adventure
The tradition continues! For my 28th birthday I’m sharing 28 photos that I took over the last year for you to choose from for your phone background!
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
I’m getting to the end of my mid-twenties, which might be daunting for me but it’s good news for all of you! Turning 27 means there are 27 photos that I took over the last year for you to choose from for your phone background!
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
Gale force winds buffeted the windows of the apartment. Outside, tree branches littered Berlin’s parks and miniature dogs were getting blown down the sidewalk. It was a chihuahua, if you’re curious. A genuinely powerful storm was blowing it’s way across Germany, and it didn’t care about trees, dogs, or vacation plans. Lena and I were set to leave for Bavaria by train that day, but all train service in northern Germany was disrupted by the storm. Our trip was off to a great start.
The next morning train service resumed and we fought our way onto the ICE, elbowing along the aisle in an effort to find two unreserved seats. Otherwise we’d be stuck standing for 5 hours on our way to Munich. After a quick stopover for a family dinner, we hopped on the last train of the night to Kiefersfelden, our getaway for the week.
Our goal for the trip was to hit the slopes for a few days, but without a car our options were limited. The local ski resort operates a ski bus but you have to call the day before to reserve your spot, so everything was pushed back a day after our arrival. For our free day we enjoyed the fresh mountain air on a 10 kilometer loop from Kiefersfelden over the Austrian border, and back again. There wasn’t much snow on the ground, but we didn’t mind the warmer temperatures for walking around.
We awoke early the next morning and walked downstairs for the ski bus to meet us. A decalled VW bus rolled up, I handed the driver €10 for the both of us, and we were off to Sudelfeld. At the resort, we told the young woman behind the counter we wanted to rent for three days and she shook her head no. I didn’t understand. What do you mean, no? I asked. There were three big groups coming the next day and she couldn’t guarantee us equipment past today. I hadn’t even considered the possiblity of the resort running out of skis to rent. There was no use arguing it, though, so we took what we could get and rented for the day.
We had an awesome day of skiing, exploring a new mountain and getting our snow-legs back after a few years off the slopes. The bang-for-buck ratio felt just about right, and great Bavarian food on the slopes never hurts. The forced one-day limit at Sudelfeld was a blessing in disguise, though. Sudelfeld is a fun local resort for low-key turns or teaching younglings, but it doesn’t boast the epic views that can be found further south. With those epic views in mind we had some planning to do.
My classmates Stephen, Paul, and Leo arrived that evening and we got them up to speed on the situation over food and beers. There was a lot of back and forth but we decided to go for the full Austrian mission despite the hurdles we’d have to jump through. At 6 a.m. the next morning the adventure began.
Our trek started with a short train ride one stop over the border to Kufstein. From there we hopped on a bus that took us to Wörgl — with 27 stops in between. There, we took the S-Bahn regional train to the famed ski town of Kitzbühel. Only, we took it to the center of town, not the stop before that’s right at the gondola. 20 minutes later after walking back to the ski resort we were at our destination. We dipped into a ski rental shop and frantically started the check-in process when an employee told us there was no need to rush because the resort was closed because of high winds. It seemed our fairytale Austrian ski adventure wasn’t meant to be.
We walked up the street to the gondola to look at the live resort map to confirm the bad news. It wasn’t entirely true, but only one gondola and two small lifts were open. Compared to the 57 lifts on the mountain only having access to three felt like a massive defeat. After a brief powwow (without gulasch or beer, sadly), we decided that we’d made it this far so we might as well commit, regardless of conditions. We had also heard that the winds were expected to die down by mid-morning. What felt like hours but was really only 30 minutes later we were on the gondola with rental skis in hand and hope in our hearts. After two runs they shut the entire mountain down.
Everyone on the slopes was forced to ski down to the base of the gondola along a slushy, mogol ravaged, disaster of a run to await further updates. When we got to the bottom the gondola was running (with massives lines) and a few lifts had opened up again so our hope had returned. Over the next hour every lift on the mountain came to life and our Austrian fairytale was back on.
We explored all over the huge resort, testing out every lift we could see. We found the best groomed snow, some leftover powder in need of fresh tracks, and a couple of off-piste kickers for a few successful starfishes and unsuccessful backflips. Over a hearty alpine lunch the clouds cleared and our afternoon was blessed with bluebird skies. The fairytale wasn’t just back on, it was better than our dreams.
We were having too much fun to worry about the time until suddenly time was of the essence. With four lifts and a confusing string of runs between us and the rental shop we suddenly had a daunting task ahead of us. One wrong turn and we’d end up stranded on the mountain or in a different town. As the sun slid below the peaks around us we raced down the slopes, making our way ever closer to the final run. At the bottom of one lift I noticed that the “last chair” time and the “current time” were the same.
When we finally made it to the top of the final run we let out a sigh of relief and pulled out our cameras to capture the immense Kaiser mountains bathed in the last light of the day. Grinning ear-to-ear we pushed off one last time and, not wanting it to end, adopted the most leisurely pace of the day for the final run. Lena and I took it slowly, so by the time we made it to the bottom the boys were already enjoying cold beers and classic Austrian aprés ski pop hits (read: terrible, terrible music). Even our commute home contributed to the fairy tale. The train-bus-train became train-train-train and was 40 minutes shorter. I was in love with Austria.
We all yearned for another amazing day of skiing in Austria, but travel plans and work schedules were unfriendly to our continued fairy tail dreaming. Instead, we hiked up into the foothills of the Kaisergebirge from the other side. Along the way we found a slot canyon with snowmelt gushing down.
Running out of time before Stephen had to return for his train we had to decide between an epic view of the Kaiser mountains and some classic Austrian food and drinks. The food won in the end, but we still snagged a glance of the mountains out the window of the hut.
For our final day Lena and I took the train to Salzburg, a town I’ve visited many times but a first for her. I showed her all of my family’s favorites. Meaning we tasted all of the classic Salzburg foods we could get our hands on: Mozart kugel, Salzburger nockerl, and leberknödelsuppe. (Pro tip: the “original” Mozart kugel from Fürst isn’t as good as the copy from Reber). We also chanced upon an organ performance in the Salzburg Cathedral. An organist played a piece on each of the cathedral’s five organs, filling the chamber with resonant music. The fortress on top of the hill was our final destination before we made our way back to the train station for our ride back to Kiefersfelden.
The next morning as we packed our bags and hopped on the train, excited to remember the trip before it was even over, our phones began to buzz with push notifications. What we’d been talking about in the background for weeks had become a reality: Russia invaded Ukraine. Except for her sister, Lena’s entire immediate and extended family were suddenly living in a warzone and all of our attention went to finding ways to get them to safety. If you’re able to support those affected in any way, please find resources here.
I heaved my duffle bag onto my back, and my backpack onto my front before striding out of the Corfu airport. Dressed like a turtle, and feeling just as slow, I trudged along the streets, many of which were missing sidewalks, towards the scooter rental shop. My hope was to snag a scooter to make the 40km trip from Corfu town to our Airbnb. An island-ride with the wind in my face seemed more fun than a 1.5 hour bus ride. Sadly, after arriving at the shop I learned that Greece has different license requirements and my California driver’s license wasn’t valid without an additional international license—which I didn’t have.
I still had an hour to wait before my classmates arrived from Berlin so I thought I’d try the bike rental shop, even though a 30km bike ride with luggage would be miserable. I trudged another few kilometers like a turtle to the bike rental shop only to learn that it was closed for the season. I was secretly relieved that I didn’t have to bike. With my figurative tail tucked between my legs I made my way to the bus station where I met up with my classmates. We bought our tickets and then settled in to wait a few hours for the bus. Over beers I learned that our classmate Paul had successfully rented a scooter from a sketchy shop outside of town and called them up. Five hours later after making it to the Airbnb we were overwhelmed with the sweet rattling sound of 50cc scooters in the driveway. Our special delivery had arrived. We scrounged in our pockets to collect 600€ cash and handed it over for the week-long rental of four scooters.
With our island-chariots secured we hopped on, fired them up and scooted off to the grocery store for supplies. Max speed: 45km/h. For the next six days we explored all over the northern half of the island. We did our best to avoid the rain with varying success while we hunted for the best beaches and food that Corfu has to offer.
My classmate Julia suggested early on that we tackle Corfu’s highest peak for a sunrise hike, so one morning we woke up at 4 am to ensure we’d arrive before the sun crept over the horizon. According to Maps the hiking trail was about 45 minutes away by car. Likely more than an hour by scooter. In the cold dark morning we wiped the dew off of our seats and mounted up, two to a scooter. The extra weight made climbing up the hills a crawl. We pulled the throttles back as far as they would go and still we inched our way up the hill at around 10 km/h.
During the steepest climb I leaned forward and prayed that the scooter would get us up the hill. Over the wail of the engine I heard a scream in the background. I looked in my mirror and watched as one of the scooters drove off the side of the road into a ditch. I wanted to stop to check on whoever had ridden off the road but if I stopped I wasn’t sure the scooter could get going again. So I pushed on.
When the road flattened out around the next bend I stopped so the others could catch up, assuming their scooters still worked. Julia, queen of the sunrise hike, had lost her balance riding so slow on the steep hill and rode into the ditch with her passenger in tow. She twisted her ankle trying to catch the scooter but was otherwise okay. With everyone accounted for, and no serious injuries, we plowed on.
It took us around an hour and a half to get to Julia’s trailhead. But the tardiness wasn’t an issue because there was no trail to be found. Instead we parked the scooters and walked the rest of the way up the steep road to the top. Twenty minutes later we were at the summit, roughly an hour before the sun would be seen that day.
For the next 60 minutes we walked back and forth, did jumping jacks and squats, and huddled like penguins to stay warm. We watched as the sky slowly grew lighter before the sun finally crested the horizon in the distance, bathing Albania and Greece in sunlight. The sky turned orange and the wispy clouds were tinged with purple for what felt like only a minute, but lasted at least 30. We were still cold to the bone even with the sun rising higher in the sky, so we hopped back on the scooters in search of a hot drink and a warm meal.
After shuffling out of the tiny airport we crawled into a tiny Nissan Versa that was delivered by the all-too-friendly Hertz representative who went by Tim (his full name was unpronounceable for us non-Greeks. We pulled up our mapping app and headed out on the tiny roads of Skiathos, swerving around scooters and potholes. Our digital guide took us straight up the mountain, including an 18° rutted incline that made the engine squeal and the whole car shake. We all leaned forward and prayed that the little engine could make it. After that first harrowing drive up the hill nearly everything else went according to plan. (If we don’t count the jellyfish stings I endured on my first swim.) For two weeks we enjoyed ourselves on Skiathos, an island made famous for the scenes of Mama Mia! that were filmed there.
The reason for the extravagant trip was my mom’s 60th birthday, which we celebrated in style on a chartered sailboat adventure around Skiathos’ neighboring islands. Our captain Stefanos, a wisecracking local to Skiathos who hates Mamma Mia!, motored us from his home port of Skiathos Town east to a small cove on the eastern side of Arkos. He outfitted us with snorkeling gear and kicked us off the boat for 45 minutes of underwater exploration. After pulling up the anchor we motored yet again (the wind was blowing towards the west), past the small lighthouse-topped island of Repio on our way east towards Skopolos.
Before anchoring on the coast of Skopolos for lunch we made a snorkeling pitstop around Dasia where we swam through an eerie underwater tunnel and explored caves with thousands of tiny silver fish. Lunch, which was more like a feast for the gods, consisted of no less than four massive courses of Greek breads, spreads, cheeses, veggies, seafood, and pasta; all washed down by tsipouro, a savory take on the famous Greek ouzo. Sadly, I promised our snarky captain that I wouldn’t reveal the details of the banquet to prevent food IP theft by other ambitious captains.
Our midday repast left us stuffed like turduckens and more than a little tipsy from the bottomless tsipouro cups so we didn’t mind a leisurely sail (yes, sail, the wind favored our return) back towards Skiathos. We made one final pitstop on Tsougkrias where we jumped from the bow into the crystal clear Mediterranean waters and drank a celebratory, and thankfully very thin, Gin & Tonic before pulling up our anchor and returning to Skiathos Town. Thoroughly salted and sun-dried we deftly navigated the gangway before setting foot back on solid ground. We claimed it was sea-legs that made us wobble our way through the harbor but I’m not so sure.
For my birthday a little over a week later we went on another boating adventure around Skiathos and its neighboring islands, sans captain. Unless you count my unlicensed sister at the helm of a 12 foot motor boat. Essentially a souped-up dinghy, our transport was small but mighty, and felt like more than enough boat for four inexperienced boaters to handle. But what it lacked in size it made up for in freedom. We weren’t at the mercy of a guided tour so we crafted our own itinerary for the day which began with Lalaria, Skiathos’ most famous destination.
We motored, slowly but surely, around 1/3rd of the coastline before laying anchor among the giant underwater boulders on the shore. Unable to motor directly to the beach, we jumped off the boat and swam ashore for a painful walk along the picturesque white rocks. The far end of the beach features a beautiful stone arch that’s the backdrop to millions, if not billions of photos. What I discovered, though, is that unbeknownst to 99% of tourists who visit (that’s a wild guesstimate) is a second underwater arch. This secluded arch is home to thousands of fish swimming in schools in the safety of the shade under the rocks. Sadly I had no camera so you’ll just have to trust me on this, or go see it for yourself. I swam through the secret arch a few times before making my way back to shore where the others were admiring the beautiful rocky beach.
Our stomachs started to grumble so we swam back to our boat, pulled up the anchor, fired up our mini-motor, and made our way to Arkos for a beachside taverna. After eating some classic Greek dishes we motored west, to a portion of the island only accessible by boat, where we found an idyllic cove with majestic Cotylorhiza tuberculata, aka fried egg jellyfish, floating in the current. With only an hour or so before we had to return the boat we lazily swam around the rocks in search of fish before drying off and starting up the motor for the short ride home.
After two weeks on Skiathos we decided that we wouldn’t mind another week exploring the island’s beaches and cliffs, but sadly our time was up. I, however, had one more Greek destination on the itinerary: Corfu.
The phone background tradition is a whopping 5 years old—and I turn 26—which means 26 new photos from the past 12 months for you to choose from.
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
Susie and I pushed off on our bikes bright and early from Kiefersfelden, around 9 a.m. Within three minutes we were over the border in Austria—her house is practically on the border, it’s not that we were biking really fast. It was sunny, our legs felt fresh, and the bags on our bikes didn’t feel all that heavy, yet. It was just the start of our four day bike touring adventure, after all. The plan was to wind our way south from Kiefersfelden in southern Germany over the border into Austria before turning west to cross Liechtenstein (which doesn't take long, even by bike). Once in Switzerland, we planned to wind our way through the lake country to Zürich where we’d catch a train home. About 400 kilometers in all. We didn’t have any time to spare so we didn’t build in rest days or touristy activities along the way. The trip was set to be Type 2.0 fun all the way and we were stoked.
After crossing the border to Austria, Susie and I made good time to Innsbruck, where we stopped for a grocery store smorgasbord of ham, cheese, and bread. With 85 km behind us and another 65 km to go we hopped back on the bike in good spirits. Our elevation slowly started to increase as we made our way to Imst.
We climbed over a mountain pass with cars and trucks whizzing by us. Luckily this was one of the only parts of the ride with no bike lane. After descending into Imst I thought we were done, we were so close to our destination. But in the last 5 km we climbed straight up, sometimes at a 15% grade. We gained 400 meters (with many breaks in between) to our hotel in the mountains. I was huffing and puffing. It was already my longest ride ever, and now it included the most elevation I’d ever climbed as well, 1,296 meters. The effort seemed more worth it when the server at the hotel restaurant treated us with complimentary schnapps (which everyone got, it had nothing to do with us biking up the hill to the hotel).
I took a hot bath to ease my tired muscles but no position seemed comfortable for my legs so I gave up and dried off. We both climbed into bed and promptly passed out.
Day 2 was set to be significantly easier than the first. A rest day, if you will. 68 kilometers from our hotel above Imst to a small hut in the mountain town of Stuben. We started off by descending the hill we’d worked so hard to climb the day before. Today, though, it was wet with morning dew and a sketchy route to ride. We didn’t spare a moment's thought for the alpine landscape spread out in front of us; or the charming town of Imst that we sped through on our way to the river at the bottom of the valley.
As we followed the river’s path up into the mountains we stopped and snacked on all manner of fruits from the local orchards. A local Oma (grandma) told me that as long as the branch hangs over the fence onto the road it’s fair game, so we enjoyed the apples, plums, and pluots guilt-free.
With the daring descent completed we breathed a sigh of relief, but Susie wouldn’t let me off too easily, even on a rest day. The route included a climb over the St. Anton am Arlberg pass, aka another 1,279 meters of climbing for the day. Our reward for the climb was another picturesque, speedy, and very chilly descent down to our hut in Stuben.
After a hot shower and thirty minutes curled up in our puffy jackets under the bed sheets we ventured out to one of only a handful of restaurants open in town that night. We stuffed ourselves to the brim and then rolled out and back into bed.
The next morning we woke up early. We had a daunting 116 km to travel on our third day of riding, but luckily it was mostly downhill. Unfortunately, the weather was against us. We started by bundling up for a quick sprint down the hill to the nearest town with a bakery where we ate premade sandwiches and drank hot coffee and tea. As we sat there the rain started and we looked out the window nervously. Beginning a 116 km ride with rain was a recipe for wet feet the whole day. We put on every layer of clothing we had and made our way into the cold, wet mountain air. It was only a light dusting for now, so it wasn’t horrible. Before long, though, it became a downpour.
We wound our way down wet gravel paths with water soaking us from above and below. The downhill path was a blessing and a curse. We hardly had to pedal to keep up a good clip, but no peddling meant we weren’t warming ourselves up from the inside. My whole body was wracked with shivers so violent that I was worried I’d wrench the handlebars left or right and end up in the bushes. We got soaked through. And we laughed about it, mostly. Susie very smartly suggested stopping in the next town for another hot drink but I was worried that if we stopped we wouldn’t have the fortitude to get back on the bikes. So we pressed on.
Before we knew it we had pedaled the first 50 km to Feldkirch and we decided it was high time to make a stop for warmth and sustenance. The rain picked up again while we sat inside, still soaking wet from the morning’s wind-chilled descent. We waited for the rain to subside a bit and then ventured back out.
Not long after, Susie—thinking out loud—asked if we might already be in Liechtenstein. I hadn’t even thought about it, because Susie was in charge of mapping. While riding through a residential neighborhood we looked around and saw signs telling us we were in fact already in Liechtenstein: “FL” license plates, LIEmobil bus stop signs, and slightly different infrastructure accents (aka the cobble stones and curbs looked different).
We laughed that we’d almost missed it and talked about how small of a country it is for five minutes and before we knew it we were leaving already. We passed over the Rhine river on a wooden pedestrian bridge and stopped halfway to take pictures at the “border” before continuing on into Switzerland.
We were just over halfway to our destination and feeling strong when the rain and wind picked up again. It didn’t dampen our spirits but it definitely slowed us down. We wound our way around Walensee with whitecaps dotting the lake surface and the shore on the other side obscured by rain. It was definitely no picturesque Swiss getaway.
But we were making the most of it either way. The bike path which was rain-soaked but otherwise pristine snaked its way along the lake, up and down the cliffs until it spat us out in a new valley with an even heavier downpour. We’d been talkative and chatty all day but by this point we wanted to get there so little was said between us. We put our heads down and rode in the pouring rain along a gravel path that followed a canal up river towards Mollis.
When we finally made it to our Airbnb we removed our shoes and socks at the door to avoid making puddles on the floor and headed straight for the bathroom to wash up. We donned the same wet jackets we’d been wearing all day and set out for food, but there were few options. The only grocery store in town closed at 4 pm that Saturday, an hour and a half before we arrived. So we walked 20 minutes in the unceasing rain across the river to the slightly bigger town next door and walked into the only open restaurant, a burger joint.
In unintelligible Swiss-German, the waitress told us that they were full and we could only order to go. We sighed and looked forlornly outside at the sky. She didn’t budge, they were fully booked until closing. We ordered anyway, hoping that we might find a nice, covered, place to eat outside once our food was ready. Twenty minutes later the rain had lessened to merely a heavy mist, so we plopped our paper bag on the rock wall across the street and devoured our burgers and fries before heading home for sleep.
The final day of our tour started early. Our train from Zürich back home to Susie’s apartment in Kiefersfelden would leave at 12:43 with or without us. We woke up at 6 and got on the road by 6:45 in order to give ourselves plenty of time to make the 70 km trip at a leisurely pace. I even insisted on building in extra time for emergencies.
6:15 a.m. Rain passing through the light made by a streetlamp outside our bedroom window.
And it’s a damn good thing I did. 45 minutes after leaving Mollis, Susie fell back behind me and looked down. Something was wrong with her bike. She had a flat tire. We groaned but quickly realized it could be a lot worse. It wasn’t raining, we had all the gear we needed to fix this kind of problem, and we had built in plenty of extra time for exactly this scenario. After a quick repair we were back on the road. No problem.
The rain stayed at bay for another few hours as we made our way across the valley and towards Obersee and Zürichsee. We stopped at a BP gas station for a late breakfast and continued on, crossing the lake before riding through the never ending neighborhoods around the lake. We arrived in Zürich with plenty of time to spare. In no rush, we picked up our tickets, grabbed some food and celebratory beer, and headed to our platform.
The train ride followed our bike route almost exactly, in reverse. In four hours we wound around the lakes and mountains that had taken us four days to conquer on our bikes. But we didn’t mind that it was so easy by comparison. It gave me a chance to see all of the sights without sweat running down my face or rain dripping from my knees. And it gave us greater appreciation for what we’d just accomplished.
We rode 400 kilometers and 3,260 meters of elevation on our bikes over four days. When we made it back home I slapped the side of Susie’s building in victory and let out a sigh of relief.
On a whim, I asked Lena if she wanted to go bikepacking over the weekend. I proposed we ride 40 kilometers east of Berlin to a lakeside campground in Brandenburg for one night outside of the city. It would be Lena’s longest day of riding ever, but she didn’t hesitate before saying yes. In the end, the route ballooned to 50 kilometers but we were still happy and confident about the weekend’s planned adventure.
On Saturday, just after 2 p.m., we loaded our gear on our bikes and set off through the glass-covered streets of East Berlin. We made our way south through Neukölln to the canals for the scenic route to Müggelsee. Ever the food opportunist, Lena insisted we stop to munch on some boysenberries discovered along the way.
After our snack we wound our way south of Müggelsee before swinging north through Erkner and finally arriving at the campground at around 7 p.m. The woman at reception guided us past rows of mobile home bungalows surrounded by gardens ranging from disheveled to perfectly cultivated.
After leaning our bikes on a nearby pole, we stripped down and jumped in the clear water of the lake to cool off and get rid of the grime of the trail. Feeling much cooler and cleaner, we donned long sleeves and pants and sprayed bug repellant on our hands and faces before preparing dinner. The mosquitoes were already relentless a couple of hours before sunset. Our European backpacking meals were underwhelming compared to the great options in the U.S., but we still ate our fill. After dinner I settled in to read a bit before bed but it was hard to focus with all of the mosquitoes buzzing about our heads.
We reapplied bug spray and bundled up with our rain jackets to try to keep them away from our faces and settled in, assuming that after dusk the mosquitoes would turn in for the night. In the meantime, I tried using the towel as a makeshift tent to cover our hands and faces but it was so stiflingly hot underneath that we couldn’t breath. At 11 p.m. the mosquitoes were still buzzing about and skewering through our clothes. It was so hot in our sleeping bags and rain jackets that we gave up and stripped naked and ran to the lake. We quickly sat down in the water, leaving only our heads exposed, relying on bug spray to keep our faces safe.
After a few minutes of respite from the heat, the lateness of the hour pushed us back towards our sleeping bags where we tried to fall asleep again.
At 1 a.m. neither of us had slept a wink and I was certain that the mosquitoes weren’t going anywhere that night so Lena and I started spitballing solutions. I floated the idea of giving up on sleeping altogether, packing up, hopping on our bikes, and biking back to Berlin in the dark. Lena considered it but didn’t like the idea of biking so far in the dark. She proposed a taxi but neither of us had phone service or any hope that a taxi would come to the middle of the woods an hour after midnight. I then remembered that on a walk around the campground a few hours before I had noticed a gazebo wrapped in mosquito netting. I proposed that we bring our sleeping bags and pads across the campground and sleep in the safety of the gazebo. Before committing to it Lena and I agreed that I should check and see if the mobile homes surrounding the gazebo were occupied—we didn’t want a rude awakening the next morning when an old German man found us squatting in his outdoor dining room.
After a quick look around I was certain that none of the spaces around were occupied and went back to our camp. Lena and I quickly grabbed the essentials and threw our tarp over the rest of our gear before walking across the camp grounds to our safe haven.
We hurriedly slid our gear under the mosquito netting and slipped in after as quickly as possible in an attempt to keep out the gazillion mosquitos swarming around us.
We breathed a sigh of relief as we lay on our pads without the familiar buzz of mosquitoes dive-bombing our faces. Finally, we could lay in the heat without our sleeping bags closed up as tightly as possible to keep the horde at bay. I pulled my book out to try and wind down before falling asleep. Five minutes later I heard an unfamiliar ding from a nearby cell phone. Lena and I looked at each other.
“Is that yours,” I asked. She shook her head no.
We held our breaths and looked at the darkness surrounding us, waiting for any noises. The phone dinged again. Then we heard voices.
An elderly German couple was talking—at 2 a.m., no less—and we were camped in their gazebo. It seemed that the “empty” mobile home that was 2 meters from Lena’s feet wasn’t so empty after all.
Lena and I looked at each other, horrified. I imagined an angry old man kicking open the door to his trailer and finding us in his mosquito haven. I gulped in fear and tried to push the idea out of my mind. I assured Lena that if they came outside and found us we could calmly explain the situation to them and they would have to understand. Right? I knew it was true deep down, but at 2 a.m. and half crazy from the never ending onslaught of mosquitoes I was having a hard time convincing myself. Lena wasn’t having it. We laid there for another 20 horrified minutes waiting for them to come outside and discover us. Instead, the voices slowly disappeared and were replaced by snoring. I set my alarm for 5 a.m.—just in case we fell asleep—so we could vacate their space before they woke up.
I offered to Lena that I could stay up and talk to anyone who might discover us but she was as stressed as I was and neither of us could imagine sleeping any time soon. Even without the mosquitoes. So we both lay there in the ironic half-safety of the netted gazebo trying to fall asleep. After another 30 minutes the exhaustion finally took its toll and we dozed off here and there. We slept in nightmare-plagued 15-minute spurts, constantly jumping in our sleep imagining that someone was just outside the mosquito netting looking in on us.
Despite the nightmares the night passed uneventfully. When my alarm went off we dragged ourselves out of our sleeping bags and cleared our things out of the gazebo. We hustled away as fast as possible in case we had woken them again while putting their table and chairs back where we found them. We dropped our stuff back on our tarp and, with nothing else to do, stripped down for a morning swim before the rest of camp woke up.
Our mosquito net-engulfed gazebo was both a safe haven and nightmare-fuel.
The sunrise was amazing, but both of us would’ve rather gotten a few more hours of sleep before enjoying it. We swam in small circles in the lake with the purple and pink clouds unfurling above us—swatting at mosquitoes all the while. The second we stepped out of the water they went in for the kill so we jumped back in our sleeping bags for protection, certainly not sleep. We decided that a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee were necessary to fuel our departure back to Berlin. Estimated time of departure? ASAP.
The plan was to bike 10 kilometers, much less than the 50 we biked the day before, to the nearest train station that could take us home: Erkner. The second we were packed up we hit the road without a second glance at our cursed campsite. With the wind in our faces and no mosquitoes buzzing around our ears we suddenly felt infinitely better. We started to laugh about how ridiculous our experience had been.
Before we knew it we were already in Erkner. Despite our rough night it felt too soon to get off the bike for the day so we pushed on past Erkner and through Müggelsee. After 30 kilometers we hopped on the train in Köpenick for a quick ride home. We topped up on lost calories with a quick meal before Lena donned a sleeping mask and napped for a few hours. I made the couch my home and turned on the Olympics in the background while I googled affordable two-person tent options with the hope that I might convince Lena to join me for another bikepacking adventure. If it ever happens again I’m sure you’ll read about it here.
After a year of restrictions limiting travel from the United States to Germany were lifted, my parents were finally able to make the trip across the pond to visit my sister and me. We settled on a secluded valley in the heart of the Tyrolean Alps as the perfect place to get away from it all and enjoy some rest and relaxation — and roughly 40 kilometers of alpine hiking to “boot.” We all enjoyed amazing weather, way too much food, and plenty of family time. And we only had to endure a few Zoom calls inside when we weren’t having fun.
Check out my collection of photos from four days in the alps below!
After finishing up our daily work three of us — Lena, my mom, and me — bundled up in case of continuing rain and went out in search of something more interesting than what we'd seen on our computer screens. We found cows and wildflowers in droves during our brief walk and were even more excited about the weekend hikes to come.
On Saturday we set out early for a view of the Kaisergebirge (Emperor Mountain’s) in the distance. On our way back down we stopped for a hefty plate of Käsespätzle, but there’s no photo evidence of that because it disappeared in an instant with a glass of fresh milk to wash it all down. Before walking back to the apartment we stopped by the ice-cold foot baths to “open up the capillaries in our feet,” or something. Some of us handled the ice-bath better than others…
On our final day we took the chairlift up to a plateau below Gaisberg and hiked around the peak to Gampenkogel where we gorged ourselves on Austrian food (Schweinebraten, Wienerschnitzel, Gulasch, etc.). Again, there is no photo evidence of this meal.
Susie and I rolled out of the restaurant early to make a push for the summit of Gaisberg for an unobstructed view of the Kaisergebirge in the distance. We then scrambled down the shale to meet with the others before the last chair down the mountain at 4:30 p.m.
After class, Paul and I raced home to pack up our things (and in Paul’s case picked up his newly-repaired bike from the bike shop) for our overnighter at Parsteiner See, 80 kilometers northeast of Berlin. He haphazardly strapped things onto his rear rack with an old bike tube and we pushed out of his driveway just before 5 p.m.
Watch the video below to see how the trip unfolded.
The smell of the paella wafted up from the back seat, sneaking past the aluminum foil that covered it. The massive cast-iron dish, which was nearly a meter wide, dominated the back seat of one tiny European car; the other car was packed with people. We were driving to Moraira harbor where, after arriving, we tossed pillows and blankets aboard Nirvana for our overnight. I straddled the water, one foot on the dock and one on the stern of the boat, before carefully crossing with our most precious cargo, the paella.
After a few equipment checks, Jonas fired up the motor and expertly piloted the boat out of the harbor and to our distant prize. The sun was just about to set but, unfortunately, the cloud cover made a beautiful Mediterranean sunset unlikely. The smells emanating from the paella dish kept us occupied, though.
Five minutes and no more than 500 meters of motoring later and we made it to El Portet, the comically close cove just outside of the Moraira harbor. Jonas and his sister Tara laid the anchor and before long we were rotating in the wind in tandem with the three other boats anchored nearby. During the stress of anchoring no one seemed to notice but the moment we looked up we realized that the sun had slipped below the clouds on the horizon and was painting the sky from bright yellow to deep purple.
I grabbed a few dozen photos and then decided that the best way to enjoy the sunset would be from the water. I tossed my shirt in the master cabin and dove in off the bow. The others were too cozy on the boat to bother jumping in.
The moment I climbed back onto the boat and the sun had set our stomachs grumbled and everyone’s mind went back to the paella sitting on the deck. We opened the folding table, cracked our beers, and gave a quick toast before attacking the paella with gusto. At the speed we were eating it wasn’t long before our stomachs were filled to the brim and the beer was our top priority.
An hour later we got confirmation that Jonas’ friend Stan had landed at Alicante and was on his way to El Portet. When he arrived there was only one obstacle between him and our party on the boat: 300 meters of water shrouded in darkness. Luckily, Jonas in cotton shorts and a t-shirt on a standup paddleboard was ready to act as his knight in shining armor.
Jonas and I wrestled the paddleboard off of the boat and around to the stern so he could carefully step on. He confidently charged into the darkness as we yelled at him that the board was backward. He didn’t hear us. 30 meters from the boat he rocked left, then right, and fell in.
Head cleared by the cold water, Jonas charged into the darkness unperturbed, his goal only 270 more meters away. I rushed below deck and grabbed binoculars for us to follow along from the boat but with so little light we could only hope that the shadow we were looking at was Jonas and not a trash can on the shore. We spotted him when he fell into the water a second time.
A few minutes later we heard shouts from the beach and assumed that he made it — wet but in one piece. Stan joined on the board and they slowly zigzagged their way back to the boat avoiding a blunder the whole way. Once they were both safely on deck the party started in earnest.
The next morning after being rocked to sleep on the boat in the wee hours of the night we woke to the sun shining through the porthole and the sound of seagulls in the distance. Some of us slept more soundly than others but we all felt different degrees of horrible. In my eyes, the only medicine was a dip in the cold salty water so I climbed above deck and jumped in. I instantly felt better.
Hours later and back on dry land we all logged in to Zoom for work or school. The house seemed to rock slowly back and forth and I longed to return to the cool blue waters of El Portet.
We spent the rest of the week hopping between our computers and the ocean — climbing Ifach, replacing on rocky beaches in idyllic coves, and enjoying a drink or two looking over the water — before flying home to Berlin where the weather was even warmer than in Spain.
As always, thank you so much to Jonas Breuer for hosting us at your family’s amazing home in Benimarco.
The holidays were a little bit different this year. With travel restricted and lockdowns blanketing Europe my sister and I found ourselves an ocean away from our parents but only a 7-hour drive from each other. Rather than travel by plane, train, and automobile to California I rented a car, pointed it south, and bobbed my head to energetic music for 700 kilometers. Cruise control did the heavy lifting and before I knew it I was in Kiefersfelden, a tiny border town, and my sister’s new home. We hung out with our parents via video chat for the three nights of Christmas and spent as much time outside during daylight as possible.
Restrictions were tight but I was determined to be as active in the mountains as possible, and hiking was allowed. Everything past the Austrian border was off-limits but that still left plenty to explore. To kick things off I put my finger on the map and picked a peak to summit by myself while my sister was working. I hopped in the car on the cold morning after I arrived and navigated Kiefersfelden’s narrow Bavarian streets on my way to the mountains. I wound my way up into the hills, gingerly weaving around churches and wood-clad alpine homes. As I drove I kept an eye on the thermometer in the car’s display. It was hovering around 2º celsius as I made my way through town but as I gained elevation it dropped to -1º. To be safe I took turns at 10 km/h. I was investigating every patch of road along the way, wondering if it was icy but I couldn’t see any.
The backdrop to my slip and slide.
And that’s why it’s called black ice. I didn’t even have time to panic and try to fix my mistake. The moment my tires hit the patch of slick icy asphalt it was already too late. I slid sideways in slow motion, staring at the stone wall on the side of the road. I was resigned to my fate. My brand new rental car and the quickly approaching rock were about to become very intimate.
But then I jolted to a halt. I looked to my right across the empty passenger seat and inspected the rock wall, wondering why it was so far away. I climbed out of the car and noticed that there was a patch of gravel half a meter wide separating the pavement from the rock wall, which had stopped my slide. I let out a sigh of relief.
After a few minutes to steady my nerves, I started the car up and cautiously pulled back onto the road, driving even slower than before. As I neared the trailhead I came upon a field of ice blocking my way. Centimeters thick and blanketing the road as far as I could see up the hill into the distance, I realized I had no chance of making it to the top to my destination. I was discouraged by the weather but not willing to give up so I returned to the main road and drove until I found a parking lot packed with cars and vans.
Trusting the locals, I pulled over, suited up, and walked until I found a trail marker. It wouldn’t be the same as my planned hike, but after months in Berlin with not a mountain in sight, any peak would make me happy.
Hiking 4.5 kilometers through the mud, snow, and ice I gained 610 meters of elevation before reaching the peak, Wildalpjoch. The flat plains of Bavaria spread out to the north, the Wendelstein weather station capped the peak to the west, and the jagged peaks of Austria jutted up to the south and east. After a quick snack and two dozen photos, the cold alpine wind was too much to bear. I took one last look at the vast snow-capped mountains in the distance and headed back down to the car.
Two days later my sister and I set our sights on Brünnstein, a peak in the last row of mountains before the Austrian border. The trek started off easy enough. We wandered through empty muddy fields dotted with alms. During normal times these huts would be crowded with hikers looking for a warm place to rest their feet and a hot meal before continuing on. But these weren’t normal times. We passed hardly a soul on the hike and the alms were deserted, locked down to curb the spread of the virus.
Just before the peak as the tree’s thinned our path became rocky, steep, and dotted with alpinist’s cables. We clambered up the nearly vertical slopes, using our arms to pull ourselves along the path. At the top, we were greeted by a warning sign, a tiny shrine, and a view spanning dozens of snowy peaks. We celebrated with a local summit beer and then continued back down the mountain along our 16km route.
That night and into the next day Bavaria was dusted with snow. From the valleys to the peaks everything was white. Neither my sister nor I had the right gear (read: boots) but we were both determined to get outside so we donned our warmest socks and porous running shoes and ventured into the cold, wet mountains once again. We drove two towns up the road and parked the car at the Wendelstein train station.
We didn’t have a goal in mind but started to walk in the direction of Wendelstein, not sure if conditions would let us get close to the summit. Before too long we were making our way through ankle-deep snowdrifts. More than one local looked at our footwear and grimaced. How un-German to be unprepared for a snow hike.
We had thought our 10:30 am start had been plenty early but at 1 pm it became clear that if we went for the Wendelstein peak we wouldn’t make it back to the car before dark. After a short debate on the risks we unceremoniously turned around and made our way back down the mountain, trekking 18 kilometers in all.
After seven days in the mountains and more than 75 kilometers of walking, hiking, and trudging through the snow I was sad to return north to Berlin. But I was also endlessly grateful that my sister’s new home provided the perfect mountain getaway. Despite the wholly non-traditional virtual Christmas celebration it still turned into a genuinely good holiday in the middle of the pandemic.
The phone background tradition turns four this year—and I turn 25—which means 25 new photos from the past 12 months for you to choose from.
Browse the photos below and feel free to download one for your smartphone background by tapping on it and downloading the image from the new window that opens.
It was mid-September when we sat there—in the middle of a Fall cold-spell that blanketed Berlin—lamenting the early end of a hot summer. The city had traded 30° days for 12° days all too quickly and it felt like we were staring at the cold darkness that is Berlin winter right in the teeth. We couldn’t accept this was the best weather that we’d have for the next 6 months so we did the only logical thing despite the souring weather: we made the unwise decision to travel North.
I’d heard of a cheap weekend train ticket from Berlin to the Baltic Sea from a coworker so we decided that if we were going to be cold no matter what, at least we could see some open water while we shivered. As we looked out of the train window a few weeks later it didn’t take long to transition from vibrant Berlin to the dark, foggy, flat landscape of former East Germany. We zipped past decrepit train stations and neglected roads on our way north, unsure of what lay ahead. Despite our low hopes, the weather went from near-freezing and overcast to crisp but sunny while we sat in the warm safety of the train.
Four hours later we clambered off of the train and checked into our hotel before we dropped our things off and headed for the water. Olena and I ambled along the jetty that protects the harbor and watched the sunset with the lighthouse to our backs before we stepped onto an old boat in search of a hearty dinner. As we took our seats an older gentleman leaving the table recommended number 11: Baltic flounder. After we ordered said flounder and a beer we settled into our seats.
The boat rocked us back and forth gently while we waited for, and then devoured, our food. Suddenly exhausted with our stomachs full of food and drink we paid and stepped outside to head back to the hotel. And of course that was when it started to rain. Hard. We bundled our jackets around ourselves to stave off the wind and water and hustled back through town as the cold rain fell through the darkness.
After that first rain the weather held all weekend, which gave us the chance to comfortably explore Jasmund National Park all day without getting drenched. We popped in and out of the ancient Beech forest as we walked down the coast towards Sassnitz, taking our time in the sun and hustling through the shade to stay warm. We walked down the steep stairs to the rocky beach below the cliffs and wandered up and down the coast along with the few other off-season tourists.
As we stumbled back into town I glanced at my watch and noticed how late it was. No wonder I was starving. We went straight to the harbor and stepped onto the first boat-restaurant we could find. The sun set across the harbor as we scarfed down battered shrimp and fish with fries and beers. Despite the cold we stayed on the upper deck of the boat until after the sun had set before we called it a night and made our way to the hotel.
The next morning we bought tickets for a boat tour that took passengers 45 minutes up the coast to look at the cliffs from the water. It smelled like diesel fumes inside the cabin so we stood outside at the bow as the cold sea air swept past and blew our coats around our faces. The weather was crap—overcast and cold—so the cliffs didn’t look majestic, but they still looked impressive from sea-level.
We stepped off the boat and realized that we had 4 hours to kill until our train so I searched for an earlier option on my phone.
“6 minutes,” I said to Olena, “the next train is in 6 minutes, can we make it?”
She swore. Sassnitz is a small town but we were at least 10 minutes from the station. I thought for half a second and started to jog towards the station as Olena yelled after me.
“I’m not waiting 3 hours in this town, there’s nothing left to do,” I yelled behind me.
She threw her bag over her shoulder and ran after me with an evil look in her eye.
Somehow we made it to the train with two minutes to spare. Either we underestimated how fast we can run or how small the town is. We plopped into our seats and huffed and puffed while we stripped our jackets off—just as the train pulled out of the station.
After the hour long train ride to Stralsund we still had 4 hours to kill until our regional train to Berlin. We explored for an hour before we succumbed to a cozy coffee shop on the main square and pulled out our books.
Later, after we made our way to the train station and found our platform we heard a voice on the loudspeaker. Our train was cancelled. After five minutes of despair we learned that an inconvenient alternative only got us into Berlin 2 hours late, so we pulled out our books and settled in to wait.
A week before graduation in 2018 a group of college friends and I sat on a rooftop in Boston looking out at the skyline in the distance. We were trying—and failing—to avoid talking about how little we’d be seeing each other just ten days from then. As everyone continued their bittersweet banter I realized that if we don’t plan something now, while we were still around one another every day, we likely would never be together as a big group ever again.
That very same day I talked to Katie (our resident planner) about the idea of planning a reunion for the following year. She was 100% on board and suggested the 4th of July; I volunteered my family’s cabin in the Sierra’s.
We went to the group with the idea the next day and everyone was soundly on board, at least at the moment. I’m not sure anyone was really very confident that the event would actually materialize.
Fast forward 14 months and after arduous planning and hounding friends for their flight info (@Orph) the time had actually arrived for us all to jet off to California. I arrived five days before the 4th and grabbed some groceries to bolster Katie’s awesome Fraction Foods menu and loaded up my dad’s truck for the drive into the mountains.
Surprisingly, with 23 people converging on a tiny mountain town 4 hours from San Francisco from all over the United States on a hectic holiday weekend we encountered zero travel issues. No cancelled flights, delays, flat tires, speeding tickets, or upset stomachs. Just happy friends seeing each other for the first time in 14 months (in some cases).
The only map we had…
For the next 4 days we tried our hardest to relive our college days while simultaneously enjoying the best that the Sierra Nevada mountains have to offer.
On the second full day I had planned a hike to a high alpine lake called Bull Run. I’d hiked to it before—on a two night backpacking trip with my family when I was 12 or 13 years old. My only memory of the hike was that my Mom had said it was 7.5 miles round trip, and the hike in had felt much longer than 3.25 miles. Disregarding this little tidbit I decided it was the perfect hike for a massive group of hungover friends on 4th of July weekend.
When our caravan of four cars pulled into the graded meadow that served as the trailhead there were patches of snow scattered around behind the trail marker and in front of our cars. I clambered over a patch to take a photo of the rudimentary map on the trailhead sign and set off down the trail with 21 naive friends in tow. It took us no more than 10 minutes to get lost. As Goose and I consulted the map on my phone the others tried their best to catch up without falling on the snow.
“Guys just hang out here and don’t go anywhere, we lost the trail,” I said.
“So if this is the Stanislaus Meadow in front of us we need to stay to the right of it and in theory we’ll find the trail, right?” Goose asked.
“Sure,” I replied. Exactly as unsure as I sounded.
After a few minutes following our plan we found the trail again, or as close to a trail as we could find. We trudged over pillows of crunchy snow in Teva’s, Van’s, and hiking boots, broadcasting our unpreparedness to the silent wilderness.
We continued this cycle of losing the trail and finding it again for a couple of hours before half of our number decided that trudging through snow in July wasn’t something they wanted to do any longer than necessary. After deliberating about splitting up our group in the middle of nowhere we decided that half would press on to the lake and half would go home for beer and barbeque.
After losing half our tribe we lumbered along, continuing to find and lose the trail until we were well into the granite fields of the High Sierra’s. Using stray cairn’s as our only guidance we wandered for two more hours.
Then we ran out of water.
And we got dizzy from altitude sickness and dehydration.
We never found the lake.
Dejected and defeated, we gingerly climbed down from the granite fields one tired feet, and forded streams to make our way back to the cars. We relied on our footprints in the snow as our guide back, trying not to follow our lost prints from the very same morning. When we finally made it to the cars we stayed largely silent until we’d made it to the Bear Valley General Store where we stuffed our faces with chips and chugged Gatorade and water.
Thankfully the other half of the group had dinner waiting for us when we got back. After enjoying more Fraction Foods, Sachin checked his phone’s health app.
13.7 miles.
Today was the first day of snow in Boston. I walked around the city browsing through stores looking for good Black Friday deals and got a little too cold on the walk home. Sitting here with a cup of tea looking out the window I caught myself thinking about my trip to Hawaii this summer.
My friend Kevin texted me: “Come visit me.” He lived in Hawaii and said it as a joke. He had told several of his friends from his freshman year in college to come visit him on his island in the middle of the Pacific. Most people responded with various reasons for why they couldn’t, but I said “OK.”
Later that day I asked my Dad if we could go to Hawaii later in the summer. We had been planning a Father-Son trip for August anyway, so after deciding to take the easy route (we were considering destinations like Mexico City, or Antigua, Guatemala), we booked flights to Oahu.
When I told Kevin that my Dad and I had just bought tickets to spend a week in Hawaii, he didn’t believe me. “Wait, really?” he asked. “Yes, really,” I assured him.
After landing in Waikiki at 11 p.m. I turned on my phone to a text from Kevin: Sunrise hike, I’m picking you up at 4:45.
Gulp, I wasn’t prepared for that. Even with the time difference helping me out I wasn’t excited to wake up that early to go for a hike. But hey, he was the local and knew what to do in Hawaii. That was half of the reason for coming to Hawaii anyway, I didn’t want to spend a week being a tourist going to the wrong beaches and eating shrimp at the wrong shrimp shack. I replied and we confirmed our plans.
The alarm rang at 4:00 and I slowly lumbered out of bed, trying to stay quiet so my Dad wouldn’t wake up in the other bed across the room. I mindlessly showered, pulled on some board shorts, and gnawed on a Cliff bar.
He picked me up outside of my hotel and we drove through the empty streets of Waikiki to his friends house. After picking her up we headed to McDonalds (the only place on the island that opens early enough) for some early morning grub. We ate our breakfast sandwiches as we drove to Makapu’u, watching the light in the sky grow brighter and brighter. I’m not sure about the other two, but I started to doubt our timing as the sky got brighter and brighter.
Needless to say, we made it in time:
The hike itself was relatively short, 20 minutes at most, so more of a sunrise walk, but I’m not complaining.
We made our way to the summit and then spotted a lighthouse below us that we wanted to explore as the sun rose.
The lighthouse.
We got to the lighthouse and discovered a fence separating us from our goal.
(We managed to get a little bit closer to the lighthouse).
My hiking companions.
After watching the sunrise, we hiked down a cliff and snorkeled in these tide pools.
This photo, and the next two below are from a hike up Diamond Head (not a sunrise hike, but still an early one) that I went on with my Dad later in the trip after I had recovered from the first Hawaiian hiking experience.
Thousands of houses are packed into the hills beyond the ridge of the inactive volcano.
Waikiki.
Two trees compete for space, somewhere on the North Shore.
Obligatory underwater photo.
For the first semester of my freshman year at Northeastern, I was able to study abroad rather than go to the Northeastern campus in Boston. I could study in Australia, Costa Rica, Greece, England, or Ireland. I chose to go to Ireland. I chose Ireland for several reasons. First, there was no language barrier like there would have been with Costa Rica and Greece. Second, Ireland seemed relatively safe (at the time, there had been student riots in Greece because of unemployment). Third, I was going to be 17 at the start of the semester – the England and Costa Rica trips required that I be 18 upon arrival in the country. Finally, I’d never been to Ireland before, I had travelled to England and Australia before, and I wanted to travel somewhere new.
The program was split into two groups, science majors and business majors. Science majors attended the University College Dublin, and business students attended the Dublin Business School. At the time I was studying psychology, so I was enrolled at UCD. I lived in an off campus apartment, cooked my own meals, went grocery shopping, cleaned up after myself, and took a 45 minute bus ride to campus every morning. In short, I was 100% independent (except for money) for my first semester away from home.
I loved it. I met amazing people who were also part of my program, and went on weekend trips that really immersed me in Irish culture. We went to a farm and jumped into a bog, made bread and learned how to play Hurling. We traveled to the Cliffs of Moher, County Cork, Howth, the Aran Islands, Causey Farm, Northern Ireland, and County Sligo where we stayed in an eco lodge and surfed in a freezing rain.
For our first weekend in Ireland we took the Dublin Area Rapid Transit to a small seaside town, Howth. The town was quaint and beautiful, and framed by sweeping landscapes of the ocean. It was a great first place to visit outside of Dublin to give us an idea of how beautiful Ireland can be.
After having some time in the town of Howth, exploring a farmers market and the small harbor, we went on a coastal hike. This is one of the spectacular views that can be seen while on the trail.
Jumping into a bog at Causey Farm, extremely messy, but extremely fun. (I’m in the air).
Stunning, breathtaking, awe-inspiring, jaw-droppingly beautiful, terrifying; these are all apt descriptions of the Cliffs of Moher. I couldn’t have gotten any luckier with the weather when I went. No fog, no rain, some clouds but not too many; perfect for experiencing the terrifying heights of the Cliffs of Moher.
Looking along the coast, rolling green grass gives way to cliffs that are up to 700 feet high.
If you look really closely, you can see tiny specs on top of the cliffs. Those are people. That might give you an idea of how high these cliffs really are.
A view from above. It makes it seem like the water is so close to the grass. That couldn’t be more wrong.
More tiny specs (people) can be seen in the distance.
Members of my program “relaxing” on the edge. It was scary sitting on the edge myself, but even scarier watching my friends do it.
It’s hard to understand how green Ireland really is until you go there yourself.
A cow stands guard over a decaying farm house on the Aran Islands.
These cows are standing at the top of some very tall cliffs on the Aran Islands. They seemed to be more comfortable with heights than I was.
Standing on a cliff’s edge.
This is a view of the University College Dublin, where I took classes for the semester. Being from California, it was my first real experience of fall colors.
Dead leaves on flourishing ivy.
A view down a road on the grounds of Blarney Castle in County Cork.
