six weeks to prepare my pack list. The first thing I did: purchase a huge canopy and a 20 liter water tank. I contemplated our keep-cold-food stash when I encountered a filterless travel agent who asked me if I had a back up battery for my mini fridge. Mentioning I only had a couple of coolers and planned to use this thing called "ice," she raised her eyebrows and told me "good luck with that." I wrote out our four day menu that allowed for maximum taste in minimal space and froze giant bottles of water as my "back up battery." If there was any doubt, the sippy-sips cooler was methodically planned to have the proper proportions of g&t's, beer, and wine to last four days. I'm not an animal, you see.

I also sorted through musty winter clothes that haven't seen daylight since before Brazil. Desert nights can be unpredictable after all. I bought extra flashlights despite already owning seven, and even picked up a UV light to hunt nighttime scorpions. What would I do if I actually saw one? No clue. But I would be ready. 

I pondered the need for shampoo, wondering how gauche it would be if we used the pool as our source of bathing. And I threw in an unnecessarily large amount of bug spray and sunscreen to ward off evil spirits.  Gorilla tape and huge first aid kit? Always winners. As big day approached, Mark tossed me a monkey-wrench: possible rain in the forecast. For the desert?! In went the rain boots and jackets, and out went my mental health. 

With everything packed or stuffed in the trunk and roof rack (greatest purchase EVER) we took off for an anticipated 3.5 hour drive south by south-west. I've mentioned this before: Namibian landscape is amazing and always dynamic, so as usual, we were not disappointed.  About 90% of the roads were covered in thousands of corn crickets both dead and alive. Also known as armored katydids, these screechy creatures have spikes, sharp teeth, and love to eat each other to get their protein and salt fix. Apparently they also have the capability to auto-hemorrhage when a predator attacks. My kids spent a disgusting amount of time grabbing them by their leg and chucking them into the air during the trip.

We arrived to Gondwana Desert Lodge with plenty of time to hike up their petrified dunes and cliffs behind the lodge. The trail started off hot and boring enough, along a river bed with about 6 inches of sand to get through. Then we hit sandstone on the incline, which segued into rich red sand where the kids went wild. They experienced the glory of running down sand dunes. So did I. It was the first time in years I could "run" without hurting my body. 10km done and it was time to set up camp. Ready or not.

I have to admit, at first glance, the campsite seemed eery and isolated. Of the sites available, only two spots were taken but there were more trees than the agent said existed. We scoped out the spots and noticed all of them had: a standing grill (that got mysteriously cleaned during the day), a faucet, a Skatecity-esque camp light and even an electric socket. We chose a spot neither too close or too far from the "ablutions block" and set up. Anyone who's camped in the U.S. knows that outhouses are an intense experience so we avoided bathroom interaction until it was necessary. But these "roughing it" bathrooms contained actual flushing toilets with toilet paper. There were showers with hot water! There was even a kitchen prep sink to do dishes and clothes lines for use. Schlink score: everything was clean and smelled nice. 

Of course we still had a few inconveniences. The first night was insanely windy and cold. Layers of sand entered the tents and we moved our them to face a different way in efforts to reduce the beach-effect. The wind simply changed directions. The second night, our car keys (both sets) went haywire, locking themselves in the car despite no one touching them. We had to break a window to get back into our car. Thank God for gorilla tape. And the third night was so stagnant and hot, that I flopped like a sweaty fish covered in bread crumbs (sand) on my fart-noise-making sleep pad. Plus both kids at one point barfed: one in the tent, the other on dad. 

Overall, the experience was a win. It never rained, nor did we use our fancy 3x3 meter canopy- it was way too hot to spend the day at the campsite, returning only when the sun began to set. Having day long ventures is highly recommend to avoid the stagnant heavy heat at camp. But the time we got home, I was already planning our next camping trip not one hour after we finished unpacking the zillion pieces of sand and articles we brought home. 

Corn crickets

Between the campsite and lodge.
Credit: Mark

Wildebeest on the property.
Mark gets all the best photos.

Rüppell's Korhaan
It croaks like a frog in the wee hours of sunrise.
Credit: Mark

Hiking behind Gondwana Namib Lodge
and delighting in what little shade we had.

Deets gearing up for the next hill...

...but turn around and this is your view.
Namibia is so wonderfully weird.

My phone still died. But I appreciated the effort of electricity.

Reaping the benefits of a distant rainstorm.
Credit: the husband. If I took this photo,
it would look like a wasteland.

Farm Windhoek

Every now and then Jim (the dog) looks at me with such hope and yearning that he's going on a walk. "Every now and then" really being every time I put on running shoes, so I feel a little guilty when his hopes are dashed. But the thing is, Jim is ten years old and shows signs of aging. It's weird. When we hit the neighborhood pavement, he only lasts about 20-30 minutes.  Like always, I keep him on a leash, but there's something involved on these walks that tweaks his body wrong. I suppose it is a joint instability or a pinched nerve thing. More than once I've been spotted as the whack job lady staggering down the street carrying a 60 pound dog. People point their cell phones at me as they drive by and no one ever stops.  And course, once we get home, the symptoms disappear. Nearly a year ago, Jim got a blood infection from a tick bite which that nearly killed him. I wonder if his weakness issues are residual from that ridiculous episode? 

Anyway. Off leash, Jim is a different dog. When I let him run free, he sprints and explores for a good hour before slowing down enough for me to catch up and give him water. If it weren't for the dry climate, I imagine he could go even longer. Yes, Windhoek is a small city with a good dose of nature trails that offer up stunning views. Beyond, there's thousands of acres of farmland, wild bush, and mountains that are perfect for exploring. Unfortunately, robberies are commonplace and hikers are easy prey, frequently handing over pretty much everything on them: cell phones, cash, sunglasses, watches, wedding rings, even shoes. Especially shoes. And the land here isn't forgiving on unseasoned feet either. Because of this, hiking in and around the city is highly discouraged unless you are part of a large group with a well practiced escape plan. And never, ever hike at night, including twilight when you think everyone is still sleeping.

Despite the risk, this girl and her dog has got to get out of the house sometimes. Not fifteen minutes away (though nothing in the city is more than 15 minutes from anything else) is Farm Windhoek, a privately owned cattle farm that allows hikers and mountain bikers to explore the bushveld (a sub-tropical woodland eco-region) in relative safety. It's the only city farm out of five that allows public access. The trails within the property are studiously maintained, and are of varying degrees of difficulty so it's a great place all abilities. They have outdoor fitness equipment and obstacle courses for bikes. Plus, dogs are allowed.

$30 Namibian dollars (2.30 USD) gets you entry and the reassurance that there's at least one guard on watch at the main entrance during daylight hours. Well... for the most part. These guards are given bikes in lieu of transport money, cycle to work everyday from the Katutura. They rack up at least 30 km/day, and work 12 hour shifts with a 2 hour lunch break. I made the mistake of hiking at 11am once. I returned 2 hours later with an exhausted and thirsty dog, to a deserted entrance and parking lot - anyone could have "snuck in." Another time, I had arrived to the gate at 7:30am where I learned that people were robbed at gunpoint not an hour earlier. During this time of year, 6:30am is still pretty dark.

Regardless of those disconcerting experiences, the trails are fun, the air is always fresh, and the sounds of nature, even if it's the sound of giant beetles buzzing by your ear, is a welcome break. But, I guess I am not a fan of the spiders who spin webs across the trails. Nothing induces a panic attack better than to walk into a sticky web with the prospect of a spider falling down the back of your shirt. The fear results in frantic and uncoordinated shedding of hat, backpack, and shirt, whilst sprinting blindly up the trail and slapping body parts to flick off the spider. I'm just saying. Honestly, spiders are grown big here, and harmful or not, calmly extracting myself from a buggy situation never flies. Pun intended.

Anyway, when spiders and their webs don't ruin the solitude and peacefulness of hiking, there's views and cool flora to enjoy. Sometimes the farm's two black bulls can be sighted, but you will likely hear them first. The guttural bellowing sounds of an un-castrated cow really takes the imagination to weird places. Same goes for the birds: there's tons of species for bird enthusiasts but you most likely hear their songs and chatter before seeing them. I made friends with the couple who manages the admin/membership/events side of the Farm and they've seen TONS of animals, including aardvarks and leopards. An aardvark?! So jealous. Jim has run across blue headed guinea fowl several times, scaring them out of the grass, each one running in non-sensical directions, the same way I imagine dodos must have done. 

Jim and I: we hike together about once a week and we are both so much better off each time we do it. I realize that it's not the safest to venture out "alone." I quote "alone" because I always see 3 or 4 other people doing the same thing at FW. I bring nothing I'm not willing to lose, put on my don't-mess-with-me-game-face (though really, it's more for the spiders and insects), and we go for it. I hate to admit it, but my mental health doesn't fare nearly as well as it should when I am not keeping busy or working - so these opportunities are essential to keep me in check. Thank goodness for a place like Farm Windhoek where I can let my sh*t go while the dog gets a taste of freedom. 

View of the Auas Mountains
before a storm blew in.

An aloe variation

Future moth bodies were all over the trail. 

Catching his breath.

Electric yellow. No filter.

Arnhem Cave Bat Adventure

Sure, the dark was darker than dark. Sure, the potent scent of ammonia made my eyes water and the dusty guano covered the ground making the rocks slippery to hike on. Of course, the 50 foot long section of low clearance made my innards churn, and the cave humidity + 27C (80F) underground made my sweaty skin extra grubby and itchy. And those blasted bats, thousands and thousands of flying mammals, darted through the cave disrupting my calm demeanor. They dodged heads and flashlights, eager to get away me as I was them.  Yet, I persisted.

For a long time I wanted to visit Arnhem Cave, a place thought to be the longest cave in Namibia at 4.2km, according to the polo shirt our guide wore. I imagined the educational glee we'd all experience, and the exhilaration facing my fear of flying creatures head on. Claustrophobia was also a factor, but I refused to even acknowledge it. I signed us up for a 9:00am tour, and we took off on a 90 minute drive involving 3 major turns to get there: onto the highway, onto the county road, and into the camp's entrance. We arrived to Arnhem Resort and Cave in plenty of time to be told our tour would be delayed by a half hour; plenty of time to go into denial! 

With indemnity forms for death and injury signed, we met our fellow hikers. Two of whom were Czech veterinarians here to collect test tubes of bat poop and a few bats close enough to bag (and tag). The vets were conducting an investigation on white-nose-disease, a fungal infection that infects only bats that hibernate. I was unaware that bats hibernate at all. The infection has been on the rise in recent years and has hit Europe's (the United States as well) bat population hard. They spoke very little English but had a translator on board who also carried the biggest camera lens I have ever seen. It was fantastic to see people so excited about caving, I couldn't help but to soak up their enthusiasm. Good thing I did, because almost immediately, one of our flashlights ran out of batteries. I suppressed the urge of an impending heart attack and continued on, using my phone's flashlight (at 50%) to guide the way. 

Margo and I hiked down, hand in hand. Mark and Deets were ahead of us, and the rest followed behind with their fancy lab equipment. Our guide told us this cave was once a cash boon for exporting guano to the United States for making explosives. He pointed out various bat species that were clinging to the ceilings and showed us mummified porcupine remains. Air circulation is quite stagnant inside the cave, so corpses do not decompose at a normal rate.

I am certain he said a myriad of other interesting facts, but I missed quite a bit. I mostly concentrated on keeping Margo distracted from my inner turmoil. At one point the cave split into two: the right was reserved for people who enjoyed walking through underground water and the left side for the rest of us. We continued on, where the smells of ammonia went from a whiff to full on saturation. Margo asked at this point why we needed flashlights in the cave and we proceeded to turn off all the flashlights for educational purposes. "Yeah, I guess it's dark," was her unimpressed remark. 

Beyond our guide, I spied a rapidly narrowing passage that dropped almost straight down and overhead was the saturation point of bats. The ceiling was literally moving. The group crowded together when one of the veterinarians produced a radio that picked up sonar, and we could hear the bat's tiny "voices" crackling through the speakers. He filled his tubes with guano which looked like innocuous, mushy Grape Nuts, and bagged a few live specimens. He held one up to show all of us the bat's tiny mouth filled with tiny yellow teeth before tucking him away. The vets were obviously in their element, so we left them to play while we headed back to the surface. I all but ran with Margo, in the lead. Fifteen minutes later we saw the light and I was safe again. While we waited for the rest of the group to return, I basked in the brilliant sunlight, grateful for my mental rebirth while I dripped ammonia laden sweat all over the place. 

In total we spent about 30-40 minutes in the cave which was more than plenty. Sometimes guests book tours for three hours and it makes me wonder about health ramifications of breathing in the pungent air- especially for the guides who conduct tours up to twice a day, 7 days a week.  I asked the guide if he knew of anyone contracting histoplasmosis, (a fungal lung infection contacted by inhaling microscopic particles of bat or bird poop) and he just looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. I guess it's gauche to speak of such atrocities.  

Arriving back to the lodge, the kids were legitimately hungry and begged for food. Before any of that could go down, we had to change clothes and wash hands. The clothes were tightly bagged, but I could still smell the off gassed ammonia, or at least I imagined I could. We wolfed down PBJs and made an anticlimactic return to Windhoek. Overall, I am thrilled we went despite the danger, the stink, the dark, the flying animals.  It was cool to try something different, and I will encourage anyone who's remotely interested to see bats to give it a go. If anything, perhaps cave dwelling builds character? 

The inviting foot path- though not far, would have taken us at least an hour to arrive.

Going down.

Grabbing his specimen. All that sandy stuff: poop.

A low hanging bat.

A victorious Margo, first out of the cave.

Cape of Good Hope

Mark and I promised ourselves there would be no hiking today. Who were we kidding? We ended up doing a 90 minute hike to sit on the edge of the world, at the Cape of Good Hope.  At least the hike was easy, consisting of 95% wonky boardwalk and 5% rocky trail, but at the end I was still sweating like a pig. I guess coastal humidity and wearing jeans didn't help. But oh, the views of churning waves, resident birds, and the rock faces made it all worthwhile. (If you could ignore the pregnant wife and shirtless husband trying to kill themselves taking selfies on the cliff edge.)

Upon our return, we had the option to hike up to the official top where the famous lighthouse sits and funicular stops but unanimous votes went to eating at the Two Oceans Restaurant. Mark and I were pretty convinced this restaurant, though with a spectacular view, would have food only "meh" at best. Boy were we wrong. Between ribs, roasted chicken, and sushi, we went to town. The food was absolutely amazing. My only advice, (and this goes overall for visiting Table Mountain National Park where Cape of Good Hope is situated) is to get there early. By the time we left the restaurant at 1:30pm, the line grew to over an hours' wait and at the park entrance, the line of cars to get in was 1/2 mile long.

Prior to this touristy adventure, we took the kids to Boulders Beach to see penguins. Here we could stroll the boardwalk and admire those adorable creatures do their bird thing from a distance and we could swim among them at a tiny public beach on the other side where there's a second entrance. Margo was convinced she'd be the first Schlink in the ocean. She packed her swim suit and towel and couldn't stop talking about it until she put her feet in and realized how cold the water really was. The icy water didn't stop a lot of people though, and by the time we got there around 9:30am, the beach was nearly packed. The park with the beach section closes their gates when it's filled to capacity, so: get there early if you plan to stay.

Overall, the penguins were cute and I am always glad to pay fees to support public parks. But. Our first experience of seeing penguins in the wild was last year in Ushuaia where we had to drive 2 hours, boat for 20 minutes, then hike to the rookery. The effort of arrival was real which made the whole journey feel magical. Here in South Africa, we walked past the entrance sign that said: Welcome To Boulders Beach, The Easiest Way To See Penguins In The Wild! Well I can't deny that statement. 

Cape of Good Hope.
Down below: Dias Beach. No swimming is allowed due to riptides
but you can descend a long staircase to get away
from camera toting tourists like myself.

View of the original lighthouse.
A second more useful lighthouse was built
farther down the cliff after a Portuguese liner named
Lusitania was wrecked in 1911.

Waiting for us at the end of the world.

Father daughter. The family that's
dirty together, stays together.

Mother son. He was telling me a story about  mutated
 seagull-shark with bomb hands.

You've been warned.

Hanging out.

Going for a swim.