The Adventures of Spaghetti Eddie

“All of Europe?”

Lukla, the most dangerous airport in the would was our port of call for the trek to Everest Base Camp.
Photo copied from Facebook.

The weather at Lukla’s notorious airport held. Thankfully, our plane was the last to depart for three days. But then my travel luck took an odd turn.

We had returned to Katmandu on schedule. The doorman at the hotel was there to greet me. He had wished me well when we departed.

“Welcome back sir. I am pleased you had a successful journey.”

“Namaste my friend, it was awesome. The goddess is very beautiful.” (Mount Everest is called Chomalungma which means, ‘Goddess mother of the Earth’)

“Thank you sir, we love her.” And then he said, “I am sorry to say sir that you may have to be our guest a few days longer.”

I said, “Why, what’s going on?”

And my perfectly uniformed pal said, “Volcano ash has covered all of Europe.”

“What do you mean, all of Europe?”

“Yes sir, all airplanes heading west are grounded.”

Ash from the Iceland volcano, Eyjafjallajökull (E10), had closed Europe to all air traffic for the foreseeable future; my tickets took me through Frankfurt, I was stuck in one of the most polluted cities in the world.

I phoned home and Kristin answered on the second ring. Like my call from Africa after our summit of Kilimanjaro, I choked up and could barely speak, then,

“Hi baby, this is Katmandu calling.”

“Hello climber-boy, I read your emails, sounds like you had a wonderful time.”

“No question about it, but it looks like I’m stuck here because of the Icelandic volcano ash.”

“Yes, it’s all over the news here.”

“Listen, I’m not sure when or how I’ll get home. Don’t go to Chicago on my arrival date. I’ll call you when I figure out what my plan is.”

Then, my always-practical bride says, “Does your trip insurance cover flight delays?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, hang in there and call when you know something.”

“Ok. I can’t wait to tell you about this adventure. I love you.”

“I love you too, bye.”

My roommate Jacques was first to attempt departure only to return in a few hours. Airports feeding Europe were not accepting new passengers. We had traveled with a company called, Himalayan Experience (HimEx). My air tickets had been purchased through Air India. My first-world thinking was, “I’ll just change my tickets and reroute east.” Our HimEx representative took me to the Air India offices in Katmandu only to find them locked and deserted. We agreed my best choice was to fly to Delhi, obviously the home of Air India, and see if they could help me return home.

In Delhi, Air India was only issuing telephone numbers, “Please leave a message, we will return your call.” I didn’t have a phone or a place to stay. There was no traveler’s assistance or an agent to reroute my trip. I was on my own halfway around the world with a ticket I couldn’t use.

I found a quite spot with my sixty pounds of luggage and assessed the situation. Okay, you need money to do anything. I dragged my stuff over to the currency exchange booth, but the guy saw the Nepalese rupees in my hand a waved me off. Next was hauling my load over to an ATM. The card had a 10,000 rupee daily limit, so I had $170.00 to work with.

The cabs in Delhi are prepaid at the airport, which means you need a destination. I walked over to the cab booth and asked, “Best English, please?” One hand went up and I told him I needed a hotel near the airport for $80 to $100 dollars; he understood and handed me my document for the cabby. The hotel had a suite available and I took it. The hotel filled the following day owning to the other stranded travelers adapting similar strategies. I explained my situation to the manager,

“I have a ticket flying west, but I’m prepared to purchase a new ticket heading east if necessary. Can you or someone else help me?”

He thought of a moment and said, “I know some people, let me make some calls.”

The next morning he offers me a flight: Delhi, Bangkok, Tokyo, Honolulu, LA and Chicago for $3000 and I said no, I want to spend closer to $2000. Had I picked this flight, I’d still be in the air somewhere. Later, he calls with a direct flight Delhi to Newark for $2200 and I took it. Then he says, “You must drive to Old Delhi to buy ticket, they charge your card 1/3, 1/3, 1/3…I have car waiting.” I’m thinking what the hell have I gotten myself into?

We drove into the very bowels of Old Delhi and I began to wonder if I’d survive with both my kidneys. Nobody I loved knew where I was. I could have easily become an episode of ‘Unsolved Mysteries’. We wormed our way into this hole-in-the-wall place that looked like a travel company closet. I’m expecting Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet to appear. Lukla was scary, but so to was Old Delhi. In desperation, I looked at the driver,

“You wait for me.”

And he said, “Yes Sir, I wait.”

Once inside, my ‘agent’ offered me a drink. I said, “No thanks” thinking of my vital organs and I was outnumbered three to one. He dutifully charged the card three times, gave me my papers and with hasty relief, I jumped in the cab with kidneys and spleen intact.

That same night, I stood fidgeting in line at the mostly deserted airport, the proof of success would be if the guy hands me a boarding pass. Just to make things interesting, he asked me to step to the side for a while. I fiddled with my charge card looking for the international customer service 800 numbers in case I had to hold the charges. But he called me back up and suddenly, there the beautiful little thing was, my golden boarding pass, Willy Wonka couldn’t have done better. Many of my fellow trekkers were stuck in Katmandu for two weeks; I was one lucky traveler…I was going home.

The flight was on the US carrier, Continental. Entering the doorway, I was greeted by a crew from the USA. The pilot came on and said, “Good evening from the flight deck. Our route will now be taking us over the North Pole to miss the ash cloud. This would take more time, probably fourteen hours, but agents would be available in Newark to assist with connections. I didn’t care. I was going home. I had acquired the means to sleep on the plane while I was in Namche Bazaar. I was in the middle seat. Two hours into the flight I informed the lady in the window seat of my plan, “I’ll be sleeping so just climb over me if you need to and don’t worry about disturbing me.” To my delight she said that she had a similar plan. I bid my neighbors farewell, and woke up as we began our descent into Newark. I marched off the plane at 7:00 am, rested, refreshed and void of any jetlag.

As promised, after I cleared customs, there was a bank of agents ready to help me get home.

“Good morning Mr. Abell, how may I assist you?”

“Well my original connection was to Chicago, but if you have something to Milwaukee, that would be perfect.”

“I have a window seat to Milwaukee leaving in an hour.”

She checked my sixty pounds of gear and handed me my boarding pass. I love America.

I called Kristin and gave her the good news. Milwaukee is only an hour from home.

When I greeted her at the airport, I placed a Khata scarf from the Tengboche Monastery around her neck and gave her a kiss. Bless her heart, her first words were, “You’ve lost weight.” And I had, ten pounds.

We have a family tradition when returning from foreign countries. If we have a sensible arrive time, we stop at a Milwaukee custard stand called, Copps. It’s right on the way home. You know, a traveler misses soul food, hadn’t seen a cheeseburger in six weeks, maybe it’s a Wisconsin thing…it was marvelous.

I don’t remember what I said to my wife on the drive home. Three weeks in the Himalaya, the suffocation up high and my father’s ashes going up the mountain, carried enough fodder for stories galore. I know I blabbed away sharing the spectacular moments out of context as they triggered through my thought process and I was exhilarating to be home, but I still can’t pronounce, Eyjafjallajökull.

The Mist

At the first glow of dawn, I push away from the pier. I can taste the thick fog nestled on the lake like whipped cream on a piece of pie.

I push the oars across the windless mirror. Bullrushes raise from the water like the whiskers of a cat. As I pass through them, they part, explore the edges of my boat and whisper, Who is thissssss? I wonder if I’m the only person in the world gliding through bullrushes at this moment. These sounds are a gift, I am blessed to hear them. I am blessed to notice.

Waterfowl decoys are placed in several puddles at the thirty-yard sticks (3) we put in place. This predetermined distance means we don’t have to guess in the darkness and fog.

My boat is hidden along the shoreline bogs. Still dark, the lake remains cloaked in fog, but the dwindling stars can see me when I look straight up.

Ducks whistle past unseen and my adrenalin spikes as I take my comfortable seat. No, it’s more than a seat, it’s one of my happy places, a pew for one, front row for sunrise in natures infinite cathedral.

Shafts of sunlight begin poking through the hardwoods on east shore, warm fingers fiddling through the vagueness. Soon the fog is a rolling mist, then spiraling columns pulled skyward like the strings on a marionette.

And so, flies my soul.

Alex 1917

Wifie Kristin and I are in Finland. Our family agenda complete, we chose to hang around for and extra week and explore the region around Turku. On the western coast, it was the first major city dating back to the 13^th century. The Aura River archipelago holds 40,000 islands. As avid hikers, research lead us to the island of Ruissalo just ten minutes from our abode. Home to the 7.5-mile Ruissalo Island Trail Loop, a beautiful botanical garden, and the best hamburger I’ve eaten in 73 years at the Alex 1917 Eatery. (www.eateryalex1917.fi) Indeed, one of the top five meals we’ve enjoyed and we have been on all seven continents.

I’m not the food guy. My palate can savor and enjoy the culinary creations that pass through my pie hole, of course, but an acute dissection of the flavors, spices and techniques on the plate before me are generally left to my cherished family members, I wash dishes. In that spirit, I will endeavor to do my best.

The list of starters included a deep-fried cauliflower beignet with a beet puree. I lived in the French Quarter of New Orleans in the 70’s, that’s a different story for another time, memories of The Cafe Du Monde you see. Anyway, I had to order that. The beignet had a soft crunch with the lightly grilled cauliflower inside. The puree had a hint of spice that lingered after the swallow. Wow, who thought of this?

Sorry, but this was not just a burger. Organic throughout, most of the ingredients came from the island. The local beef cooked to perfection, the toppings included lettuce, onion and carrots, yes carrots, cheese and an epic au jus, on a toasted bun that wasn’t bread, but collapsed around the contents like a Sheboygan hard roll from City Bakery.

The French fries were double cooked, somehow, and came with a homemade curry inspired mayonnaise dipping sauce that should be illegal.

Kristin’s catch of the day was equally delicious prepared using the French sous vide vacuum technique which I had never heard of, a sensuous pesto, and mushrooms picked by the owner, Richie, that very morning.

Richie, our curious and engaging host, spent quality time with us sharing origin stories and explaining the restaurant philosophy, the history of the building, and the food preparation. A delightful and engaging culinary experience. The next time y’all are in western Finland, check it out.

Teach an Old Dog…

Our sixth-floor Airbnb apartment has a Nespresso machine. The pucks come in a variety of espresso and coffee flavors. Bar codes on the puck rim are read by a Lazer in the mother ship that communicate water and foam directions for each style of drink.

This Wisco-cheeser is late to this particular appliance party, but I love the one button, no think concept, especially when we travel abroad. Why we continue to use the trusted 20-year-old Cuisinart at home with a $184 Amazon delivery at our finger tips boggles the mind.

Perhaps it’s the, used pucks just add unnecessary waste to the planet, idea, but just about every consumer product ultimately becomes landfill, even humans for that matter.

I say, embrace the new technology and let the coffee machines think for us. As Professor Fate would say in the Great Race, “Push the button, Max.”

Ode to Annet the Airbnb

Annet, Annet, with your thick steel plating

Mooring lines secured, your next sail is waiting

Down your arched gangplank, with our luggage in hand

You sway with yellow legged seagulls and barnacle geese in the band

Diamond patterned decks, lead down rather large stairs

Cabins on both ends, enough for two pair

Tables, a kitchen and couches prevail

The windowless great room, as big as a whale

Only two skylights, will let in the sun

All hands-on deck, when the day has begun

We felt like we’re sailors, and rang the ships bell

We jumped in the water, and froze our butts well

Annet is in Finland, a place far away

But as world travelers, a unique place to stay

Your true endearing feature, had to be the ship’s loo

Cause the sink needed filling to flush down the poo

Old Friends – Part Three

It’s bad form to refer to friends as old. In this case, however, hiking boots come under a separate and honored category. They are trusted old friends that have transported me on many adventures.

Curriculum vitae (CV) from left to right.

#1 While on some field research in the late 90’s I visited beautiful old Quebec City in Canada. I returned with Kristin on a vacation because I loved the place. As we explored, I found these boots in a sporting goods store. I don’t recall the brand, but they were hand sewn and the pretty French speaking sales gal sold me with a smile. CV – Summit of Mt.Fuji and training for Kilimanjaro. Discarded.

#2 These were chosen specifically for Mt. Kilimanjaro. Hand sewn ASLO boots. On a separate visit to REI, Nate chose the exact same boot. The worn toes were rendered by the scree, gravel and rocks from our fifty mile traverse to 19,340 feet and back. Our Golden Retriever, Brando, ate the laces down to the eyelets upon our return. They were soaked with the salt from our perspiration on the two-day rapid descent. He was angry we did’t take him on the trip. Still on the shelf…with new laces.

#3 Glued Keen boots. Purchased for lighter weight and water resistant. They were prolific. CV – Mt. Everest Base Camp, Grand Canyon rim to rim, two Colorado 14ers – La Plata Peak and Mt. Sneffels. Discarded.

#4 Glued Keen boots. CV – 1200 mile Ice Age Trail across Wisconsin. The soles are worn smooth. I still in use for slopping around, but no rock scrambling.

Boot selection is the most important decision when planning a trek. All these adventures were blister free with only one exception. My heels suffered blisters on day two the Kilimanjaro descent from the accumulated perspiration. From the summit to the hotel, we passed through six eco-systems: Arctic, Highland Alpine Desert, Heather & Moorland, Rain Forest, Cultivation, and Desert. -7 to 90 degrees. No wonder the boots look a little care-worn.

Friendships – Part Two

As a young boy, I discovered that my father’s happy place was his library of mountaineering books, specifically, Mt. Everest and the Himalaya.

When he drank, there would always be a point at which he could not stop. My siblings and I witnessed dozens of horrific recoveries. Sometimes at home, sometimes in the psychiatric ward of a hospital. We couldn’t assist him, I know what helpless is.

My subliminal coping mechanism was to take him to the mountains to a place I believed the demons could not reach him. I visualized him on top of Mt. Everest countless times, always celebrating him there with tears of joy. This is creative visualization, pray believing. At the time, I had no idea I was cultivating an outcome.

Dad passed and was cremated. I made plans to hike to Mt. Everest Base Camp (17,500 ft.) I chose to hike in with the climbers and trekkers using the company, Himalayan Experience.

My goal was to deposit his ashes on a beautiful vista point called Kala Patthar in full view of Everest and the surrounding mountains. My secret goal, however, was to somehow share my story in the hope that someone would offer to take the ashes to the summit. I didn’t know the customs or wanted to burden anyone by asking. I just had faith that something would happen.

On the fourth day, I came around a corner and saw Everest surrounded by the continuous ridgeline that creates the Western Cum. In a breath, I knew I would succeed, I was going to reach my goal. The cathartic episode draped over my trekking poles lasted until I ran out of tears.

At lunch, the eyes of team doctor, Monica, could see I was out of sorts. She told me to slow down and be the last one into our evening camp.

Woody and I saying goodbye at Everest Base Camp 2010

One guide was always the sweeper to ensure all the cows made it to the barn. On this day it was New Zealand guide, Mark Woodward (Woody). We walked side-by-side because the trail allowed it. We talked all afternoon and I shared my story. Woody was used to A type personalities bent on summit glory. I was the little boy, the namesake son, and the fifty-nine-year-old man covering this ground to bury my father. That day, I could see and feel his empathy even through glacier glasses. I knew he was the one that would help me. I was in the moment and presence of something very special: my dreams were real, I was in the correct location on earth, and I was walking with a guide who took clients to the summit every year. In total, he would climb Mt. Everest ten times. The air reeked with rightness.

Five days later, the day the trekkers left Base Camp to return home, I prepared the ashes as I packed my gear. The container was in my pocket and I reached for it when I approached Woody to say goodbye. He said, “How bout I take the ashes to the summit for you, mate?”

This incredible story had to be told. Upon my return, I took writing classes to learn how to craft my first award winning book, My Father’s Keep.

Years later, Kristin and I would visit New Zealand and have dinner with Woody and wife Roche. I told them if they were ever in the States, our door was always open.

In July 2024, they took us up on our offer, we just spent four days feeding them brats and seeing the July 4th fireworks on the lakefront in Sheboygan. They are driving through America across the lower 48 states on a Honda Gold Wing. None of their trips are small. They recently road bicycles around Taiwan. Being their host was a joyful enterprise.

This friendship is as unique as a specialized tool, the one needed to complete a specific task, a task impossible to render without it. Perhaps friendship is the wrong word to describe the childhood visualizations, the pluck it took to get this fifty-nine-year-old into the rarefied air of 17,500 feet, and the trust I felt walking next to Woody.

What Woody did for me wasn’t friendship, the word is, angel-business.

Friendships – Part One

When we live long enough, the friends that pass through our lives take many forms. Some begin in grade school or high school, the folks you don’t see for years, but the next meeting is like you had simply continued the last conversation. As adults, friends can ebb & flow, and sometimes, if we make ourselves available, very special relationships are born.

Kristin and I have traveled extensively. We always enjoy meeting people in new places. Many become Facebook pals or email buddies. On rare occasions, the energy and rhythms strike a symbiotic cord. A song of trust and mutual benefit becomes a rhapsody.

Liz was a client on our Intrepid Travel Tour in Moroco in 2013. Intrepid attracts international clients that speak English. She hailed from Australia, we were attracted to her: attitude, humor, and pluck straightaway. We admired her fearless negotiation skills in the confusing, mysterious and very male alleyways of the Moroccan Madina. In Fez and Marrakech they are walled, 1,000-acre covered shopping areas more difficult to navigate and exit than a Las Vegas casino.

As our amazing adventure came to a close, we invited each other into our respective homes if the opportunity presented itself. These offerings were not a casual, uncommitted, ‘let’s do lunch’. They were seeds sown with expectation.

In several years time, our travel lust took us on a tour of New Zealand and Australia. That trip ended in Sidney. Liz, her husband Mike, and their dog Harry picked us up at our hotel and drove us two hours away to their home in the Blue Mountains. The seeds would germinate.

Our time with them included a Land Cruiser expedition into the out back. A days drive on dirt roads parallel to railroad tracks with Roos shadowing our progress. Our destination was an abandoned Sheep Station. The pens and sheering tables were there to explore, no sheep, but the flys remained. At night, our walkabouts were a canopy of dazzling stars unmolested by ambient light with curious Kangaroos at every turn. These were wonder-filled experiences with our new friends that helped render our relationship.

Our friends from OZ are robust explorers and campers. It wasn’t long after our return from down under that they rang us up and told us they wanted to travel around the US. The plan was to purchase a camper and explore the lower 48 states.

The cosmic forces would do their work. In a national search, Mike found the style of camper he was looking for in the town of West Bend, Wisconsin thirty minutes from my home.

This fellow had just put the camper up for sale and the first inquiry came from Australia? Mike called me and asked if I could go over, take a look at the camper, and validate his interest from far away. I would find out this gentlemen knew my cousin who lived on the same lake, instant credibility.

The next trip Stateside was the search for a suitable truck. Mike’s greatest obstacle was rust. No vehicle in Australia has rust. If it did it, couldn’t be sold. Mike would create a new paradigm that included vehicles that have lived in the salt on winter roads. They would call their camper/truck rig, Beast.

The purchase and title were made easier because we let them use our Wisconsin address.

Eight trips, Covid, 40,000 miles, and thirty-eight States later, our friends have sold their rig to a gentleman from Ohio. It’s time to focus on a new grandchild.

Mike and Liz are simply good people who are easy to be around. They enjoyed an Abell Family Thanksgiving, our summer cabin, and fell in love with Wisconsin’s Supper Clubs.

Yes, we’re just a Zoom call away, but the eleven-year cooperation and the laughs around the fire at the cabin have come to a reluctant, inevitable close.

I’m not too old to cry.

Memories are Forever

What marks the conclusion of an adventure? Was it our pile of well used survival suits or the final walk down the gangway?

This was an expedition, not a cruise. Those suits were doled out on our first day. The racks of lifeless red dolls looked like the drone pods from Star Wars. “The water is 0 degrees Celsius or 32 degrees Fahrenheit. These suits will keep you alive for six hours if necessary.” Alrighty then.

The zodiacs left the ship twice a day, and so too, did the suits.

Briefs, regular socks, and non-cotton t-shirt.
Long underwear, top & bottom.
Two more pair of wool boot socks.
Sweat pants.
Light insulated hooded jacket.
Neck buff.
Survival suit.
Life vest.
Stocking cap.
Gloves.
Mittens.
Camera & safety cord.
Binoculars.
Handkerchief.
Knee-high insulated rubber boots.
Goggles
And a smile.

Kristin and I would regale the process we repeated a dozen times, “Oh, there’s that sock.” Or “Shit, I forgot the long underwear.”

Timing was a consideration because if you had to stand around the warm ship dressed for a January Packer Game at Lambeau Field, you could overheat.

We recognized the others by the style of eyewear or perhaps their favorite hat, but we were the same penguins waddling around on the ice even though penguins live in the south.

If that pile of suits could share what we saw and learned, they’d say; Polar Bears have black skin. Their ‘fur’ is clear, hollow hair follicles which makes them translucent when you see them up close and helps them float. A polar bears can swim for three weeks without stopping. When they hunt at seal breathing holes, they cover their black noses with snow so the seals can’t see them. The cute Polar Bears are the poster child for Global Warming, but they’re very adaptive. It’s the walrus that are loosing habitat and are endangered.

Our suits took us to a huge cliff populated with thousands of Auks. We all found a place to settle-in and spent an afternoon just watching and listening to these little jet aircraft. Singing their beautiful song and bolting from their tiny perches, in mass, as we were reminded not to keep our mouths open as they flew over us. Their eggs are pear-shaped so they don’t roll off the minute ledges.

Some folks come up here and only see the gray wet landscape. We had sun six of the eight days. The ice sparkled, the blue sky sat on us, and the mountains shimmered, untouched by human activity. The exhilaration of wilderness lives here.

I came for the wilderness and the wonder, everything else was a bonus. This is a land where the indigenous people have 101 names for snow.

“Now, where’s the damn sock?”

Longyearbyen, Svalbard

This is the ridge where the hikers jumped.

Think of the historical images you’ve seen of Tombstone or Doge City: buildings constructed from similar materials and colors, the dust, roads straight by necessity, and corrals of snowmobiles in this environment instead of horses, and you caint bring them shoot’n irons into the saloon or the general store.

This is a place where you wait for the sun to go down, but it never does. Ever-present warming signs remind new visitors to be mindful of marauding polar bears. In our introduction, we heard the story of two hikers that ascended a huge ridge above town. As our leader traces the event with his finger, he describes the attack, “Their choice was certain death or jump.” And after a pause, “They survived.”

The surrounding mountain sides are a smooth, dark brown sand dune texture. Plummeted by ages of wind, ice, and time. The snow glistens, untouched by human activity.

The exhilaration of wilderness resides here. That is something I covet.