Swimming With Whales
By Andy Wald
As I peer out the window of the reconditioned 1945 DC-3, I notice oil leaking from a bushing on the wing. I hail the flight attendant, and she assures me that it’s OK. “Happens all the time.” I begin to wonder what I’ve gotten my family and our close friends into.
After traveling for nearly 23 hours and on four planes, we finally arrive safely at Vava’u, one of Tonga’s two main islands. We have come to Tonga, which consists of about 160 islands and is located 400 miles east of Fiji in the South Pacific, to sail for 10 days on a 45-foot catamaran.
Our boat is being prepped for us as we arrive at the dock. After a quick map study showing us the shallow reefs and hard-to-find anchorages to stay away from, we’re off. We are the captain and crew. We are here because of the uncrowded sailing, great snorkeling and humpback whales. Our first few days are filled riding the ocean breezes and swimming around beautiful coral reefs.
The humpback whales come here from Antarctica during the winter months to birth their young. As we sail, young whales and adults breach near our boat, almost coming entirely out of the water. Some follow us.
On our fourth day, we board a small, double-decker sightseeing boat for a chance to swim with these gentle giants. We are assured that there is no danger, as these whales have no teeth. But, they can weigh up to 40 tons! As we approach a small pod, the engine stops and our group quietly slips into calm water. We follow our guide closely until we’re within 10 feet of these enormous creatures. Four of them are at and just below the surface, barely moving. It feels odd being next to these giants with everything around so still. I want to reach out and touch one, but we are told not to because they startle easily. We just gaze wide-eyed, mesmerized by their size. I wonder what they think about us. Then, as if silently signaling one another, they slowly move away.
Almost all our meals are eaten aboard the catamaran. We plan our only trip to a restaurant with a morning call for reservations so the chef/owner knows how much food he’ll have to buy for the evening. Our arrival is via dinghy at a rickety old pier, and from there we walk up a long path to the hilltop restaurant. We are greeted with drinks and beautiful views of our anchorage, other islands and an incredible sunset. Our table is outside.
The food is good and interesting, but not as interesting as our host/chef/owner. He tells us the story of how he acquired the restaurant. One day while at home in Germany, he happened to see this restaurant for sale on eBay. He liked cooking and thought that coming here and opening a new business would be an “adventure.” So he bought it sight unseen. He claims with delight that he has had no regrets.
I think we are not so different from our restaurant friend. Tonga is an adventure, both getting here and being here. It’s a trip we made based only on a video we watched. In the end, we, too, have no regrets.
Andy Wald lives in Chevy Chase with his wife, Tess. The couple has two children. He is an avid sailor, a psychotherapist and a nature photographer.
Tackling Wilson Peak
By Cindy Steuart
Visiting Mexico in 1989, I stood atop an Aztec pyramid, waiting for the sun to rise. Light spread across the stones, and then it was time to descend. But I couldn’t breathe—or move. For the first time, I was paralyzed by a fear of heights and didn’t know how to get down. I imagined myself in a deadly tumble down the immense pyramid blocks.
I edged my way around the top of the pyramid to a centuries-old rusty chain, anchored at the apex as a belay to add a measure of safety to the descent. Looking only at my white-knuckled hands, I backed down the pyramid, the chain gripped tightly in my fingers. Light-headed, chest tightening, palms sweating, I thought it would be a miracle if my feet touched the ground.
For the next 19 years, standing on a tall ladder was enough to send a wave of nausea through me. After that episode, I avoided places and situations where I’d be up and there’d be nothing between me and down. But as I approached my 50th birthday last year, a small but persistent voice urged me to confront my fears.
Each summer for the last 10 years, my family and I have spent at least several weeks in Telluride, Colo. Telluride is surrounded by mountains, and most days we take long and often challenging hikes. But I have steered clear of trails that would take me near precipices or that would require steep rock climbs. In recent years, Wilson Peak, rising 14,017 feet in the rugged San Miguel mountain range in southwestern Colorado, has been beckoning me, mocking my fears.
It’s been said that a mountain claims her own and woe to the adventurer who fails to acknowledge that truth. Wilson Peak has had tragedy etched onto her craggy face. In 2005, a Virginia climber mistepped and fell to his death. In 2006, a small plane crashed nose-first into Wilson’s topmost edge, the pilot’s visibility impaired by a surprise September snowstorm. Wilson Peak, for all her beauty, is a mountain to be taken seriously.
I know her stats. Wilson Peak is a Class 3 climb on a 1-5 rating system. This means extreme terrain, scrambling over rocks on hands and knees, and in some places, using ropes as a measure of security.
Last summer, my friend Damon Johnston, a Bethesda native turned Telluride resident, offered to guide me to the top of Wilson. Johnston, an accomplished rock climber and mountain guide, assured me he could get me safely to the top. On a clear morning in July, we met in the pre-dawn hours to begin my quest to “bag” Wilson Peak. We witnessed a spectacular sunrise, which I took as a good omen. During the hour drive from Telluride to the trailhead over rough, fourwheel-drive roads, Johnston maneuvered his Toyota truck around fallen trees, through streams and seemingly up and over small boulders.
Hanging on to the edge of the seat, coffee splashing on my pants, I wondered just how safe I would feel once the day really got underway. Even though it was July, I dressed for 40-degree temperatures at the beginning of the hike, knowing layers would peel off as we climbed, only to be quickly put on again once wind and higher elevations chilled us. Rain gear, plenty of water, lunch and a camera were in my pack. Lightweight gloves, a stocking cap, neck scarf and trekking poles rounded out the gear. Johnston also carried ice picks and ropes, precautionary equipment for unknown conditions.
The climb
Four other Telluride friends of Johnston’s joined us at the trail head for our departure; we left at dawn in an attempt to reach the summit before regular afternoon thunderstorms might force us to abandon the hike. Quickly reaching the tree line at 11,000 feet, we marched silently, single file, through boulder-strewn fields of rock, gaining 2,000 feet in elevation.
There was nothing green growing here—no grass, trees, not even a hardy columbine flower. As the air grew thinner, our steps slowed. We encountered snowfields, softened and made mushy by the summer sun, still hugging the mountainside. Traversing the steep slope, we hiked across the snowfields at a slightly uphill angle, turned and hiked in the opposite direction, again gaining a little elevation. We carried ice picks to stab into the snow in case we slipped or the snow gave way and sent us careening down the mountain. After two hours, we reached a knife-edge ridge; sweeping valleys stretched steeply downward on both sides. I was thankful to have solid footing despite the sharpness of the ridge.
The vastness of the view—mountains as far as the eye could see, no visible sign of humanity besides us—was soaring and beautiful. We walked chin to chest in an attempt to stay warm and ward off the chill of the wind. I thought the summit was just ahead, and I convinced myself I could fight off the monster of fear that was clamoring about inside my head, trying desperately to convince me to sit down and say “no more.” The confidence of my guide and hiking companions forced a bit of false bravado, and I bravely forged ahead, occasionally muttering under my breath about a helicopter rescue should I lose my footing, or just as importantly, my nerve.
It was just the beginning of our climb. The hike leading to the narrow crest was prologue. From the ridge, we began the real ascent by scrambling over rocks, sometimes crouching to keep a low center of gravity. Johnston reminded me of the three-point rule—keep two feet and a hand, or two hands and a foot, on a solid surface at all times. On this mountain covered in loose, sharp rock, a hold must first be tested to see if it is solid to avoid falling thousands of feet.
