Janello Words

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Apr 5 '09
“Williamsburg,bklyn: italian cheescake/espresso
-Jahnello”

Apr 5 '09
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Apr 5 '09
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Aug 1 '05
ABRUZZO, ITALY-AUGUST 2005 The burn in my throat was overpowering. As the lemony, dry, liquid raced past my esophagus and headed towards my stomach I could feel my three-course, homemade, Italian meal race around looking for a place to hide. When the fluid hit my stomach my brain went into overdrive sending a distress signal from my tear ducts to the far reaches of my toes. My neck hairs were at attention. My right hand squeezed the recently emptied shot glass with the power of a vice grip hand tool as my last few puffs of air passed over my vocal chords and released a whisper of an alarm. “Lets get out of here!”, I gasped. It was just shy of 2 hours ago when I was wandering about on the twisted, utterly deserted, cobblestone streets of Castel del Monte, a small hill town plopped smack in the middle of the Apennine Mountains in Italy’s Abruzzo province. My watch read 1pm. Danielle, my travel partner, and I had just finished an interesting discussion with a modern day Shepard about 9-11 and the aftermath. As he herded his flock through one of the great Apennine valleys, majestic granite mountains rising up around us on all sides, he spoke in rapid Italian about the devastation, TV images and US policy. We followed his words as best we could before we bid him arrivederci and set off to the lonesome Castel del Monte to find some food. We had been walking around the town for about a half of an hour and we hadn’t seen anyone except a nana feeding her three cats scraps from her last meal. Finally we turned a bend and saw a thicker more modern road that seemed to sit at the bottom of the hill town. Crossing the road we saw a line of shops and bars that seemed to have a few locals lingering around. Still desolate we stepped into a bar and asked the bartender if he knew of an open restaurant where we could get some lunch. He replied by telling us this was a bar and not a restaurant and that he was out of “bar food”. Bar Food usually refers to small pizzas and some Panini sandwiches. We must have fouled up the words in our translation so we referenced our English to Italian dictionary and tried again. This time we had more of a short conversation and a lot of hand gesturing. In the end the man hung his body over the counter and yelled out into the street, “FABIO!!!!”. A few seconds later a young man, no older than 15, ran in from the street. The two exchanged words and then the boy ran off in one direction and the bartender motioned for us to follow him to the back of the bar. He led us through a door to a grand set of stairs. We climbed 2 stories and found ourselves standing in a hallway with three ornately decorated doors. Two were shut but the third one was ajar. The man pushed the door open revealing a huge dining room containing 10-12 tables, all set for patrons. There was no one else in the room.  He motioned for us to choose a seat and then disappeared out of the room and through one of the other closed doors. We slide into a seat near the window and took stock of the many pictures of mountain peaks displayed on the walls. The furnishings were a hodgepodge of tables and chairs with mismatched linens and distressed, old silverware. Before we could fully settle in, the bartender returned. His hands were wrapped around his back tying his apron strings as he approached the table. A paper chef’s hat, like the one you would see a soda shop clerk wearing in 1953, adorned his head. He asked us three one word questions which we replied an emphatic yes to all. He then disappeared into the back room once more. Our Italian was poor but we faired pretty well when in restaurants. We usually answered yes to any questions asked because no matter what food hit the table it was bound to be delicious. That is why we had no problem answering his vague and simple questions; Antipasti? Primi? Secondi? As we sat in silence at the table, still unsure of where we were and what had just happened in the bar, an eruption of clanging metal broke out from beyond the mystery door. As we tuned our ears we could make out the voices of the bartender, a women and Fabio, the boy from the street, arguing in Italian as the metal noises rose to a crescendo. The sounds of pots, pans, metal spoons, plates, glasses and trays all banging into each other began to clue us in to what was happening. They were opening this restaurant just for us. Dan and I sat still and silent as the kitchen symphony came to an abrupt end. The bartender reappeared for the third time. This time he arrived at our table with fresh hot bread and soft warm sheep’s milk cheese. The cheese spread onto the bread like hot butter finding its way into every nook of the delicious semolina loaf. The cheese was white and creamy with a mild flavor. Its salty whey dripped off the bread as I brought it to my mouth. The warm cheese and bread combined with a flavor and texture that reminded me of my grandmothers home made cooking. The cheese was so fresh that I imagined the scene in the kitchen, the bartender holding the sheep steady while the faceless chef tugged on an utter that poured the creamy cheese right onto the plate. As quickly as the bread disappeared the bartender arrived with our pasta course. A bowl of fresh linguine with a simple marina sauce was placed in front of each of us. With out missing a beat the bartender took a grater from his back pocket and a small piece of Parmagino Reggiano from his apron and grated a healthy portion into both bowls. The pasta was literally just cut and the gravy was a spicy smooth mix of what seemed like fresh garden tomatoes and herbs. Of course by this point I was so enthralled by the experience I could have been eating boxed pasta with Ragu and been just as excited. As we finished the pasta, I performed the ceremonial “bread-around-bowl” wiping tradition to scavenger the last of the sauce. The bartender arrived to remove our plates. With a smile and a “bueno” he nodded as we smiled back. We sat at the table digesting for a good 20 minutes before he appeared again. This time he carried two plates each with a single thin cut veal chop. This was a very Italian dish as we had come to learn. A single chop, grilled with nothing more than salt and pepper, on a plate was an old standby in many Italian restaurants. Nothing accompanied the chop on the plate but the juices that had managed to escape the meat on its journey from the kitchen to the table. Without missing a beat the two of us cut into the fresh, hot chops. It was unexpectedly, mouthwatering for such a simple preparation and thin cut of veal. We made quick work of the chop savoring it down to the very last bite. Unable to help myself I picked up the bone and stripped any remaining meat from it. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure there was no sign of the bartender, I reached for Dan’s bone and did the same. That’s the great thing about eating with Dan, she can put it away but always leaves a bit for me to nibble on. Satiated we pushed away from the table and simultaneously rubbed our bellies indicating to each other our sheer enjoyment of the meal. We were not sure how we managed to find this secluded, closed restaurant in a town with no one on the streets. Nor were we able to comprehend why the bartender told us he had no food and then brought us upstairs and opened the kitchen. But we were not complaining. The bartender arrived again removing or plates and meatless bones. He returned a few minutes later with a plate of watermelon. It was the perfect compliment to the other three courses we had just devoured. We slurped along from piece to piece smiling and discussing each course more intimately until all the red was gone and just the whitish-green rind was left. Realizing we had been eating for almost 2 hours Dan and I asked for the check using some butchered Italian coupled with the universal pen-signing motion. Of course this isn’t the type of place you take out the Amex card and sign anything but the bartender got the point. He disappeared into the kitchen and quickly returned with a small white plate that had a tiny piece of paper riding on top of it. As he placed it on the table and went back to the kitchen Dan and I leaned over to get a peak at the check. There were only 3 marks on the entire piece of paper. As Dan and I deciphered the bill, not prepared for such a simple solution, we laughed openly at what was written on the paper. A three, a zero and a euro mark was what this fantastic, overindulgence of a lunch would cost us. After a brief discussion with Dan, I opened my wallet and place two 20-euro bills on the plate. Dan and I had decided early in the trip that we were going to tip “American style” as we traipsed around Europe. In this particular instance we felt that our host deserved a bit more than even “American Style” tipping. After all, he did open an entire restaurant just for us. The bartender reappeared a few minutes later to collect the plate. We explained with a few gestures that we did not need any change and that the extra money was for him. I could see the excitement build up in his body and squeeze through his neck. Eventually his emotions reached his head erupting in an array of facial gestures that allowed us to comprehend his profound thanks and happiness. He quickly disappeared into the kitchen, his feet barely touching the floor. Dan and I knew that we were being a bit generous but had no idea how the extra 10 euros would effect our new friend. I heard the door of the kitchen crash open. As I looked up the bartender skidded to a halt at the edge of our table. He fumbled with two tall thin glasses as he placed them on the table. In his left had he grasped a large bottle containing a thin, yellow, liquid. He poured a large shot into each of the glasses emptying the bottle. He motioned to us that he would be right back. He then turned and zoomed back into the kitchen slamming the door into the wall once more. We assumed he had gone to retrieve more of the school bus colored booze. The overpowering smell of the booze jammed itself up my nostrils. As I looked across the table I could see by Dan’s expression that she was being assaulted in much the same way. I told her I couldn’t do the shot. The scent reminded me of the throat drying moonshine I once had in the Louisiana bayou, only this time with a twist of lemon. I emphasized my decision by explaining that I did not need to see my delicious meal again, especially because the next presentation of it would not be in comfortably timed courses and it would certainly be much more liquid. As disgusted as Dan’s grimace looked she accepted the bartender’s gift and encouraged me to drink it. Not doing so would be an insult to our host she explained. I protested and added that he was on his way back with a fresh bottle from the cellar. If we finished the shots and then he came back we would be forced to drink again. Having not even mentioned my thoughts about driving down the thin mountain roads back to our farmhouse with 3 shots of hi-test lemoncello in my veins I had to find a way out of this restaurant. I decided to cut a deal with Dan. We were to down the shot and then make a break for the door, hopefully clearing the dining room before the bartender gets back with the fresh bottle, and B-line it to the street. She agreed. My feet were in motion before I even knew my brain had asked them to begin. Dan and I ran through the dining room door, passing the closed kitchen door unscathed by the bartender who was nowhere in sight. We began down the staircase. Spinning around the banister we could see the light poring into the front of the bar from the street. We slowed our speed to not call attention to ourselves as we opened the bar’s front door and stepped back onto the public street. We briskly walked a few storefronts away before we exhaled and looked back to see if the bartender had come after us. He hadn’t. Bursting into laughter Dan and I silently acknowledged the quite unpredictable ending to one of the best meals we had in all of Italy. Words and Images by J.Anello (contact: 516-991-3386/j@janello.com)

ABRUZZO, ITALY-AUGUST 2005

The burn in my throat was overpowering. As the lemony, dry, liquid raced past my esophagus and headed towards my stomach I could feel my three-course, homemade, Italian meal race around looking for a place to hide. When the fluid hit my stomach my brain went into overdrive sending a distress signal from my tear ducts to the far reaches of my toes. My neck hairs were at attention. My right hand squeezed the recently emptied shot glass with the power of a vice grip hand tool as my last few puffs of air passed over my vocal chords and released a whisper of an alarm. “Lets get out of here!”, I gasped.

It was just shy of 2 hours ago when I was wandering about on the twisted, utterly deserted, cobblestone streets of Castel del Monte, a small hill town plopped smack in the middle of the Apennine Mountains in Italy’s Abruzzo province. My watch read 1pm. Danielle, my travel partner, and I had just finished an interesting discussion with a modern day Shepard about 9-11 and the aftermath. As he herded his flock through one of the great Apennine valleys, majestic granite mountains rising up around us on all sides, he spoke in rapid Italian about the devastation, TV images and US policy. We followed his words as best we could before we bid him arrivederci and set off to the lonesome Castel del Monte to find some food. We had been walking around the town for about a half of an hour and we hadn’t seen anyone except a nana feeding her three cats scraps from her last meal. Finally we turned a bend and saw a thicker more modern road that seemed to sit at the bottom of the hill town. Crossing the road we saw a line of shops and bars that seemed to have a few locals lingering around. Still desolate we stepped into a bar and asked the bartender if he knew of an open restaurant where we could get some lunch. He replied by telling us this was a bar and not a restaurant and that he was out of “bar food”. Bar Food usually refers to small pizzas and some Panini sandwiches. We must have fouled up the words in our translation so we referenced our English to Italian dictionary and tried again. This time we had more of a short conversation and a lot of hand gesturing. In the end the man hung his body over the counter and yelled out into the street, “FABIO!!!!”. A few seconds later a young man, no older than 15, ran in from the street. The two exchanged words and then the boy ran off in one direction and the bartender motioned for us to follow him to the back of the bar. He led us through a door to a grand set of stairs. We climbed 2 stories and found ourselves standing in a hallway with three ornately decorated doors. Two were shut but the third one was ajar. The man pushed the door open revealing a huge dining room containing 10-12 tables, all set for patrons. There was no one else in the room.  He motioned for us to choose a seat and then disappeared out of the room and through one of the other closed doors.

We slide into a seat near the window and took stock of the many pictures of mountain peaks displayed on the walls. The furnishings were a hodgepodge of tables and chairs with mismatched linens and distressed, old silverware. Before we could fully settle in, the bartender returned. His hands were wrapped around his back tying his apron strings as he approached the table. A paper chef’s hat, like the one you would see a soda shop clerk wearing in 1953, adorned his head. He asked us three one word questions which we replied an emphatic yes to all. He then disappeared into the back room once more. Our Italian was poor but we faired pretty well when in restaurants. We usually answered yes to any questions asked because no matter what food hit the table it was bound to be delicious. That is why we had no problem answering his vague and simple questions; Antipasti? Primi? Secondi?

As we sat in silence at the table, still unsure of where we were and what had just happened in the bar, an eruption of clanging metal broke out from beyond the mystery door. As we tuned our ears we could make out the voices of the bartender, a women and Fabio, the boy from the street, arguing in Italian as the metal noises rose to a crescendo. The sounds of pots, pans, metal spoons, plates, glasses and trays all banging into each other began to clue us in to what was happening. They were opening this restaurant just for us. Dan and I sat still and silent as the kitchen symphony came to an abrupt end. The bartender reappeared for the third time. This time he arrived at our table with fresh hot bread and soft warm sheep’s milk cheese. The cheese spread onto the bread like hot butter finding its way into every nook of the delicious semolina loaf. The cheese was white and creamy with a mild flavor. Its salty whey dripped off the bread as I brought it to my mouth. The warm cheese and bread combined with a flavor and texture that reminded me of my grandmothers home made cooking. The cheese was so fresh that I imagined the scene in the kitchen, the bartender holding the sheep steady while the faceless chef tugged on an utter that poured the creamy cheese right onto the plate.

As quickly as the bread disappeared the bartender arrived with our pasta course. A bowl of fresh linguine with a simple marina sauce was placed in front of each of us. With out missing a beat the bartender took a grater from his back pocket and a small piece of Parmagino Reggiano from his apron and grated a healthy portion into both bowls. The pasta was literally just cut and the gravy was a spicy smooth mix of what seemed like fresh garden tomatoes and herbs. Of course by this point I was so enthralled by the experience I could have been eating boxed pasta with Ragu and been just as excited.

As we finished the pasta, I performed the ceremonial “bread-around-bowl” wiping tradition to scavenger the last of the sauce. The bartender arrived to remove our plates. With a smile and a “bueno” he nodded as we smiled back. We sat at the table digesting for a good 20 minutes before he appeared again. This time he carried two plates each with a single thin cut veal chop. This was a very Italian dish as we had come to learn. A single chop, grilled with nothing more than salt and pepper, on a plate was an old standby in many Italian restaurants. Nothing accompanied the chop on the plate but the juices that had managed to escape the meat on its journey from the kitchen to the table. Without missing a beat the two of us cut into the fresh, hot chops. It was unexpectedly, mouthwatering for such a simple preparation and thin cut of veal. We made quick work of the chop savoring it down to the very last bite. Unable to help myself I picked up the bone and stripped any remaining meat from it. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure there was no sign of the bartender, I reached for Dan’s bone and did the same. That’s the great thing about eating with Dan, she can put it away but always leaves a bit for me to nibble on.

Satiated we pushed away from the table and simultaneously rubbed our bellies indicating to each other our sheer enjoyment of the meal. We were not sure how we managed to find this secluded, closed restaurant in a town with no one on the streets. Nor were we able to comprehend why the bartender told us he had no food and then brought us upstairs and opened the kitchen. But we were not complaining. The bartender arrived again removing or plates and meatless bones. He returned a few minutes later with a plate of watermelon. It was the perfect compliment to the other three courses we had just devoured. We slurped along from piece to piece smiling and discussing each course more intimately until all the red was gone and just the whitish-green rind was left.

Realizing we had been eating for almost 2 hours Dan and I asked for the check using some butchered Italian coupled with the universal pen-signing motion. Of course this isn’t the type of place you take out the Amex card and sign anything but the bartender got the point. He disappeared into the kitchen and quickly returned with a small white plate that had a tiny piece of paper riding on top of it. As he placed it on the table and went back to the kitchen Dan and I leaned over to get a peak at the check. There were only 3 marks on the entire piece of paper. As Dan and I deciphered the bill, not prepared for such a simple solution, we laughed openly at what was written on the paper. A three, a zero and a euro mark was what this fantastic, overindulgence of a lunch would cost us.

After a brief discussion with Dan, I opened my wallet and place two 20-euro bills on the plate. Dan and I had decided early in the trip that we were going to tip “American style” as we traipsed around Europe. In this particular instance we felt that our host deserved a bit more than even “American Style” tipping. After all, he did open an entire restaurant just for us. The bartender reappeared a few minutes later to collect the plate. We explained with a few gestures that we did not need any change and that the extra money was for him. I could see the excitement build up in his body and squeeze through his neck. Eventually his emotions reached his head erupting in an array of facial gestures that allowed us to comprehend his profound thanks and happiness. He quickly disappeared into the kitchen, his feet barely touching the floor. Dan and I knew that we were being a bit generous but had no idea how the extra 10 euros would effect our new friend.

I heard the door of the kitchen crash open. As I looked up the bartender skidded to a halt at the edge of our table. He fumbled with two tall thin glasses as he placed them on the table. In his left had he grasped a large bottle containing a thin, yellow, liquid. He poured a large shot into each of the glasses emptying the bottle. He motioned to us that he would be right back. He then turned and zoomed back into the kitchen slamming the door into the wall once more. We assumed he had gone to retrieve more of the school bus colored booze.

The overpowering smell of the booze jammed itself up my nostrils. As I looked across the table I could see by Dan’s expression that she was being assaulted in much the same way. I told her I couldn’t do the shot. The scent reminded me of the throat drying moonshine I once had in the Louisiana bayou, only this time with a twist of lemon. I emphasized my decision by explaining that I did not need to see my delicious meal again, especially because the next presentation of it would not be in comfortably timed courses and it would certainly be much more liquid. As disgusted as Dan’s grimace looked she accepted the bartender’s gift and encouraged me to drink it. Not doing so would be an insult to our host she explained. I protested and added that he was on his way back with a fresh bottle from the cellar. If we finished the shots and then he came back we would be forced to drink again. Having not even mentioned my thoughts about driving down the thin mountain roads back to our farmhouse with 3 shots of hi-test lemoncello in my veins I had to find a way out of this restaurant. I decided to cut a deal with Dan. We were to down the shot and then make a break for the door, hopefully clearing the dining room before the bartender gets back with the fresh bottle, and B-line it to the street. She agreed.

My feet were in motion before I even knew my brain had asked them to begin. Dan and I ran through the dining room door, passing the closed kitchen door unscathed by the bartender who was nowhere in sight. We began down the staircase. Spinning around the banister we could see the light poring into the front of the bar from the street. We slowed our speed to not call attention to ourselves as we opened the bar’s front door and stepped back onto the public street. We briskly walked a few storefronts away before we exhaled and looked back to see if the bartender had come after us. He hadn’t. Bursting into laughter Dan and I silently acknowledged the quite unpredictable ending to one of the best meals we had in all of Italy.

Words and Images by J.Anello (contact: 516-991-3386/j@janello.com)

Jun 23 '05
MADRID, SPAIN-JUNE 2005 It wasn’t 3 seconds after the 280-year-old oak door shut behind us that an elegantly dressed waiter approached us and asked for our surname. The room dripped of old world charm. Dark wood furniture and white plaster walls contrasted in front of me as my eyes soaked up what it could. A few other patrons stood silently in the entranceway eagerly waiting to be lead through the depths of Resaturante Botin to their table. Danielle, my dining partner, gave the maitre d’ my surname. He promptly marked my name off his multi-page reservation list. In Spanish, he told us he would be right back and then disappeared into an ancient hallway leading deeper into the restaurant. Restaurante Botin has been serving up delicious roast suckling pig since 1725. It is their signature dish. In fact, they have become quite famous for it. Their location, just on the other side of Plaza Major, the largest square in Madrid, has only helped business. It was our only night in Madrid and we wanted to eat as authentically as we could. We figured, a restaurant that has been open for almost 300 years had to be great or riddled with mafia shady-ness. Either way, the experience was bound to produce a great story. The maitre d’ returned promptly and motioned for us to follow him. He led us through a maze of hallways and rooms until we reached a stairway. As we ascended the stairway we entered a room on the second floor of the restaurant. There was a wall of windows that looked out over the cobblestone street. Stucco and dark wood furnished the room keeping consistent with downstairs. Old Spanish oil paintings of women at the market, bulls and matadors decorated the walls. We were seated at a table in the far corner of the room and left with two menus and a wine list to translate. We had decided quickly on a reserve Rioja (21euros), a few appetizers and two entrees. The first appetizer to arrive was a gazpacho. Gazpacho is a fresh tomato soup. In Mexico it is traditionally served chilled and very smooth. But tonight, in Spain, it was served warm. The soup was quite chunky with bits of parsley and tons of lump crabmeat floating around the bowl. It was a delicious and unexpected twist to the gazpachos we are used to from Mexico. The second appetizer, garlic soup, hit the table 5 seconds after the gazpacho. The soup was piping hot. A pork-based broth steamed up and clicked my olfactory glands into overdrive. The garlic scent penetrated deep into my nose as my eyes finished deciphering the huge peace of bread soaking in the rim of the bowl. I grabbed my spoon in an almost reflex reaction. My taste buds opened up welcoming the broth to my tongue. Needless to say is way delicious. Our next course was a simple salad made of iceberg lettuce and beefsteak tomatoes. Olive oil and red wine vinegar adorned the leaves. Soon after, as we sipped our second glass of rioja, our entrees breached the top of the stairs in the hands of our waiter. Danielle ordered the Pollo Asada (roast chicken) and I ordered the Cochinillo (roast suckling pig). This must be a big surprise to those who have dined with me before (wink). The chicken plate contained a whole chicken cut into two breasts and two leg/thigh pieces. Along side the chicken were three Yukon gold potatoes that were skinned, boiled and then baked. My pork plate contained the front leg and shoulder of the suckling pig. An identifiable hoof hung off the plate. This may have bothered some people but on this occasion it only increased my anticipation for the first bite. The same potatoes accompanied my pork as did Danielle’s chicken. Both of the entrees were delicious but simple. We are both used to very robust and complex flavors and the entrees were not of this manner. Most of the food we had in Spain was bland compared to what we were used to. This is not to imply it was bad or tasteless, just different. They say Spain is the meat and potatoes country of Europe and that is certainly true in our experience. The plates are not garnished with anything nor are they presented in a manner as to make the food appear prettier than it is. Aside from their many types of chorizo sausage, which are quite complex, the cuisine generally tastes like what you see on the plate. No spice surprises here. As the last of the chicken, pork and Rioja hit our stomachs our empty plates were replaced with dessert menus. After a bit of translation we settled on a strawberry custard pudding. The large bowl arrived with the creamiest yellow pudding and freshest strawberries I had ever seen pouring over the sides of the bowl. We didn’t hesitate to dive into the yellow lake and rescue as many red berries as we could fit into our mouths. Completely satiated we asked for our bill. We decided to skip coffee and walk this meal off with a few laps around Plaza Mayor. Granting our waiter and host a good evening we left through the same ancient oak door that had transported us into this roast meat haven. This time, when the door shut behind us, we were left on a bustling street of tourists, locals, street musicians, vendors, teenagers and stray dogs. During our meal the sun had set igniting the street and plaza into its nightly party. We wasted no time in jumping into it and burning off some of that meal.

MADRID, SPAIN-JUNE 2005

It wasn’t 3 seconds after the 280-year-old oak door shut behind us that an elegantly dressed waiter approached us and asked for our surname. The room dripped of old world charm. Dark wood furniture and white plaster walls contrasted in front of me as my eyes soaked up what it could. A few other patrons stood silently in the entranceway eagerly waiting to be lead through the depths of Resaturante Botin to their table. Danielle, my dining partner, gave the maitre d’ my surname. He promptly marked my name off his multi-page reservation list. In Spanish, he told us he would be right back and then disappeared into an ancient hallway leading deeper into the restaurant.

Restaurante Botin has been serving up delicious roast suckling pig since 1725. It is their signature dish. In fact, they have become quite famous for it. Their location, just on the other side of Plaza Major, the largest square in Madrid, has only helped business. It was our only night in Madrid and we wanted to eat as authentically as we could. We figured, a restaurant that has been open for almost 300 years had to be great or riddled with mafia shady-ness. Either way, the experience was bound to produce a great story.

The maitre d’ returned promptly and motioned for us to follow him. He led us through a maze of hallways and rooms until we reached a stairway. As we ascended the stairway we entered a room on the second floor of the restaurant. There was a wall of windows that looked out over the cobblestone street. Stucco and dark wood furnished the room keeping consistent with downstairs. Old Spanish oil paintings of women at the market, bulls and matadors decorated the walls. We were seated at a table in the far corner of the room and left with two menus and a wine list to translate.

We had decided quickly on a reserve Rioja (21euros), a few appetizers and two entrees. The first appetizer to arrive was a gazpacho. Gazpacho is a fresh tomato soup. In Mexico it is traditionally served chilled and very smooth. But tonight, in Spain, it was served warm. The soup was quite chunky with bits of parsley and tons of lump crabmeat floating around the bowl. It was a delicious and unexpected twist to the gazpachos we are used to from Mexico. The second appetizer, garlic soup, hit the table 5 seconds after the gazpacho. The soup was piping hot. A pork-based broth steamed up and clicked my olfactory glands into overdrive. The garlic scent penetrated deep into my nose as my eyes finished deciphering the huge peace of bread soaking in the rim of the bowl. I grabbed my spoon in an almost reflex reaction. My taste buds opened up welcoming the broth to my tongue. Needless to say is way delicious.

Our next course was a simple salad made of iceberg lettuce and beefsteak tomatoes. Olive oil and red wine vinegar adorned the leaves. Soon after, as we sipped our second glass of rioja, our entrees breached the top of the stairs in the hands of our waiter. Danielle ordered the Pollo Asada (roast chicken) and I ordered the Cochinillo (roast suckling pig). This must be a big surprise to those who have dined with me before (wink). The chicken plate contained a whole chicken cut into two breasts and two leg/thigh pieces. Along side the chicken were three Yukon gold potatoes that were skinned, boiled and then baked. My pork plate contained the front leg and shoulder of the suckling pig. An identifiable hoof hung off the plate. This may have bothered some people but on this occasion it only increased my anticipation for the first bite. The same potatoes accompanied my pork as did Danielle’s chicken.

Both of the entrees were delicious but simple. We are both used to very robust and complex flavors and the entrees were not of this manner. Most of the food we had in Spain was bland compared to what we were used to. This is not to imply it was bad or tasteless, just different. They say Spain is the meat and potatoes country of Europe and that is certainly true in our experience. The plates are not garnished with anything nor are they presented in a manner as to make the food appear prettier than it is. Aside from their many types of chorizo sausage, which are quite complex, the cuisine generally tastes like what you see on the plate. No spice surprises here.

As the last of the chicken, pork and Rioja hit our stomachs our empty plates were replaced with dessert menus. After a bit of translation we settled on a strawberry custard pudding. The large bowl arrived with the creamiest yellow pudding and freshest strawberries I had ever seen pouring over the sides of the bowl. We didn’t hesitate to dive into the yellow lake and rescue as many red berries as we could fit into our mouths.

Completely satiated we asked for our bill. We decided to skip coffee and walk this meal off with a few laps around Plaza Mayor. Granting our waiter and host a good evening we left through the same ancient oak door that had transported us into this roast meat haven. This time, when the door shut behind us, we were left on a bustling street of tourists, locals, street musicians, vendors, teenagers and stray dogs. During our meal the sun had set igniting the street and plaza into its nightly party. We wasted no time in jumping into it and burning off some of that meal.

Sep 6 '04
YOSEMITE-SEPTEMBER 2004 I have lived in the bay area for far too long without going to Yosemite. I was there once but not since I moved west from the east coast. I have never gone in solo. So, that is exactly what I did. I was not going on some crazy, insane, backcountry expedition, or putting myself on a 5000 foot cliff that looks as bad going up as it does coming down. I was simply going to relax and enjoy the landscape with some easy day hiking, then hunker down in a cozy campsite at night complete with a water spicket, picnic table and bear box. At least, that was my goal. The road trip from San Francisco started my voyage on a great note. Some kickin’ car tunes, a hot Starbuck’s Columbian Supremo and my pick-up bed loaded with gear got me psyched up. I headed across the state early in the morning watching the traffic build on the opposite side of the highway as I got farther away from the coast. I passed through the immense windmill farm, which marks the end of the coastal communities, and soon found myself in California’s vast Central Valley. Things change drastically when you enter this part of the state. Everything seems to slow and the land almost grows before your eyes. It feels a lot like the Great Plains because you can literally see for miles in every direction. With the last of the coastal mountains fading away in my rearview mirror I decided to stop and do my camp shopping. The town of Manteca would be a very suitable location for this pit stop. The town was simple as you might guess. As soon as you get off the interstate you have the typical pocket of super stores and chain restaurants. Driving further into town the larger than life logos and icons fade and give way to the sleepy mom and pop township that Manteca really is. Forty-five minutes later I was gassed up, loaded with food and water and ready to continue my journey into the high country. Its nice shopping for food when you have no budget, no time constrains and no dietary issues to deal with. Pork chops, a salami and a box of Mac and cheese, to name a few, made it across the checkout scanner without regrets. Back on the road I began a series of turns and merges that took me from one highway to the next. As I drove, the roads got thinner and harder and the traffic dissipated completely until I felt as if I was the only one on the road. About an hour later I was gaining altitude. I had crossed the valley and was starting into the Sierras. My climb was accompanied by some twists and turns and before I new it I was at the door to Yosemite. I passed through several small towns on the outside of the park claiming cheaper gas and cheaper food than you could find in the park. Being in advertising, the signs did not successfully lure me in. Besides my gas needle was still miles away from that ominous letter E. Arriving at the front gate of Yosemite the first half of my trip was complete. I bought a $50 parks pass. I opted for the pass instead of the $20 entrance fee. I did this not so much to use the pass for entry into other parks but to support the National Parks Organization, which is severely under funded. The pass, although, does come in handy when making a weekend run almost anywhere in California. As the gate rose and I began to drive away from the booth I almost immediately smelt the scent of hot Juniper. There is something about a warm forest smell that makes me feel quite comfortable and relaxed. As my truck began winding through the park I began to see the granite domes peek their heads out of the forest. A hard left onto Tioga Road began to lead me to Tuolumne Meadows, my final destination. With the granite now sprawled out in front of me I couldn’t resist pulling over to snap a few shots and soak in the landscape. I arrived at the Tuolumne Campground at around 2pm. I asked for a secluded site as far away from the groups as possible. The ranger assigned me E4 and pointed me in the direction of a poorly maintained dirt road. Before I could drive off he blurted out a warning. “Be good about using your bear box”, He said disimpassioned, “we saw a bear this morning poking around camp” I replied with a nod and drove off. Arriving at my site I surveyed the scene carefully. I saw no critters, or trace there of. The last time I was in Yosemite I left because of bear scare. Yosemite has the worst bear problem of all the parks I have visited, worse than Yellowstone and certainly worse than the Tetons. It was Labor Day weekend and we were in the valley. It felt like Times Square. Cars, kids and coolers filled the landscape until all natural elements became invisible. If you didn’t look up and see half dome looking down at you, you would have been looking for a subway entrance. These conditions mixed with bear signs and bear boxes every 25 feet made for a volatile environment. It seems that bears, more so in Yosemite, are conditioned to a point where they wait for a human to leave out some food and then come slurp it up. With all the cars, kids and coolers around that was not a very long wait. The chaos got to us and before we could enjoy it, we fled. This time I was determined to stick it out but I did not easily forget the chaos of my last visit. Tuolumne was away from the valley and was much less frequented. It was also mid-September and the crowds had pretty much left for the season. Never the less, I finished my inspection and, heeding the rangers request, loaded my food, clothes and smelly things into the bear box. I set up my tent, positioned my gear, and filled my water bottles in preparation for dinner. I spent the rest of the day exploring the meadows and domes in the area. No serious hikes or climbs just some roadside exploration accented with some picture taking. Content, I went back to my campsite to cook. I had some steak with couscous and for desert an apple. I cleaned up promptly and decided to go give Danielle a call from the payphone. This took a while, and by the time I returned to my campsite it was dark. As I backed my truck into the campsite I heard a loud noise. Turning off the car I peered through the window into the dark night. The noise persisted. Banging pots, whistles and screams were coming from the forest just beyond my bear box. As my eyes adjusted I could see nothing but the trees and ground to the perimeter of my camp. The noise persisted at a constant rate for 20 minutes. I stayed frozen in the car, nose pressed to the window, waiting for a giant bear to fly out of the woods and attack my truck. The noise stopped and I mustered up the courage to lower the window. Peering out into the forest I smelt the faint odor of campfire as the cool wet air hit my face. I heard nothing. Silence was now attacking me the same way I had imagined the bear to be a few minutes ago. I rolled up the window, sat back in my seat and waited. I pondered going to the tent, putting my cooking clothes into the bear box and pissing one last time. Just then I heard the banging and whistling start up again. At that point there was no doubt that there was a bear in very close proximity to me. I had made the snap decision that there was no reason I needed to go sleep in a tent when I could stay right here in my very comfortable, fully automated truck. As I nestled into the back seat, double checking that the keys were in the ignition and ready to go if the worse were to happen, I hoped with desperation that I would not have to use the bathroom until sun up. In the morning nothing had happened. My mind had gotten the best of me. My tent and campsite were unscathed by the faceless bandit who was lurking in the night. My imagination was much bigger than that bear. I decided no matter what, I was facing the fear and sleeping in the tent that night. It was still early and I threw on my pack and headed for Lembert Dome. It was just across the road from the campsite entrance, so it took me only 5 minutes to get there. I decided that I was going to scale the southwest face, a class-4 climb that I had seen a few people come down the day before. As the sun grew higher in the sky I grew more and more winded. Forgetting that I slept at 7000ft. and was climbing to 9500 ft my breath became shorter and my rests more frequent. Adding that it was only 7:00am and I had yet to eat breakfast my rests became longer than my climbs. I picked my way from crack to crack to occasional branch, eventually making it to the top. I dropped my pack and had some breakfast on the edge of the dome with all of the meadow laid out before me. After breakfast, I bouldered across the dome until, I found the trail that most people used to reach the top. Following the trail to the road, and the road to my truck, I jumped in the drivers seat and headed 5 miles down the highway to the next trailhead. The Cathedral Lakes trail is a 7 mile round trip. This, I decided, would be my second hike of the day. The trail brings you past Cathedral peak and several other domes. Cathedral peak is aptly named because of its tall, brittle, spire that sits like a steeple atop the massive rock. As you progress on the trail you curl around the back of the rock providing better and better vantage points of the spire. When you finally reach he lake you are rewarded with an unobstructed view of the peak and surrounding domes. I hiked another half mile around the east side of the lake so that I was able to view the lake and peak in one grand vista. As my zeal dissipated my hunger took charge. I managed to find a soft piece of granite to lay my gear on and begin my lunch. After lunch I took a short nap letting the sun warm my bones a bit. Heading back I met up with a hiker whose partner was climbing the spire. She was from New Hampshire and about 55 years old. She hiked at a quick pace which made it difficult to hold a conversation with her. Before I decided to slow up she revealed her hiking history, her AT stories and that she has never been to the Grand Canyon. Parting ways she wished me good luck and I wished her the same. Back at my truck I looked at my watch and noted that it was 4pm. That gave me 3 hours to get back to camp, cook, clean and get into my tent before dusk. Dusk, as I noted the night before, was when the bears show up. Getting back to camp took me no time. I decided to call Dan on the way into camp, that way I did not loose precious light by driving to and from the phone after my dinner. After hanging up I proceeded directly to my bear box and began cooking. Pork and couscous burritos with cheddar cheese were the entrée of the night. I had some cheese and salami as an appetizer and washed the whole smorgasbord down with some cold, freshly shaken, Gatorade. 5:45pm. Right on time. I cleaned up and changed out of my cooking clothes, burying them deep within the bear box. Next, I headed down to the toilets to wash up and brush my choppers. Back at my campsite I dropped the tailgate of my truck and began the waiting game for dusk. At about 6:30pm I closed up truck and decided to head for the tent. Having hiked 10 miles that day, both hikes combined, made me fairly tired and I could have gone to sleep at any second. Never the less, falling asleep in daylight is still fairly difficult on a psychological level. Snug in my bag and protected by the 3mm nylon, that is my tent wall and rain fly combined, I continued to read. As the light disappeared and my headlamp became the sole illuminator of my pages, I heard nothing but my breath hitting the small exposed section of tent floor between my sleeping bag and my book. Then all of a sudden the campers next to me exploded into a pot slamming frenzy accompanied by loud shouts of “Go away’s” and “Get out of here’s”. Before I could react I heard the next campsite erupt into its mélange of defenses. Using whistles and clanging metal they too chased the perpetrator away from their campsite. My hand instinctively reached up and twisted off my headlamp. Sitting still, listening for any sign of noise, I looked into the darkness. As each campsite reacted in sequence I realized the bear, as I now boldly admit, was moving away from me. As I listened for the next 20 minutes I could hear the clattering and whistling move across the entire campground. Eventually it began to trail off in the distance as if you were listening to a thunderstorm pass over your house on a hot July night. Calm, but not settled, I lay my head down on my makeshift pillow. Thankfully those 10 miles were kicking in and in a few minutes I was off to dreamland. I woke the next morning fresh. I made some coffee and ate a cold bowl of Special K red berries. No bears, no banging, no more worries. I had kept my promise to myself and slept in the tent. It turns out the bears in Yosemite are much like stray dogs. All they want is a little grub and they are used to getting it. If you simply shoo them away they will leave and go find an easier target. The only difference is that they can pounce on you, rip off your face and then crush every bone in your body. With the truck packed I gave my campsite a last once over and headed back to the road. On the way out of Tuolumne I stopped at the trailhead for North Dome. I threw on my pack and headed off into the forest. The trail headed south for 5 miles. The hike in was exciting. The forest led to a clearing, which led to pure granite. From there you climbed up and down the granite until you reached North Dome’s summit. From the summit you had a panoramic view of the entire valley. Across the valley stood Half Dome looking down on me like a father does a son. Standing there, a few thousand feet above the valley, allowed me to peek into the place I had once deserted. I did not see the Times Square pandemonium I had last time. No Cars, kids or coolers were visible. All I saw was meandering trails, large pieces of granite and pockets of evergreen trees. Everything was so peaceful both down in the valley and up on the dome. It reminded me that nature, bears and all, is a fantastic and seldom appreciated thing. Most importantly, it reminded me to relax and enjoy, which I did. Heading back to my truck I was mostly alone in the woods. I was soaking up the sounds, sights and smells with a much calmer and observant manner as on the way in. Time mattered none as I sipped my camelback and looked up into the trees as much as I looked ahead onto the trail. When I reached the truck I gave myself a good, water bottle, bath and changed clothes. Back on the highway I meandered back down the Sierras and back into the Central Valley. Once on the flats I stopped at Carl’s Jr. for the traditional after camping pig out. Satiated by my two Famous Stars, a large fry and ice-cold coke I hobbled back to the truck and finished my journey home. As I rode through Oakland, California and began crossing the Bay Bridge it was dusk. The city was lit up like Christmas. I though to myself, there was so much movement and hustle happening in front of me. How drastically different it was from what I had just experienced. Before I exited the highway and buried myself in the city, I though one final time about my campsite. I wondered what was happening there that very second. What parade of sounds and sites were tonight’s campers enduring? My time in Yosemite was thoroughly enjoyed. Although it was not a hardcore backcountry expedition, I learned plenty about being alone in nature and dealing with the creatures it harbors. Most importantly I did eventually relax and recharge my mind in a much needed way. Words and Images by J.Anello (contact: 516-991-3386/j@janello.com)

YOSEMITE-SEPTEMBER 2004

I have lived in the bay area for far too long without going to Yosemite. I was there once but not since I moved west from the east coast. I have never gone in solo. So, that is exactly what I did.

I was not going on some crazy, insane, backcountry expedition, or putting myself on a 5000 foot cliff that looks as bad going up as it does coming down. I was simply going to relax and enjoy the landscape with some easy day hiking, then hunker down in a cozy campsite at night complete with a water spicket, picnic table and bear box. At least, that was my goal.

The road trip from San Francisco started my voyage on a great note. Some kickin’ car tunes, a hot Starbuck’s Columbian Supremo and my pick-up bed loaded with gear got me psyched up. I headed across the state early in the morning watching the traffic build on the opposite side of the highway as I got farther away from the coast. I passed through the immense windmill farm, which marks the end of the coastal communities, and soon found myself in California’s vast Central Valley. Things change drastically when you enter this part of the state. Everything seems to slow and the land almost grows before your eyes. It feels a lot like the Great Plains because you can literally see for miles in every direction. With the last of the coastal mountains fading away in my rearview mirror I decided to stop and do my camp shopping.

The town of Manteca would be a very suitable location for this pit stop. The town was simple as you might guess. As soon as you get off the interstate you have the typical pocket of super stores and chain restaurants. Driving further into town the larger than life logos and icons fade and give way to the sleepy mom and pop township that Manteca really is. Forty-five minutes later I was gassed up, loaded with food and water and ready to continue my journey into the high country. Its nice shopping for food when you have no budget, no time constrains and no dietary issues to deal with. Pork chops, a salami and a box of Mac and cheese, to name a few, made it across the checkout scanner without regrets.

Back on the road I began a series of turns and merges that took me from one highway to the next. As I drove, the roads got thinner and harder and the traffic dissipated completely until I felt as if I was the only one on the road. About an hour later I was gaining altitude. I had crossed the valley and was starting into the Sierras. My climb was accompanied by some twists and turns and before I new it I was at the door to Yosemite. I passed through several small towns on the outside of the park claiming cheaper gas and cheaper food than you could find in the park. Being in advertising, the signs did not successfully lure me in. Besides my gas needle was still miles away from that ominous letter E.

Arriving at the front gate of Yosemite the first half of my trip was complete. I bought a $50 parks pass. I opted for the pass instead of the $20 entrance fee. I did this not so much to use the pass for entry into other parks but to support the National Parks Organization, which is severely under funded. The pass, although, does come in handy when making a weekend run almost anywhere in California. As the gate rose and I began to drive away from the booth I almost immediately smelt the scent of hot Juniper. There is something about a warm forest smell that makes me feel quite comfortable and relaxed.

As my truck began winding through the park I began to see the granite domes peek their heads out of the forest. A hard left onto Tioga Road began to lead me to Tuolumne Meadows, my final destination. With the granite now sprawled out in front of me I couldn’t resist pulling over to snap a few shots and soak in the landscape.

I arrived at the Tuolumne Campground at around 2pm. I asked for a secluded site as far away from the groups as possible. The ranger assigned me E4 and pointed me in the direction of a poorly maintained dirt road. Before I could drive off he blurted out a warning. “Be good about using your bear box”, He said disimpassioned, “we saw a bear this morning poking around camp” I replied with a nod and drove off.

Arriving at my site I surveyed the scene carefully. I saw no critters, or trace there of. The last time I was in Yosemite I left because of bear scare. Yosemite has the worst bear problem of all the parks I have visited, worse than Yellowstone and certainly worse than the Tetons.

It was Labor Day weekend and we were in the valley. It felt like Times Square. Cars, kids and coolers filled the landscape until all natural elements became invisible. If you didn’t look up and see half dome looking down at you, you would have been looking for a subway entrance. These conditions mixed with bear signs and bear boxes every 25 feet made for a volatile environment. It seems that bears, more so in Yosemite, are conditioned to a point where they wait for a human to leave out some food and then come slurp it up. With all the cars, kids and coolers around that was not a very long wait. The chaos got to us and before we could enjoy it, we fled.

This time I was determined to stick it out but I did not easily forget the chaos of my last visit. Tuolumne was away from the valley and was much less frequented. It was also mid-September and the crowds had pretty much left for the season. Never the less, I finished my inspection and, heeding the rangers request, loaded my food, clothes and smelly things into the bear box. I set up my tent, positioned my gear, and filled my water bottles in preparation for dinner.

I spent the rest of the day exploring the meadows and domes in the area. No serious hikes or climbs just some roadside exploration accented with some picture taking. Content, I went back to my campsite to cook. I had some steak with couscous and for desert an apple. I cleaned up promptly and decided to go give Danielle a call from the payphone. This took a while, and by the time I returned to my campsite it was dark. As I backed my truck into the campsite I heard a loud noise. Turning off the car I peered through the window into the dark night. The noise persisted. Banging pots, whistles and screams were coming from the forest just beyond my bear box. As my eyes adjusted I could see nothing but the trees and ground to the perimeter of my camp. The noise persisted at a constant rate for 20 minutes. I stayed frozen in the car, nose pressed to the window, waiting for a giant bear to fly out of the woods and attack my truck. The noise stopped and I mustered up the courage to lower the window. Peering out into the forest I smelt the faint odor of campfire as the cool wet air hit my face. I heard nothing. Silence was now attacking me the same way I had imagined the bear to be a few minutes ago. I rolled up the window, sat back in my seat and waited. I pondered going to the tent, putting my cooking clothes into the bear box and pissing one last time. Just then I heard the banging and whistling start up again. At that point there was no doubt that there was a bear in very close proximity to me. I had made the snap decision that there was no reason I needed to go sleep in a tent when I could stay right here in my very comfortable, fully automated truck. As I nestled into the back seat, double checking that the keys were in the ignition and ready to go if the worse were to happen, I hoped with desperation that I would not have to use the bathroom until sun up.

In the morning nothing had happened. My mind had gotten the best of me. My tent and campsite were unscathed by the faceless bandit who was lurking in the night. My imagination was much bigger than that bear. I decided no matter what, I was facing the fear and sleeping in the tent that night.

It was still early and I threw on my pack and headed for Lembert Dome. It was just across the road from the campsite entrance, so it took me only 5 minutes to get there. I decided that I was going to scale the southwest face, a class-4 climb that I had seen a few people come down the day before. As the sun grew higher in the sky I grew more and more winded. Forgetting that I slept at 7000ft. and was climbing to 9500 ft my breath became shorter and my rests more frequent. Adding that it was only 7:00am and I had yet to eat breakfast my rests became longer than my climbs. I picked my way from crack to crack to occasional branch, eventually making it to the top. I dropped my pack and had some breakfast on the edge of the dome with all of the meadow laid out before me. After breakfast, I bouldered across the dome until, I found the trail that most people used to reach the top. Following the trail to the road, and the road to my truck, I jumped in the drivers seat and headed 5 miles down the highway to the next trailhead.

The Cathedral Lakes trail is a 7 mile round trip. This, I decided, would be my second hike of the day. The trail brings you past Cathedral peak and several other domes. Cathedral peak is aptly named because of its tall, brittle, spire that sits like a steeple atop the massive rock. As you progress on the trail you curl around the back of the rock providing better and better vantage points of the spire. When you finally reach he lake you are rewarded with an unobstructed view of the peak and surrounding domes. I hiked another half mile around the east side of the lake so that I was able to view the lake and peak in one grand vista.

As my zeal dissipated my hunger took charge. I managed to find a soft piece of granite to lay my gear on and begin my lunch. After lunch I took a short nap letting the sun warm my bones a bit.

Heading back I met up with a hiker whose partner was climbing the spire. She was from New Hampshire and about 55 years old. She hiked at a quick pace which made it difficult to hold a conversation with her. Before I decided to slow up she revealed her hiking history, her AT stories and that she has never been to the Grand Canyon. Parting ways she wished me good luck and I wished her the same.

Back at my truck I looked at my watch and noted that it was 4pm. That gave me 3 hours to get back to camp, cook, clean and get into my tent before dusk. Dusk, as I noted the night before, was when the bears show up.

Getting back to camp took me no time. I decided to call Dan on the way into camp, that way I did not loose precious light by driving to and from the phone after my dinner. After hanging up I proceeded directly to my bear box and began cooking. Pork and couscous burritos with cheddar cheese were the entrée of the night. I had some cheese and salami as an appetizer and washed the whole smorgasbord down with some cold, freshly shaken, Gatorade. 5:45pm. Right on time. I cleaned up and changed out of my cooking clothes, burying them deep within the bear box. Next, I headed down to the toilets to wash up and brush my choppers. Back at my campsite I dropped the tailgate of my truck and began the waiting game for dusk. At about 6:30pm I closed up truck and decided to head for the tent. Having hiked 10 miles that day, both hikes combined, made me fairly tired and I could have gone to sleep at any second. Never the less, falling asleep in daylight is still fairly difficult on a psychological level.

Snug in my bag and protected by the 3mm nylon, that is my tent wall and rain fly combined, I continued to read. As the light disappeared and my headlamp became the sole illuminator of my pages, I heard nothing but my breath hitting the small exposed section of tent floor between my sleeping bag and my book. Then all of a sudden the campers next to me exploded into a pot slamming frenzy accompanied by loud shouts of “Go away’s” and “Get out of here’s”. Before I could react I heard the next campsite erupt into its mélange of defenses. Using whistles and clanging metal they too chased the perpetrator away from their campsite. My hand instinctively reached up and twisted off my headlamp. Sitting still, listening for any sign of noise, I looked into the darkness. As each campsite reacted in sequence I realized the bear, as I now boldly admit, was moving away from me. As I listened for the next 20 minutes I could hear the clattering and whistling move across the entire campground. Eventually it began to trail off in the distance as if you were listening to a thunderstorm pass over your house on a hot July night. Calm, but not settled, I lay my head down on my makeshift pillow. Thankfully those 10 miles were kicking in and in a few minutes I was off to dreamland.

I woke the next morning fresh. I made some coffee and ate a cold bowl of Special K red berries. No bears, no banging, no more worries. I had kept my promise to myself and slept in the tent. It turns out the bears in Yosemite are much like stray dogs. All they want is a little grub and they are used to getting it. If you simply shoo them away they will leave and go find an easier target. The only difference is that they can pounce on you, rip off your face and then crush every bone in your body.

With the truck packed I gave my campsite a last once over and headed back to the road. On the way out of Tuolumne I stopped at the trailhead for North Dome. I threw on my pack and headed off into the forest. The trail headed south for 5 miles. The hike in was exciting. The forest led to a clearing, which led to pure granite. From there you climbed up and down the granite until you reached North Dome’s summit. From the summit you had a panoramic view of the entire valley. Across the valley stood Half Dome looking down on me like a father does a son. Standing there, a few thousand feet above the valley, allowed me to peek into the place I had once deserted. I did not see the Times Square pandemonium I had last time. No Cars, kids or coolers were visible. All I saw was meandering trails, large pieces of granite and pockets of evergreen trees. Everything was so peaceful both down in the valley and up on the dome. It reminded me that nature, bears and all, is a fantastic and seldom appreciated thing. Most importantly, it reminded me to relax and enjoy, which I did.

Heading back to my truck I was mostly alone in the woods. I was soaking up the sounds, sights and smells with a much calmer and observant manner as on the way in. Time mattered none as I sipped my camelback and looked up into the trees as much as I looked ahead onto the trail. When I reached the truck I gave myself a good, water bottle, bath and changed clothes.

Back on the highway I meandered back down the Sierras and back into the Central Valley. Once on the flats I stopped at Carl’s Jr. for the traditional after camping pig out. Satiated by my two Famous Stars, a large fry and ice-cold coke I hobbled back to the truck and finished my journey home.

As I rode through Oakland, California and began crossing the Bay Bridge it was dusk. The city was lit up like Christmas. I though to myself, there was so much movement and hustle happening in front of me. How drastically different it was from what I had just experienced. Before I exited the highway and buried myself in the city, I though one final time about my campsite. I wondered what was happening there that very second. What parade of sounds and sites were tonight’s campers enduring?

My time in Yosemite was thoroughly enjoyed. Although it was not a hardcore backcountry expedition, I learned plenty about being alone in nature and dealing with the creatures it harbors. Most importantly I did eventually relax and recharge my mind in a much needed way.

Words and Images by J.Anello (contact: 516-991-3386/j@janello.com)

Jul 12 '02
FLORIDA KEYS-JULY 2002 At the edges of my vision I could see bright sunlight and puffy white clouds. Shaking my head I refocused on the bow of my kayak to face my current reality. An enormous, black cloud lay in front of me as I sit still in a thin,14 foot, plastic, craft off the coast of the Florida Keys. The keys and I had never really seen eye to eye, so my face did not show surprise as much as it did distress. In my dozen or so trips to the keys, maybe three were without incident. As the cloud grew closer I could begin to hear the rain hitting the surface of the sea. The nearest land were distant mangrove islands that would provide little shelter if any. I refocused again, this time on the bright orange life preserver directly in front of me. Danielle, my traveling partner, hadn’t said much since we realized the storm was headed straight for us. If we tried to paddle for an island we would certainly have been gobbled up by the cumulonimbus ogar way before our feet touched sand. When you are faced with no options there is a weird sense of relief that comes over your mind. Without any choices you really don’t have much to think about. In a situation like this there is only one thing to do. So we did. As our paddles entered the water we dug deep to get the craft up to a decent speed. As we hit our synchronized groove and our speed topped out, we were aimed straight into the black mass. By now it felt as if the cloud was going to pour right onto our kayak. The black and grey mass was mad, spewing electricity and backing it up with thundering bellows that echoed across the flat water. The sound of the rain had increased to a deafening roar and we began to feel drops. Huge, cold, hydrogen-oxygen bombs were exploding off every part of our bodies, our gear and our boat. We continued to paddle, heading as fast as possible to the now visible sunny, white and puffy place just off the bow of our kayak. And then it stopped. No more rain. No more dark. No more paddling. We had reached the end of the storm and like a kid hopping a fence into the neighbors yard, we were transported into a totally different place. With our paddles at ease, we looked back on the giant ball. You could still see the lightning and hear the thunder but it was much less ominous now that we were heading in opposite directions. As the storm grew farther away you could begin to distinguish the dark ball from the rest of the blue sky. As it moved even farther away you could follow the rain from the bottom of the cloud down to where it was smacking the sea. Danielle uttered the only word that had been spoken in the last 20 minutes, “Beautiful”. Turning back to our bow we continued to head for our destination, a small mangrove island that would keep just enough beach exposed during high tide to pitch a tent. It was about 2pm and nearing low tide. From the expectedly endless depths of ocean sand bars began to emerge. Upon closer inspection we realized that our kayak was in only 2 feet of water. Hopping out into the bathtub temperature water we checked our nautical chart and realized that dead low tide would bring water depths of 5-inches. 10 minutes later a 4 mile radius of shallow seas and white sand bars were quickly laid out before us. With a sigh of relief, the sun beating down on us from the bright blue sky and a 16 square mile bathtub at our feet, we agreed it was playtime. We planned our trip about 2 months ago when I was investigating the Dry Tortugas National Park while surfing the web one day. A few hours after that discovery I was on Captain Marty’s website. Marty’s website explained that he rented kayaks and provided a motorized shuttle to a series of mangrove islands off the north coast of Florida’s Big Coppett key. Big Coppett is one of the last keys in the archipelago, about 3 islands from key west (the last island in the keys). We met Marty at our hotel. He was easy to pick out because he had a giant pink kayak strapped to his pickup truck. He was typical of a keys resident, happy and carefree. After a few minutes of chatting we were instructed to follow him to his friend Mitch’s house. There we would leave our car, gear up the kayak and catch our ride out to the mangroves. Mitch had a beautiful house and was also a typical keys resident. He had 3 boats, one of which was our ferry, a full dock and a garage filled with nautical toys that looked as if they had seen better days. With us, them and the geared out kayak loaded onto Mitch’s 12 ft skiff we headed out of the protected harbor and into the bay. Once in the open water Marty pointed out a few landmarks and went over the nautical charts with us. It took about 30 minutes to travel the 4 miles out to the mangroves. At our request Marty dropped us at a point a few miles from our eventual campsite. With the kayak and us safely in the water Marty and Mitch fired up their engine, pointed us in the right direction and headed home. We had booked a 2-day rental for the kayaks from Marty for $45 a day. With the kayak rental we also received paddles, life vests, a small cooler and a diving flag. We had spent another $40 on food and water for the next two days. Our plan was to kayak the 2 miles to our private island, pitch our tent and have a nice dinner on the beach. In the morning we were going to paddle the 4 miles back to Mitch’s house with a few detours to explore the mangrove mazes. Once back at Mitch’s we would drop off the kayak and pick up our car. As playtime continued the water became more and more shallow eventually almost beaching the kayak. We decided to start hiking towards our island and drag the kayak behind us. The water was so shallow at this point that we couldn’t have paddled the kayak if we wanted to. With just one of us in the kayak it would sink enough to lay firmly on the ocean floor. We eventually hit a patch of deeper water and were able to paddle towards the island again. It was just a short half-mile paddle at that point and we made quick work of the distance. Our island sat alone in the sea except for a much smaller sister island that lived about 200 ft. away. Running the kayak onto the shore of the bigger island we found our campsite and pitched our tent, making sure to identify the high water mark before we set camp. After that we took a short hike down an overgrown path leading to the other side of the island. The island was only about 50 yards wide and 75 yards long. We quickly scouted most of the island and realized we were completely alone. As the sun slide lower in the sky the water had reached dead low tide. A huge white sand bar had now connected our island with her smaller sister. As we walked across the land bridge we began to explore our own private Atlantis that had just rose out of the sea. Setting our sites on the horizon we realized the land bridge was much larger than the 200ft. span connecting the islands. We walked almost a mile away from the island before the sea began to rush in over the land. We sat down on the white sand and watched the sun dive beneath the horizon. It felt like we were sitting on top of the sea in the middle of nowhere. After walking back to our island under the last few drops of light we fixed a meal of cured meats and aged cheese, popped a bottle of Sangovese and sat in the middle of the sibling islands looking at the stars. With our bellies full and the wine slowly closing our eyelids we headed back to our tent for the night. In the morning we broke camp and pushed off heading back to the main islands of the keys. It was the first day of lobster season and as we navigated back into some of the deeper waters we began to see dozens of boats with dive flags flying high atop the vessels. Snorklers were bobbing up and down trying there hardest to grab a “keeper” to bring home for dinner. We turned south and headed into the east side of a maze of mangroves. According to our chart if we could find our way out the west side we would be in line with the inlet to get us back to Mitch’s dock. We would have to cross a three-mile section of open water and leave the relative security of the mangroves. Eventually we found our way out the west side of the maze and started heading across the water. About 20 minutes into the crossing I noticed my deck compass was starting to point more and more southwest instead of my planned due south. The winds had picked up and we were drifting a bit more than I anticipated. Over the next hour a head wind developed. That mixed with the east-west wind and the water current, our strokes became useless against the powers of the sea. Realizing this we needed to reassess our situation. We checked our charts and identified two long mangrove islands to the distant west that we could use to block the current while we tried to head south again. Our plan required some back tracking once we reached the main keys but that was our only choice. Shortly after we began paddling we realized our attempt was futile. The current and wind had gotten stronger and was having its way with us. With little hope of reaching the shelter of the islands we had no choice but to move into a defcon 1 situation. Setting our sites on the nearest slow moving lobster boat heading opposite the current, our paddles hit the water at a feverish pace. Nearing the bow of the boat we raised or paddles from the water and grabbed the attention of the captain. The craft slowed down and as they neared we realized we had flagged down a group of liquored up, half naked, uni-sex, lobster divers. We explained our intent and demise and asked for a tow back to shore. They gladly agreed and tossed a rope and two ice-cold beers towards the kayak. A few minutes later we were laying back in our seats sipping at the refreshing barley based beverages and sighing in relief. We had escaped the grips of the sea and learned a valuable lesson in kayaking, always check the weather. Twice. Twenty minutes later the captain and his drunken mates reeled in the line from our kayaks, bid us good luck and sped off in search of another lobster hole. Back on our own power, we slowly made our way through the inlet and towards Mitch’s dock. As we approached he sat with his wife on their third story porch sipping margaritas. He spotted us and yelled down something about being back way earlier than he had expected. Little did he know, the story that had brought us to his door was not one of experienced paddling and navigational expertise. Not letting on anything about our horrific trek home, we loaded our gear into the car, thanked him and headed off to find some food, air conditioning and much needed rest. The next few days were tame in comparison to the beginning of our trip. We mostly took in the local keys flare and relaxed on the beach. A few times we did contemplate getting back out on the water but the memories and margarita mix had disabled the part of our brain needed to act on this idea. It was probably for the best because I knew deep down that my curse with the Florida Keys had surely not been broken. Words and Images by J.Anello (contact: 516-991-3386/j@janello.com)

FLORIDA KEYS-JULY 2002

At the edges of my vision I could see bright sunlight and puffy white clouds. Shaking my head I refocused on the bow of my kayak to face my current reality. An enormous, black cloud lay in front of me as I sit still in a thin,14 foot, plastic, craft off the coast of the Florida Keys.

The keys and I had never really seen eye to eye, so my face did not show surprise as much as it did distress. In my dozen or so trips to the keys, maybe three were without incident. As the cloud grew closer I could begin to hear the rain hitting the surface of the sea.

The nearest land were distant mangrove islands that would provide little shelter if any. I refocused again, this time on the bright orange life preserver directly in front of me. Danielle, my traveling partner, hadn’t said much since we realized the storm was headed straight for us. If we tried to paddle for an island we would certainly have been gobbled up by the cumulonimbus ogar way before our feet touched sand.

When you are faced with no options there is a weird sense of relief that comes over your mind. Without any choices you really don’t have much to think about. In a situation like this there is only one thing to do. So we did.

As our paddles entered the water we dug deep to get the craft up to a decent speed. As we hit our synchronized groove and our speed topped out, we were aimed straight into the black mass. By now it felt as if the cloud was going to pour right onto our kayak. The black and grey mass was mad, spewing electricity and backing it up with thundering bellows that echoed across the flat water. The sound of the rain had increased to a deafening roar and we began to feel drops. Huge, cold, hydrogen-oxygen bombs were exploding off every part of our bodies, our gear and our boat. We continued to paddle, heading as fast as possible to the now visible sunny, white and puffy place just off the bow of our kayak.

And then it stopped. No more rain. No more dark. No more paddling. We had reached the end of the storm and like a kid hopping a fence into the neighbors yard, we were transported into a totally different place. With our paddles at ease, we looked back on the giant ball. You could still see the lightning and hear the thunder but it was much less ominous now that we were heading in opposite directions.

As the storm grew farther away you could begin to distinguish the dark ball from the rest of the blue sky. As it moved even farther away you could follow the rain from the bottom of the cloud down to where it was smacking the sea. Danielle uttered the only word that had been spoken in the last 20 minutes, “Beautiful”.

Turning back to our bow we continued to head for our destination, a small mangrove island that would keep just enough beach exposed during high tide to pitch a tent. It was about 2pm and nearing low tide. From the expectedly endless depths of ocean sand bars began to emerge. Upon closer inspection we realized that our kayak was in only 2 feet of water. Hopping out into the bathtub temperature water we checked our nautical chart and realized that dead low tide would bring water depths of 5-inches. 10 minutes later a 4 mile radius of shallow seas and white sand bars were quickly laid out before us. With a sigh of relief, the sun beating down on us from the bright blue sky and a 16 square mile bathtub at our feet, we agreed it was playtime.

We planned our trip about 2 months ago when I was investigating the Dry Tortugas National Park while surfing the web one day. A few hours after that discovery I was on Captain Marty’s website. Marty’s website explained that he rented kayaks and provided a motorized shuttle to a series of mangrove islands off the north coast of Florida’s Big Coppett key. Big Coppett is one of the last keys in the archipelago, about 3 islands from key west (the last island in the keys).

We met Marty at our hotel. He was easy to pick out because he had a giant pink kayak strapped to his pickup truck. He was typical of a keys resident, happy and carefree. After a few minutes of chatting we were instructed to follow him to his friend Mitch’s house. There we would leave our car, gear up the kayak and catch our ride out to the mangroves. Mitch had a beautiful house and was also a typical keys resident. He had 3 boats, one of which was our ferry, a full dock and a garage filled with nautical toys that looked as if they had seen better days.

With us, them and the geared out kayak loaded onto Mitch’s 12 ft skiff we headed out of the protected harbor and into the bay. Once in the open water Marty pointed out a few landmarks and went over the nautical charts with us. It took about 30 minutes to travel the 4 miles out to the mangroves. At our request Marty dropped us at a point a few miles from our eventual campsite. With the kayak and us safely in the water Marty and Mitch fired up their engine, pointed us in the right direction and headed home.

We had booked a 2-day rental for the kayaks from Marty for $45 a day. With the kayak rental we also received paddles, life vests, a small cooler and a diving flag. We had spent another $40 on food and water for the next two days. Our plan was to kayak the 2 miles to our private island, pitch our tent and have a nice dinner on the beach. In the morning we were going to paddle the 4 miles back to Mitch’s house with a few detours to explore the mangrove mazes. Once back at Mitch’s we would drop off the kayak and pick up our car.

As playtime continued the water became more and more shallow eventually almost beaching the kayak. We decided to start hiking towards our island and drag the kayak behind us. The water was so shallow at this point that we couldn’t have paddled the kayak if we wanted to. With just one of us in the kayak it would sink enough to lay firmly on the ocean floor.

We eventually hit a patch of deeper water and were able to paddle towards the island again. It was just a short half-mile paddle at that point and we made quick work of the distance. Our island sat alone in the sea except for a much smaller sister island that lived about 200 ft. away.

Running the kayak onto the shore of the bigger island we found our campsite and pitched our tent, making sure to identify the high water mark before we set camp. After that we took a short hike down an overgrown path leading to the other side of the island. The island was only about 50 yards wide and 75 yards long. We quickly scouted most of the island and realized we were completely alone.

As the sun slide lower in the sky the water had reached dead low tide. A huge white sand bar had now connected our island with her smaller sister. As we walked across the land bridge we began to explore our own private Atlantis that had just rose out of the sea. Setting our sites on the horizon we realized the land bridge was much larger than the 200ft. span connecting the islands. We walked almost a mile away from the island before the sea began to rush in over the land. We sat down on the white sand and watched the sun dive beneath the horizon. It felt like we were sitting on top of the sea in the middle of nowhere.

After walking back to our island under the last few drops of light we fixed a meal of cured meats and aged cheese, popped a bottle of Sangovese and sat in the middle of the sibling islands looking at the stars. With our bellies full and the wine slowly closing our eyelids we headed back to our tent for the night.

In the morning we broke camp and pushed off heading back to the main islands of the keys. It was the first day of lobster season and as we navigated back into some of the deeper waters we began to see dozens of boats with dive flags flying high atop the vessels. Snorklers were bobbing up and down trying there hardest to grab a “keeper” to bring home for dinner. We turned south and headed into the east side of a maze of mangroves. According to our chart if we could find our way out the west side we would be in line with the inlet to get us back to Mitch’s dock. We would have to cross a three-mile section of open water and leave the relative security of the mangroves. Eventually we found our way out the west side of the maze and started heading across the water. About 20 minutes into the crossing I noticed my deck compass was starting to point more and more southwest instead of my planned due south. The winds had picked up and we were drifting a bit more than I anticipated. Over the next hour a head wind developed. That mixed with the east-west wind and the water current, our strokes became useless against the powers of the sea. Realizing this we needed to reassess our situation. We checked our charts and identified two long mangrove islands to the distant west that we could use to block the current while we tried to head south again. Our plan required some back tracking once we reached the main keys but that was our only choice.

Shortly after we began paddling we realized our attempt was futile. The current and wind had gotten stronger and was having its way with us. With little hope of reaching the shelter of the islands we had no choice but to move into a defcon 1 situation. Setting our sites on the nearest slow moving lobster boat heading opposite the current, our paddles hit the water at a feverish pace. Nearing the bow of the boat we raised or paddles from the water and grabbed the attention of the captain. The craft slowed down and as they neared we realized we had flagged down a group of liquored up, half naked, uni-sex, lobster divers. We explained our intent and demise and asked for a tow back to shore. They gladly agreed and tossed a rope and two ice-cold beers towards the kayak. A few minutes later we were laying back in our seats sipping at the refreshing barley based beverages and sighing in relief. We had escaped the grips of the sea and learned a valuable lesson in kayaking, always check the weather. Twice.

Twenty minutes later the captain and his drunken mates reeled in the line from our kayaks, bid us good luck and sped off in search of another lobster hole. Back on our own power, we slowly made our way through the inlet and towards Mitch’s dock. As we approached he sat with his wife on their third story porch sipping margaritas. He spotted us and yelled down something about being back way earlier than he had expected. Little did he know, the story that had brought us to his door was not one of experienced paddling and navigational expertise. Not letting on anything about our horrific trek home, we loaded our gear into the car, thanked him and headed off to find some food, air conditioning and much needed rest.

The next few days were tame in comparison to the beginning of our trip. We mostly took in the local keys flare and relaxed on the beach. A few times we did contemplate getting back out on the water but the memories and margarita mix had disabled the part of our brain needed to act on this idea. It was probably for the best because I knew deep down that my curse with the Florida Keys had surely not been broken.

Words and Images by J.Anello (contact: 516-991-3386/j@janello.com)