Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees (Montreal, Day 4)

Home again. Well, home for the twins, anyway. I'm currently in my sister's basement recovering from the nine-hour (including the hour wait in customs) ride back from Montreal, my neck still in a crick from my trapeze pratfall. I'm looking forward to some shut eye before diving into the pile of work awaiting me.

We left Montreal at what felt like the butt-crack of dawn, considering how late we've been sleeping in, and completed the one-hour drive west to Rigaud with time to spare. Despite the nap in the car, the twins, I knew, were ecstatic to finally be going on the zip-line, which they'd been looking forward to ever since I first made their itinerary months ago. Now, despite each one having been penalized nearly half an hour for some less-than-savory behavior, they would finally get the chance to see what all the fuss was about.

Compared to Arbraska's Barrie, Ontario, location, the Rigaud park is far larger and more diverse in its offerings. Had I been able to move my neck, I would have had a blast. Instead, I sat out and contented myself with getting embarrassing video footage for the montage for the twins' b'nai mitzvah next year.

After finishing the beginners' course, the kids moved onto L'Aigle, a course consisting purely of zip-lines, including a 750-footer and one that stretched over the golden fields of an open meadow, where groundhogs scurried for cover whenever a zip-liner screeched past overhead. Only a few reminders to keep their legs straight and to steer with their hands, and they were flying through the canopies like pros.

When their aunt-allotted time was almost up, we found the Tarzan Rope, a one-game course that consisted of hurling yourself off a platform into space, sailing across the void on the aforementioned rope, and grabbing the cargo net on the other side. After my trapeze experience, I doubt I would have been so brave as to voluntarily propel myself off a 25-foot platform face-first into a net. But they both did it, even if Micaela did flail about for a moment before finding foot purchase. (See snort-inducing video below.)

Before any of us realized it, we had to head home. Not only were we dreading the ride, but the twins were especially not looking forward to returning to school the following day. At the end of our trip, we were a little slaphappy, and while recapping some of the weekend's highlights over lunch, we were pleased to find the small cafe empty, as we couldn't help cackling hysterically over the horrible waitress from the day before. Just saying, "I'll give you a tip" caused the two to fall into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

The line at the border was far longer than when we'd come through a few nights earlier (we were the only ones crossing at midnight), but the interrogation was far less harsh, and this time the kids were prepared for such questions as "How is this woman related to you?" and "What is your mother's last name?" (The latter threw Micaela off, since Ilene often still uses her maiden name.)

But we made it through, and I spent the rest of the ride telling stories about airhead students, redhead rivalries, and misadventures abroad. Before nodding off, the twins bounced around ideas as to where we should go on our next adventure, their heads dreaming up grandiose voyages on foreign continents. They balked at my idea of youth hostels, but train travel appealed to Carter. Micaela seemed to only be satisfied with staying in high-end hotels, no matter how much we extolled the virtues of a sleeping car on rails.

But that's all at least another year away. They're still digesting their memories of Montreal. And I've yet to recover from the trapeze -- or our Egg-spectation waitress.







Day 1: An Egg-cellent Journée Dans La Ville
Day 2: Merde! Trapeze Drama
Day 3: A Day in Old Montreal
Day 4: Zip-Lining: Adventures in Trees

Why We Travel -- According to American Express

Recently, I've been getting an influx in travel-related press releases. It's nice to know this little blog o' mine is getting noticed.

After my post some months ago about my experience with the new site RezHub, I received a response from a site employee within the week. (I apologize for not responding, RezHub Rep. If only you knew the full status of my current Ulysses-like living situation. Sans cyclops. Kind of.) That was the first time I'd realized that the couple hundred regular readers -- not to mention the thousands of irregular readers -- reading my blog weren't just friends I'd made on various jaunts over the last decade or so.

Many of these press releases leave me, shall we say, wanting. I don't really give two craps about the new eco-lodge in Indiana. I'm glad more people are hopping on the eco-gravy train, but I just drove through Indiana on my way out to NYC, and if the gods favor me, I won't be passing through the Hoosier State on my way back. (This has nothing to do with the fact that Googling "Hoosier State" yields "Hoosier State Semen Supply" as the third result. Honestly.) However, once in a while, something lands in the ol' inbox that's worth repeating.

The latest was from American Express. I know, I know -- I'm a corporate sell-out, blah blah blah. But I actually liked the angle of their latest customer survey: The Purpose-Driven Vacation. I believe that traveling can do so much more than relieve the frazzled nerves of us Western workaholics. It can also benefit the residents, flora, and fauna of the destinations we visit. Case in point: When one of my oldest and dearest friends visited New Orleans last weekend, she and her husband went out of their way to volunteer eight hours of their four-day trip. And they didn't do it just to rack up the karma points. Zi told me she felt that it gave her a better perspective of the city, not to mention that it might have countered the bad juju from having gawked at the worst-hit city districts from the comfort of a tour bus.

I guess a lot of us are feeling that way, according to Amex's survey. Here's the breakdown I found to be most significant:

• 87% of travelers indicate that personal interests drive the majority of their vacation plans
  
• 60%* of travelers say the stronger they feel about a passion, the further they’ve traveled for it
  
• 57%* of respondents are willing to travel any distance to explore their personal interests
  
• 36% of those surveyed said they wouldn’t consider a vacation destination that doesn’t help them fulfill at least one personal passion
  
• 71%* of respondents have discovered a “new passion” while on vacation
  
• 34% of vacationers have discovered a passion on vacation and incorporated it into their home life

Vacations that incorporate personal passions also tend to be longer by almost double the number of days compared to those trips that do not include personal interests (16 days versus 9); more frequent (6 trips versus 3); and more expensive ($3,900 versus $2,400).

Adventure Travel as Undergraduate Degree

Now, why the heck didn't they have this as a major when I went to school? Arizona's Prescott College is now offering an undergraduate degree in Adventure Education, a discipline that includes courses ranging from Aboriginal Living Skills to Environmental Perspectives and White Water Rafting. Seriously. I would have been much more likely to show up for my 8AM if it had involved kayaking a cool mountain stream rather than analyzing the text of depressed French existentialists. I wonder what the dorms are like -- homemade yurts? Lean-tos? Recycled cast-offs from the architecture school?

Arizona's climate and topography offer a killer location for a variety of adventure disciplines, albeit not my favorite: diving. For that you have to take one of the off-site, south-of-the-border classes that heads to the Gulf of Mexico.

Several other universities -- including Colorado's Fort Lewis College, Idaho State University, and the University of New Hampshire -- offer similar, competing disciplines. I'd consider returning to school if Hawaii would come up with a similar master's program. Hells yeah.

How Green Is Your Destination?

I'm a sucker for quizzes, even though I know from the moment I click the very first improbable multiple-choice answer that I'm going to be disappointed. I'm going to rail against whatever idiot wrote the answer key that declares me so un-green I'm brown or so uneducated about the planet that I might have grown up on Mars.

So I was only slightly perturbed by the 75 I scored on the Sierra Club's recent "How Green Is My Destination?" quiz. How serious can you take a quiz when question 4 suggests that once you get to your destination you should "Go somewhere and stay put"? It's a travel quiz, people, not a stationary quiz. Not only were some of the provided answers questionable, some of the more pertinent answers weren't even on there.

How do you get to your destination? for example. In some parts of the world, it's much more eco-friendly to travel via train -- despite the distance -- than by boat, car, or plane. What about the country or city's penchant for doing green? Supporting sustainable destinations -- not just the hotel or lodging -- is just as important as how far they are, or whether or not you use mass transit once you get there. Conversely, if your transportation methods are questionable but your reason for visiting -- especially with voluntourism on the rise -- is entirely green, that too should be taken into account. But it isn't.

Ten half-assed questions ain't gonna cut it, Sierra Club. But read the quiz anyway, if you're so inclined.


http://www.sierraclub.org/howgreen/destination/

How Green Is Your Hotel?

I was all excited to check out RezHub.com, the highly touted new travel site that assists users in making greener travel choices. Alas, my first few attempts to load any page of the site resulted in either "sorry" pages or plain out gobbledygook.

While I waited to access the site itself, I did a bit of investigating and learned the following. Unlike some sites, RezHub is pretty open about how properties earn their Green Score. Green amenities are given point values from 1-3, depending on the level of effort required by the hotel. Serving organic food, for example, earns only one Green Point, while using Green Key Cards earns three. A hotel's total number of Green Points determines how many Green Branches it is awarded -- 1-6 points earns one lonely branch, while 25-30 points scores a whole tree, or five maximum branches.

Since it turns out I'm actually in the market to buy a ticket today, I decided to put RezHub to the test. First thing I noticed is that the site's strength is obviously hotels, since that's where the homepage immediately directs you. But since I also may be in need of a room for one evening, I tried that out. Hmm. No results at all for Asbury Park, NJ -- and the site designers deemed it okay to leave the user on a dead, worthless page. Clicking "modify search" took me back to the homepage -- but didn't save the info (dates, number of guests, etc.) I'd already entered. Even Newark, NJ, resulted in squat. So far, no good.

Next up: Trying to find a flight to Newark for this week. Lowest price: $433, same as both Kayak and Cheap Tickets. But I didn't see any green info. So why would I use RezHub for tickets when I have my tried and true outlets?

It's only the site's launch. I'm sure it's officially in beta of some sort, so I'll give it another chance down the road. But I have to say that what I've seen so far isn't all that spectacular. If RezHub is going to stick around, it's going to have to offer a unique booking experience that actually works -- or start syndicating its green rating content. Oh, and change the name to something that actually speaks to us green-lovers. "RezHub" sounds more like a treatment for eczema than a green booking engine.

To Fly or Not to Fly (Hawaii, Day 7)

I'm not a morning person. Anyone who even slightly knows me that I just don't function in the a.m. hours, no matter what the time zone. So for me to wake at 5:30 a.m. -- during my vacation, no less -- you know I meant business. And business on this, my last full day on the island, was to get on an aircraft and see some friggin' lava.

I drove the two-plus hours back to Hilo, through rain, wind, fog, and multiple inefficient traffic stops, to be at the airstrip by 9 a.m. After getting somewhat lost and being assured by the airline operator that the pilot would be waiting for me, I arrived 10 minutes early to find an empty airstrip. No one. Nada. Pas d'avion. After staying on the line with the operator a while longer, I was assured that my flight would not take off without me. A member of the grounds maintenance staff confirmed that my ride would be back shortly, from what I understood through the thick Hawaiian accent and noise of the airport. Shortly after the plane emerged in the low-ceilinged sky 15 minutes later, I learned that my flight was, again, canceled due to inclement weather. Dammit.

To kill the few hours before my horseback ride in the Waipi'o Valley shortly after noon, I stopped in at Ken's House of Pancakes in Hilo, a local joint with an enormous menu to rival even that of a New York diner. From there I headed straight to the Valley, driving through a town that looked like the Old West relocated to a tropical isle. Our main guide, Keone (who told us his name was Hawaiian for "John") liked to crack jokes and make us smell rancid fruit (in this case, the noni, which has a scent reminiscent of a monkey's butt crack and resembles a bloated wart), took us down the steep incline into the valley, picking up a wayward bodyboarder along the way. (How he hung onto the back of the bucking van I'll never know.) Less than an hour later, we were saddled up and cantering into a valley of waterfalls, hippies, and mist-covered taro fields.

My riding companions -- most much more skilled at horseback than I -- were a motley crew of tourists from throughout the continental U.S., the loudest of who insisted on leading the pack and hootin' and hollerin' about every aspect of her life so that she almost scared off one of the wild horses who roamed Waipi'o. The haze lifted so that we didn't need the rain gear we'd brought, and our band made its merry way past the leased homes and squatters (an "inordinate amount" of which are named Dave, per The Book and seconded by Keone). I snapped almost as many shots as I had at Pololu, but few were as spectacular, given the fickle lighting and constant movement of my ride. Although I didn't get to ride over a volcano, this excursion made up for the flight in terms of shear spectacle. The perfectly ripe avocados, hand picked as we trotted along, made for a delightfully delicious end of the day, for both me and my trusty steed.

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Grounded in Hilo (Hawaii, Day 6)

I awoke with grand visions of lava-spewing vistas still dancing in my head. Today was the day I'd scheduled my biplane ride over volcanoes, a trip I'd planned toward the end of my vacation knowing that my diving would prohibit me from flying on certain days. The flight was one of the "must-do" activities I'd planned for my trip -- sister or no -- and I'd set aside a certain amount of vacation allowance for the event. I might not be able to light a stick on fire while walking on a lava flow -- as I'd seen on the Big Island's visitor channel -- but I could at least experience the volcanic wonders from the air. I hopped into my untrustworthy Sebring and headed for the far side of the Big Island.

Thus far, I'd seen only the "dry" side of the island -- from the brown stone fields of the Kohala coast to the cloud-obscured vistas just up the road from Kona. Rain had already canceled plans on one of my dry-side days, so I should have been prepared for massive amounts of precipitation in the rainiest city in the U.S. But that would mean I was being rational.

Living in LA for ten years has all but absolved me from having to know how to handle rain. I'm used to doubling my commute time at the mere whisper from a "weatherman" of approaching precipitation, but I've never lost my confidence in handling slick-surfaced pavement. My drive to Hilo almost made me feel like a native Angeleno. At one point, the rain pelted my windshield so hard that I was forced -- for the first time in my life -- to pull to the side of the road until I could see the road again. This from a driver who's bested the black ice of Michigan winters.

As I drove from one side of the island to the next, the landscape grew ever more lush, the green seeming to meld with the black pavement, which was interrupted more often than not by one-lane stop signals required by ongoing construction or road maintenance. To go the roughly 80 miles from my condo to Akaka Falls took almost as long as it would have in LA rush-hour traffic -- sans scenic overlooks. I could at least thank Lono that the view at Akaka was unobstructed by rain.


I killed the next few hours having sub-par pasta at Pescatore (seriously, how hard is it to make sauce for noodles, people?) and perusing the lackluster exhibits at the Pacific Tsunami Museum, where the docents were kind enough to let me recharge my camera batteries in anticipation of my afternoon volcano flight. When I learned my flight was canceled due to weather, I switched to Plan B, exploring the area's attractions, rain be damned. A cursory cruise around Banyan Drive and the Queen Liliuokalani Gardens made me wish for blue skies more worthy of photographing. Then north of Hilo I went, in search of the botanical gardens so many people had told me were worth the seemingly steep $15 admission.

I wasn't disappointed. The Hawaii Tropical Botanic Gardens merit the price, even in inclement weather. I took more photos here than I'd shot my entire vacation. I'm not usually a sucker for orchids, but I found myself in macro mode more often than not, so unusual were the blooms. Even though I spent less than two hours on the grounds -- in damp clothing, for the most part -- I found the gardens, and the scenic drive to get there, a high point of my trip. Rainbow Falls and the Boiling Pots, located just outside of Hilo, paled in comparison to the verdant dips and vales of the botanic paradise, as spotty as the signposts were.

When the day's rain finally let up on my return trip to Kona, I stopped in at Daniel Thiebaut, a posh eatery in Waimea, where I ensconced myself at the bar. (Note to local I met that night: My trip to Portland was cancelled, so I won't have any recommendations for your son. Sorry!) I then trudged back to Kona, intent on getting a good night's sleep for my return trip the next day. There'd be sun this time, right?

Day 1: Escape From Cube Life
Day 2: Manta Heaven
Day 3: Paddling to My Death
Day 4: The Southernmost Gaffe in the United States
Day 5: Somewhere Over Polulu
Day 6: Grounded in Hilo
Day 7: To Fly or Not to Fly
Day 8: Don't Make Me Go!

Anacapa: Unbagged (Channel Islands, Day 3)

The few bananas still on board didn't faze us, although at least one person tried to attribute the shape and yellow color of the kayak to Chris' unusual incident. After breakfast, during which we fended off the swarm of flies that had come aboard some time during the night, we took turns paddling the sheltered coves of Little Scorpion, dipping into narrow crevices and enjoying the roller coaster-like effect of the tide in such a tight squeeze. We’d seen a few pelicans at other anchorages, but at Little Scorpion they teemed on any open face of rock, so that we began to wonder why our first day’s cove had been named for the brown seabird and not here. We also spotted a sleek, black, red-billed bird (which I’ve since discovered is a black oystercatcher), but I could never get my kayak close enough to allow for a good shot. Sea lions made frequent appearances, sometimes frolicking close enough to the kayak I could make out their bemused facial expressions.

Kayaking through caves was a bit anticlimactic after Painted Cave, but it was still quite a thrill to navigate through open-ended caverns and launch out through the other side. The water was clear enough to see twenty feet to the bottom, illuminating the purple sea urchins, multi-armed sunflower stars, ochre sea stars, and the occasional skittish Garibaldi.

After turning over the kayak to Sally, I somehow got suckered into going snorkeling. Now, normally I’d jump at the chance to flipper around and ogle sea creatures, but the decidedly frigid water temperature – just about 60 degrees – and my lack of an adequate wetsuit made me hesitate. But soon Chris had convinced me that I’d regret not going, and that even if the water was cold, I’d remember the sights more than the bone-numbing coldness, so I acquiesced. Gary chauffeured us over in the dinghy to the mouth of a small sea cave, where I overcame my trepidation to plunge into the water. When I emerged, it was to spout a mouthful of expletives as the cold shot through every limb like darts. But I was already submerged, so I followed Chris, my limbs hugging my body, into the cave.

Perhaps he hadn’t learned from yesterday’s encounter with the cascade of blubbery bodies, but Chris swam well ahead into the darkness, intent on hitting the end of the cave, sea lion stampede be damned. I hung back at a slightly less risky location, just within sight of sunlight but not close enough for it to aid me in viewing my surroundings. I clung to the barnacled cave wall as the tide swelled in and out, raising me upwards sometimes two or three feet, as I saw the dim beam of Chris’ flashlight poke about ahead. He’d found another beach and was fixed on flopping ashore, his flippers still on. I imagined various creatures trolling the floor below me, but clung fast, telling myself they’d eat him before me.

Finally he returned, and we swam around a rocky outcropping to the sea cave we individually kayaked through that morning. I spotted a spider crab dozing on the sea floor, then allowed the tide to push me forward into the cave, where the seabed rose to present a mesmerizing pattern of sand. The currents popped us out through the other end, and we explored the critters on the outside of the cave before hauling ourselves, me shivering, back into the dinghy for our return trip to the Sun Soleil.


Soon we had raised anchor and, now completely under sail power, we set our bearing for the lighthouse on Anacapa, which is actually comprised of three small islands which in total are still far smaller than Santa Cruz. Despite its size, Anacapa is a main stopping point for many visitors to the Channel Islands, due in part to the lighthouse and visitor’s center, as well as its system of moderate hiking trails. In rough waves, the four of us managed to get situated in the dinghy, while Gary navigated through the massive kelp beds just offshore. While the others took charge of bringing the dinghy on land, with the help of a pulley, I marched up the steps in search of a true flush toilet, pausing halfway up to admire the stark blue waters of the cove and the kelp pulsing in the surf.

None of us ever set foot on the true island though, because soon I was fetched to return to my friends, who had been sought out by park rangers. We soon learned that there was a problem back on the Sun Soleil and that we were to be shuttled back, now donning NPS life jackets. As a few island visitors – more than we’d seen in our previous two days – snapped shots of us refugees, we looked sadly back at Anacapa, unvisited its lighthouse, and unconquered sea arch, each vowing to return and bag the island. We received some solace in learning from the rangers exactly what it was that we'd discovered at Pelicans: a 26-foot basking shark.

Somehow, in the rough chop, we made it back aboard the Sun Soleil without getting squished between the NPS vessel. Gary told us of his engine problems, which he assumed may have been from cruising through a bed of gnarly kelp, and said our trip would have to be cut short. We reluctantly headed back towards the mainland, each taking turns at the helm. It wasn’t without irony that Sally pointed out that there were still a few bananas on board.




Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Stampede of the Sea Lions (Channel Islands, Day 2)

We slept well last night -- almost nine hours, in fact -- fatigued by our many encounters with rotting animals and the unending activity of hauling anchors, hoisting halyards, and searching for the perpetually elusive "bag of bags" in the chaos of the galley. After a breakfast of omelets, the Sun Soleil headed towards Painted Cave, which, depending on which source you read, is either the world's largest sea cave or one of the largest. Cap'n Gary sent us off in our vessels -- Chris in the inflatable kayak, Robert, Sally, and I in the dinghy -- and circled about in the cove awaiting our return.

As we paddled into the opening -- 160 feet tall, according to the National Park Service site -- we met up with a small flotilla of kayaks on their way out, having ventured only halfway into the quarter-mile long tunnel due to lack of sufficient lighting. When they saw our giant beacon, they followed us back inside, hoping to see more of the lichen- and algae-painted interior.

Just inside the entrance, on a ledge on the right wall of the cave, perched a few smaller sea lions, who slept on, seemingly oblivious to our presence. But as we ventured further inwards, their blubbery friends splashed down from rock outcroppings on either side as we passed their resting places, only to bob up as silhouettes now and again. The sound of the surging surf subsided the further we went back, until, after rounding a corner, it was a soft droning hum, accompanied by the soft dripping of water from the cave’s roof. We paddled as far towards the back as we could, now completely dependent on the uber-beacon’s light. Chris, in the faster and more agile craft, led the way, warning us of protruding rocks and steering us away from dead ends.

Finally, we reached the back wall of the cave, which ended in a rocky beach that sloped precipitously upwards. Intent on seeing the farthest reaches of the world’s largest sea cave, Chris positioned his kayak parallel to shore, ready to hop out and explore on foot. From the dinghy, roughly 15 yards behind him, I shone the spotlight for him to see, while Sally and Robert steered us. When the rocks suddenly began spilling into the water like a stone waterfall, I had visions of the whole cavern collapsing – something akin to the ending of The Goonies, only much, much darker. In the light of our beacon we watched as a stampede of sea lions poured down the slope, leaping over and under Chris and nearly swamping his inflatable kayak. Their eyes shone like laser pointers in the darkness, then disappeared as they flopped into the water, their dark shapes flying towards us and creating a small current of waves as they disappeared into the dark.

Once the chaos was over, we noticed that our tagalong friends had beat a swift retreat away from the marauding pinnipeds, and Chris related how the sea lions had been so close he could smell and feel them, that they had bumped him from beneath as they darted into the watery depths. Although we hadn’t spotted the cave’s resident elephant seal, we’d had quite an adventure to tell when we returned to the mainland. On our way out of the cave, we spotted another “floaty dead thing,” then ran into two members of the Synapse, who seemed tickled pink by our story of the sea lion stampede.

We returned to the Sun Soleil, which we now steered towards Little Scorpion, on the lee side of the east end of Santa Cruz. There, Gary told us, we’d have ample time for kayaking and snorkeling before our evening meal. But we first wanted to give our sea legs a little land time, so back in the dinghy we went, heading towards a small inlet that, we were told, would lead to some pleasant hiking trails. We strolled upwards for some time, but after seeing nothing of note except endless grassy hills, we rested a bit, enjoying the stability of solid ground beneath us.

After that night’s dinner of spaghetti, we once again headed topside for a reprise of the Perseids. Although the sky was even clearer than yesterday, we didn’t see as many fireworks, although the few we did see were quite spectacular, lasting for several seconds as they streaked across the sky. One final day, then it’s back to the mainland for good.






Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged

Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"? (Channel Islands, Day 1)

It seemed to bode well that we had quite the picture-perfect sailing day as our boat, Sun Soleil (repetitive, no?), motored through the marina at Channel Islands Harbor. The sun was high in the azure sky, a few billowy clouds floated about, a slight breeze carried us to the harbor inlet towards the open ocean. However, our first misfortune befell us before we'd even made it past the breakwater: Our craft's motor wouldn't start after we stopped for gas. Sally, whom Cap’n Gary had designated his first mate, theorized that our luck was due to the presence of bananas – a no-no at sea, she explained. An hour later and a visit from a Marina Sailing mechanic, we were finally on our way, crossing the slight chop under motor and sail to make up for the lost time.

We arrived at Pelican Bay around 6PM, where there were already a few other boats anchored. After ferrying our cap'n over to the Synapse, our sister boat, our crew of four dragged our dinghy ashore for a brief exploration. As we rowed to shore, we spotted a bleached white blob floating in the water and paddled near it until we realized it was a sea lion carcass, a foul-smelling one at that.

Once on shore, we found the small waterfall -- a trickle, really -- then headed in the opposite direction to Little Pelican, where we found a most unusual sight. Lying at the edge of the incoming tide was an enormous carcass -- shark or whale, we couldn't be sure. Chris, the resident expert on aquatic critters, having trained dolphins for several years, poked the enormous body with a stick trying to discern what the hell it could be. He estimated the body to be about 22 feet, but with most of the head already rotted and submerged under the beach's rocks, it was difficult to know how long it had been when it had been alive, let alone what it had been. We saw what we thought might be claspers, indicating shark, but we weren't aware of sharks in these waters that grew to such a length. Although great whites weren't uncommon, it didn't have the markings of the species, nor had either of us heard of one that big.

Despite our CSI attempts, we knew one thing for certain: The animal had died after being caught in a fishing net, the remains of which were still wrapped around its maggot-riddled body [video]. It had probably been dead for more than a few days, as evidenced by its distended belly, upon which sat a rock – either as a sign of respect from a previous passerby or at attempt to cause the carcass to explode, we weren’t sure. On the off chance that the corpse was that of the incredibly rare Megamouth shark, which I’d recently read had only been sighted or caught less than 50 times, Chris extracted some teeth from the corpse’s mouth. They were smaller than human teeth and pointed, not conical like that of a whale’s, so we kept them in the hopes we could ask an expert once we’d returned to the mainland.

We met up with the crew of the Synapse, showed them our odorous discovery, then hiked a nearby ridge for a view of the sunset before hiking back down the stairs of the erstwhile Pelican Bay hotel and paddling back to our vessel. After a dinner of mayonnaise-basted fish (I opted for a veggie burger), we headed topside for an unspoiled view of the Perseids, which delivered some jaw-dropping meteor-shower scenes.

Our first day in the "Galapagos of the Americas" and the only wildlife we’d spotted was of the dead, putrid-smelling variety.


Day 1: Santa Cruz: Spanish for "Isle of Corpses"?
Day 2: Stampede of the Sea Lions
Day 3: Anacapa: Unbagged