We drive from the Siena train station for some 15 to 20 minutes along hilly roads that wind through miles of grapevines arrayed in perfect rows across the undulating landscape. Signs point towards the village of Vagliagli, but we turn and turn again down a graveled road with a sign reading Dievole Wine Resort. Olive trees are to our right, autumn-hued vines to our left, and a valley dotted with an occasional stone villa before us. This is the quintessence of Tuscany—a grand but quiet agrarian landscape that I can almost convince myself hasn’t changed too much since Dievole was founded in 1090.
the resort
The resort is laid out as a cluster of buildings on a steep hillside. Working from the bottom up, the first level is occupied by a pool that overlooks the rolling Tuscan hills. It is too cool to swim in October, but not too cool to lounge in the sun when it finally emerges toward the end of the week.
The next level up is the main area of the resort, containing a bar, a restaurant, a rose garden, and some guest rooms.
Higher still, a beautiful stone cottage hung with ivy turned a brilliant shade of red in October houses the wine tasting room and more guest rooms. The cellar contains rows upon rows of casks where the wine is aged.
All the way up the hill are the last of the guest rooms, where I stayed. As I described in my previous post, these rooms boast the most dramatic views of the valley.
The architecture throughout the resort is simple but lovely, with stone or stucco buildings, white walls, dark wooden beams and trim, and simple décor, like hand drawings of animals that evoke a 19th century country manor.
the grounds
The real magic of Dievole is not indoors, but the grounds. Yellowing grapevines and eucalyptus-green olive groves paint the hills in every direction, sloping upwards to the west, and downwards to the east. There, in the mornings, the sun rises over the mist-swathed valley, breathing warmth into the chill October dawn.
Guests are free to roam among the vines and groves. Wandering solo on the grounds is the highlight of my time in Italy. There’s a pastoral silence that’s only interrupted by a gentle breeze and chirping birds. I meander down rows of vines, taking photographs of the yellow and red leaves and the few bunches of grapes that remain, nearly rotting, after the harvest. The harvest of the olives is ongoing, and workers shake the trees, forcing them to drop their fruit into massive tarps.
There’s also a farm. Actually, I lied, this is my favorite part of the trip. On the first afternoon, I go on a walk. As I round a bend in the road, I come upon a small stone building and am greeted by a rooster and chickens scurrying away from me, while a pair of geese angrily hold their ground. A farmhand napping in a white pickup truck parked by the building awakes to tell me something like, “go ahead, you can walk down the path.” (My Italian is basic, but I get the gist.) I gesture at the angry geese and try to reply something like, “I don’t think they want me to.” I find an alternative way around the geese and spend some happy time chasing the chickens around the farm. Later in the week, I return with my long lens for some tighter shots.
food and drink
On our first full day in Dievole, we are welcomed with a wine tasting in the tasting room. We sample a white Trebbiano, a Chianti Classico, and the Novecento (my personal favorite, which I order exclusively for the rest of the week). We also tour the cellar where the wine is made.
We eat like Grand Dukes of Tuscany for the entire week we are at Dievole. Breakfast is a typical European-style breakfast buffet, with platters of pecorino and prosciutto, heaps of breads and cakes, and some cooked eggs for us Americans. Each night, the chef prepares a three-course Tuscan meal—primi piatti, secondi piatti, and dolci—that are unfailingly scrumptious. Throughout the week, we sample all the various olive oils that Dievole produced—and all the wine of course!
coda
My only regret about this trip was that we were so busy I didn’t feel like I had as much time to just bask in the wonders of the Tuscan countryside as I would have liked. It’s no surprise that the landscapes of Tuscany have inspired so many artists. While I was there for a photography class, others in our group were taking painting and cooking classes. But alas, time was short, and there was also so much to love and explore in the towns and villages of Tuscany—which will be the subject of my next post!
I awoke a little after sunrise to the sound of birds chirping. Blue sky with puffy clouds reflected in the pane of my open bedroom window, which was framed by white curtains.
my bedroom window
At the window, I reveled in the view. A fig tree and a cypress tree framed the two sides of the window, and from there, the ground sloped downwards, towards a vineyard, yellow with fall. Beyond that, rolling hills to which mist still clung.
view of the sunrise from my bedroom
I dressed, grabbed my camera, and walked down the little path outside my room, which ended at the start of a vineyard. I followed the paths through the vineyard, climbing to the top of the hill for the most panoramic view of the valley—superior to the view from my bedroom only due to the height.
I photographed sweeping vistas and the tiny details of grape leaves in equal measure, then moved on to the freshly harvested olive groves. I actually spun around, my hands grazing the hanging olive branches as I went. This was the Tuscany that I had imagined when I booked this trip a year ago.
I take photography classes back home in DC through the Capital Photography Center. Sometime in summer 2023, a week-long photo workshop in Tuscany had popped on their website for October 2024. Clicking through the photos from previous classes, a vivid dream took shape in my mind of cypress trees, vineyards, olive groves, and charming medieval and Renaissance villages. It would be a pricy trip, so I hesitated for a few days. But I found myself daydreaming, lost in the fantasy of Tuscany I had crafted in my mind. The dream would not be denied.
The trip was worth every penny. The worst thing I can say about it is that the rain that dogged my first week in Italy (see posts on Bologna and Ravenna) continued well into my week in Tuscany. As we were driving through the Val D’Orcia on a dreary morning, we stopped for a photo opp. I was wearing waterproof boots with good treads, but the soil was so damp it had turned into the consistency of wet potter’s clay, wedging itself into every cranny of the boot. Effectively, I was walking on a slick sheet of clay on a surface of slick clay. Long story short:
I fell in the mud
(Photo credit: Marie Joabar)
I had to walk around sopping wet and muddy for the rest of the day while we toured Pienza.
I share this story because a) it really was quite funny, and b) I wouldn’t want anyone to get the misimpression that my travels, bougie though they may be, are always so glamorous. Sometimes I end up covered in mud.
(On the plus side, how great is that rain hat that I bought in Siena? Courtesy Cappelleria Bertacchi.)
new rain hat!
Rain and mud aside, I have much to say about all of Tuscany’s delights… so much so that I’m going to break this up into a few different posts.
Next week, look for a post on the Dievole Wine Resort, which was the site of the aforementioned twirling in the olive groves. I truly cannot imagine a more heavenly place to spend a week. I could go on and on about how much I loved this place… and I probably will.
The following week, look for a post about the towns and villages that we visited on our daily photography excursions around Tuscany: Siena, San Gimignano, Radda, and Pienza. Each delightful in its own charming way!
On the evening of my arrival in Ravenna, I embarked upon my typical aimless journey of a new city. I had already purchased my pass to all of the city’s main UNESCO heritage churches and basilicas, studied the city’s map, and walked around town getting my bearings. I came upon the Basilica di San Vitale, which was on the next day’s agenda. The sky overhead was clear as the sun was setting, but white storm clouds billowed in the sky behind the 6th century church, concealing the last of the sun before it set.
Basilica di San Vitale
Fast forward to the next morning, and I am speed-walking back to San Vitale from the covered market where I had stopped for a cappuccino and shelter, my hair sopping with water. My jeans are drenched through to the skin and the water has followed the gradient of my socks down into my boots, so I am quite literally wet from head to toe.
Finally, I reach the arched gateway to the basilica, where I have to pull out my phone in the pouring rain to show the staff my e-ticket, and then I dart as fast as I can to the entrance to the basilica. Ah, shelter! But even here, parts of the mosaiced floor are inch-deep in rain.
waterlogged floors in the Basilica di San Vitale
Such was my one full day in Ravenna: miserably wet. But you know? Even so, I really enjoyed the city.
I didn’t know much about Ravenna besides its name before I started planning this trip. But just a little bit of research into its fascinating history convinced me that it was a must-visit. During the late, troubled days of the Western Roman Empire, it briefly became the west’s capital in the early 5th century CE. When the Eastern Roman Empire took Italy back from the Visigoths in the late 5th-6th centuries, Emperor Justinian built Ravenna into a city glittering with mosaics in churches that remain remarkably well-preserved 15 centuries later.
These churches stand as monuments to a slice of time barely remembered in history books, when Rome itself had fallen but the Western Empire held on, imbibing influence from the Eastern Empire before west and east were fully sundered. The mosaics themselves are very eastern, and far better preserved than, say, those in the Hagia Sofia (for which the Basilica di San Vitale was an early prototype, according to my Bradt Guide to Emilia-Romagna). Truly, they are breathtaking works of early Christian art that display remarkable craftsmanship for their era, with human expressions far more lifelike than anything from the Middle Ages. Still, take the mosaics away, and the columns of classical Rome stand tall in places like the Basilica di Sant’Apollinare Nuovo.
In all, there are five UNESCO World Heritage sites in Ravenna. The Basilica di Sant’Apollinare Nuovo was just steps from my hotel. Unlike some of the other sites, this one required a pass but not a scheduled entry time. It was my first stop on the day of my arrival, before the rain started.
Jesus enthronedthree wise men
Mary enthronedSaint Cecilia (my confirmation saint)
The next morning, I had an early appointment to visit the Battistero Neoniano, named for the 5th-century bishop (Neon) who commissioned its mosaics. This one required that you book a specific timeslot, so I braved the rain and arrived about 10 minutes early, praying they would let me in a bit early. (They did.)
dome of the Battistero Neoniano
I’ve already recounted my waterlogged journey from there to the Basilica di San Vitale, where I hunkered down for as long as I could manage. Fortunately, there was plenty of beauty to photograph there.
The namesake of the Mausoleo di Galla Placidia was the Constantinople-born daughter of the last Roman Emperor of a united and peaceful Rome. Later, in Ravenna, she ruled as regent for her son, and lived a colorful life during turbulent times for Rome. The mausoleum was built for her, but does not actually house her remains.
My appointment to see the mausoleum, whose quaint fauna-filled mosaics were my favorites, was at noon. Once again, I braved the pouring rain for a short jaunt across a courtyard a bit before my timeslot in the hopes I’d be allowed in, rather than being forced to stand in the rain. Again, the gambit paid off.
I did not make it to the fifth site, the Cappella di Sant’Andrea, because its limited opening hours did not align with my schedule.
I spent the rest of the day alternately eating and avoiding the rain. After the Mausoleo, I lost time at the Osteria del Tempo Perso, ate a lovely risotto and warmed up with a Sangiovese, before venturing back out into the rain in search of dry clothes, a warm bed, and a nap. Later, the rain finally gave up, and I emerged again for dinner and wine at the charming enoteca, Ca’ de Ven. (I mean really, where but in Italy can you find a bar with ceilings like this?)
It’s a rare city that can manage to charm me despite appallingly bad weather, but Ravenna did. The sense of being in a time capsule from a forgotten era that overwhelmed me when gazing at 6th century mosaics contrasted pleasantly with the clean, modern, small city that buzzed outside the church walls. History aside, it seemed like a nice place to live, which not every tourist city can claim.
Our group of mostly American tourists followed Caterina of Secret Food Tours through the winding streets of old Bologna like little ducklings. We stopped in one shop and tasted little pastries, then in another shop we picked up a parcel, then tasted slices of almond-flavored cakes called torta di rizo, then acquired another parcel, then squeezed into the cellar of a wine shop, where we tasted 8-, 12- and 25-year aged balsamic vinegar. This was decidedly not the commodity we buy in grocery stores in the US, but something thicker, sweeter, and less acidic—a perfect blend of the tartness of vinegar and the sweetness of syrup.
Caterina explains the making of balsamic vinegar
Eventually we reached the Osteria del Sole, located in the Quadrilatero and distinguishable only by a faint sun painted on the door. (Side note: Stanley Tucci visited the same place in the Bologna episode of Searching for Italy.)
the sign of the Osteria del Sole
Traditionally, we learned, osterias only served wine and other spirits—food was BYO—and Osteria del Sole was a rare one that still abided by this ancient rule. So here, the mysterious parcels we had picked up earlier came out.
They turned out to be two platters of charcuterie—or salumi, in Bolognese parlance—featuring some of the region of Emilia’s best pork-based delicacies. Slices of salami gentile, ciccioli (pork belly), culatello (culo being “butt”), salami rosso, and of course, Bologna’s famous mortadella and prosciutto di Parma.
a platter of salumi di Bologna
While a long-time lover of prosciutto and cured meats in general, I had never tried mortadella before. We Americans had long ago bastardized the name of this cold cut from Bologna into “baloney”, so I looked at this item somewhat askance. But like the balsamic vinegar, mortadella had little to do with what we find in American grocery stores. This pale meat with flecks of white (fat) and black (peppercorns) was as buttery soft as the best prosciutto. Rounding out the platter were some hunks of parmesan (originating in neighboring Parma) and slabs of focaccia di Bologna.
As we noshed on the platter, the servers from the osteria brought us bottles of wine from the region. A Pignoletto, which my Bradt guide to Emilia-Romagna described as “the new prosecco”. A Lambrusco—again a departure from the varietal found in American grocery stores. Not at all sweet, but dry and fizzy, a combination of flavor and texture I’d never encountered before. And of course, a Sangiovese, a lighter wine made of the same grape I would later consume by the liter in Tuscany in the form of Chianti.
And all of this wasn’t even lunch, it was just the appetizer.
When I was planning my trip to Italy, two things had drawn me to Bologna. First and foremost was the food, for which Emilia-Romagna is justly famous as the best in Italy, even in a country known for its cuisine.
In this, Bologna did not disappoint. The Secret Foods walking tour was easily the highlight of my time in Bologna. After the osteria, we went to the Trattoria del Rosso for tortellini in brodo (tortellini being one of Bologna’s signature foods, in this case served in a capon broth) and tagliatelle al ragù (the original form of spaghetti Bolognese, properly served over much broader tagliatelle pasta topped with a ragù made of minced veal, pork, prosciutto, onions, carrots, celery, and only the tiniest bit of tomato). While in the city, I sampled the ragù and tortellini more than once, along with the lasagna, made in authentic Bolognese fashion, with spinach in the noodles and bechamel rather than ricotta.
the bounty of Bologna
the many pastas of Bologna
authentic tortellini bolognese
The second thing that drew me to Bologna was the history. When I first started planning the trip, what I knew about Bologna was that it was home to the first university in the world, founded in 1088 (just 22 years after the Normans arrived in Britain), and that it had been a medieval cultural capital that drew scholars from all over the world long before the rise of such Renaissance families as the Medicis and the Borgias.
Given that, I was expecting to be more impressed by the architecture of the city, but perhaps I did not fully contemplate how much architecture changed from the Middle Ages to the grandeur of Renaissance Italy to which I was accustomed. Most of the architecture in Bologna is a brownish-red brick, which was the building material that was locally available in the city’s heyday. The city boasts some cute churches for sure, like the Basilica Santo Stefano:
the Basilica di Santo Stefano
But the city’s main cathedral on the Piazza Maggiore, the Basilico di Santo Petronio, is a bit of a gargantuan eyesore. Though construction began in 1390, the façade was never completed, leading to the sense that the basilica started getting dressed in the morning and forgot to put on its shirt.
Basilica di San Petronio
The two elements of Bolognese architecture that are admittedly kind of cool are its porticoes and its towers. All through the city, sidewalks are covered in arched porticoes, a feature of the city’s architecture since the 12th century. Some of them are simple, practical coverings, others stately, others whimsical, others works of art. All of them are quite practical, for when it rains in Bologna (as it did much of the time I was there) you can walk around the much of the city under cover, only having to emerge into the rain to cross the street. All in all, there are 62 km worth of porticoes in the city, and they lend the city’s architecture a unique character.
a more stately portico
a more whimsical portico
a more artistic portico
The towers, I suspect, were more impressive in memory than in current fact. Centuries before New York City started sprouting skyscrapers, the great families of Bologna (and elsewhere in Italy) built massive brick towers to the skies, simultaneously for purposes of status and defense. Food tour guide Caterina showed us a rendering of what the city had looked like over a century ago (something like this), before many of the towers crumbled or were torn down due to structural failings, and presumably bombing during World War II. Ruins of them can be seen tucked in corners all around the city, but the Due Torre (Two Towers), are the most prominent remaining.
Torre degli Asinelli
Until recently, you could climb the larger Torre degli Asinelli, but now the smaller Torre della Garisenda is leaning so heavily towards its big brother that the larger tower has been closed due to safety concerns.
Overall, I found Bologna and the Emilia region worth visiting for the cuisine alone. A true foodie could go nuts in this region, visiting wine, cheese, and salumi shops and production facilities, along with restaurants from the hole-in-the-wall to the Michelin-starred. But for me, the region lacked something of the charm that I associate with Italy. But perhaps my impression was soured on account of the rain, which prevented me from spending as much time as I’d have liked enjoying my all-time favorite Italian activity of sitting in an outdoor café, drinking wine, and people watching.
Italy has always called to me. When I was a sophomore in college, I participated in a summer abroad program that studied ancient civilizations, taking us students to Athens, Rome, and Tunis (Carthage in classical times). It was my first trip abroad, aside from freshman year spring break in Mexico. Of these three destinations, we spent the longest time in Rome, where I lived for three weeks in a pensione in Trastevere.
view of the Tiber River from Trastevere
There I took classes on classical and Christian history. For the latter, our professor sent us on a scavenger hunt of Rome’s churches, seeking out the variety of odd and vaguely gross Christian relics (like saints’ fingers) preserved therein. We visited the Vatican and the Parthenon, the Forum and the Colosseum, the catacombs and the ancient walls of the city. We were given freedom on long weekends to explore the country, which I spent in Florence and Venice.
a Cross inside the Colosseumthe Trevi Fountain
The Roman Forumthe Vatican
I lounged in cafes, drinking cappuccinos and wine and watching the life of Italy move around me, more languid than the life I knew in the US. When Rome beat Naples in some soccer match, I joined the electrified crowds in the nearest piazza in their raucous celebration. I explored the Vatican Museum, the Uffizi, and various other museums and art exhibits, my first real introduction to art.
Italy was my first experience of Europe, the beginning of the longest love affair of my life. I’ve been to a total of 27 European countries since then, but Italy has always held a special place in my heart. In many ways, when I think of Europe, it is Italy that I picture.
But Italy contains multitudes, and though I’d returned to Naples and Rome a couple of times when I worked for the Navy, there were many parts of this diverse country that I had yet to explore. So a year ago, I jumped at the opportunity to book a week-long photography class in Tuscany through Capital Photography Center and Il Chiostro for October 2024.
When I decided to add an additional week to the trip, I sought out the less-touristed regions of the country. I settled on a week in Emilia-Romagna, a region squeezed between Tuscany and the Veneto that is the birthplace of some of Italy’s most iconic foods—balsamic vinegar, parmesan cheese, parma ham, tortellini, lasagna… the list goes on. Wary of trying to cram too much into one trip (a character flaw of mine), I decided to save Campania, Sicily, the Dolomites, Lake Como, and other places for future trips. I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of Italy.
And so, my itinerary came to look like this. Four days in Bologna, which serves as a convenient launch-point for day trips to other Emilian cities. Two days in Ravenna, briefly the capital of the Roman Empire during Byzantine times and home to astounding mosaics. Then one night in Florence, which would get me near my Tuscan destination. Then eight days at the Dievole Wine Resort in Chianti, Tuscany, home base for the photography class where we would launch day trips to towns throughout Tuscany: Siena, San Gimignano, Pienza, and Radda. Two weeks full of beautiful sights, delectable Italian food, and so much wine!
Follow me on my journey through my next few Sunday posts on Bologna, Ravenna, and Tuscany, plus maybe some more if the mood moves me. Arrivederci for now!
My friends and I traipsed along a wooded path. Pine trees towered above our heads, and their needles and cones formed a blanket beneath our feet. Beams of sunlight darted through the sparse canopy, warming the air that was still cool even in June. Scrubbier greenery lined the path, and a bunny scampered away at the sound of our footfalls.
We reached the end of the path and surveyed the farthest campsites from the parking lot, then doubled back, favoring instead one of the first ones we had looked at. This one was bordered by a slight embankment that led to a cheerfully babbling brook down. Its gentle gurgling could have been recorded for a sleep sounds app.
This would be our home for the evening. “Isn’t it beautiful?” my friends asked me.
our home for the evening
I couldn’t deny that. But they were missing the point.
I didn’t object to being out in the woods and enjoying nature. I didn’t object to sitting around a campfire drinking wine. The part of camping that I dreaded was the part where you have to sleep on the cold, hard ground.
Let me back up. As the title of this blog (and my profile) might suggest, I am not a camper.
Don’t get me wrong, I have camped. When I was a small kid, my parents would take me tent camping in the forests of northern New Jersey (yes, the Garden State really does have forests, cue the Jersey jokes). Campfires, roasted marshmallows on sticks, ghost stories, all the fun childhood camping stereotypes.
When I was an older kid, we lived in Kentucky, and my mom declared herself too old to sleep on the ground (adult me commends my mom’s stand here), so my dad bought a crappy used tent camper. He spray-painted it forest green and towed it behind his Chevy Astro minivan on our way to campsites around the Bluegrass State. The beds in the tent camper made this a slight step up from camping in a tent, but still captured the essentials of the experience.
In college, I camped multiple times in the high desert of central-to-northern Arizona. My roommate and I bought a cheap tent at Walmart, which we may have used a couple of times. Other times, I slept in my car. Camping in college was less about the experience of camping and more about underage drinking far away from any authorities.
These college trips were my only experiences camping as “an adult.” I have some fond memories, like sitting around campfires while guys crooned ‘90s alternative songs to their guitars. (To this day, “Plush” by STP, “Elderly Woman Behind a Counter,” by Pearl Jam, and “Losing my Religion” by REM never fail to evoke these times.)
But I also have memories of freezing on the ground during cold desert nights, unable to get comfortable on the rocky ground despite being drunk enough that passing out should have been a cinch.
Like my mother before me, my problem with camping was always singular: sleeping.
In my college days, I didn’t particularly have a problem with insomnia. But I have since my mid-to-late 20s, which happened to coincide with the period in my life where I started making some money and got introduced to a nicer class of hotel than a Holiday Inn, by virtue of traveling domestically and internationally for work.
Once you’ve stayed in a virtual palace like the Ritz-Carlton in Moscow, your standards start to shift.
Once I recognized that I could now afford a 3-star hotel with clean, freshly ironed white sheets and comfortable pillows, the appeal of camping disappeared for me.
In short, this was the period in my life when my tastes started getting bougie.
Fast-forward around 15 years. I am in Jasper National Park, Alberta, Canada with two camping-enthusiast friends, and I have agreed to give camping a fresh try.
Partly, this was because my friends promised me that I would get photo opportunities that would be impossible to get otherwise (this did not pan out). Partly, it was because I had recognized during previous trips to the wilderness that there are remote corners of the world that are more accessible if you’re willing to camp a night or two. And partly, it was because it had been 20 years since I’d last camped, which made it almost like a new experience. I rarely turn down a new experience.
Perhaps with better gear, because we were actual adults now, it would be more comfortable.
Still, the enthusiasm with which my friends hyped the event drew my skepticism. “You’re going to love it!” they insisted. “Maybe we’ll even spend more than one night!”
The first thing I learned about camping was that it had gotten much more complicated in the last 20 years. There’s a whole culture around it, with specialized vernacular and oh-so-much gear.
The night before we departed for Jasper, my friend took out two tubs full of camping gear and soon the living room of our AirBnB in Canmore looked like we had robbed an REI. All the camping doo-dads, wee-hookies, and thingamabobs—only some of whose functions I understood— generated a great deal of enthusiastic discussion.
They called my attention to one set of items in particular: sleeping pads. These will make all the difference for being able to get a good night’s sleep, they assured me. I had to admit, it sounded more promising than sleeping with nothing but a thin nylon tent and sleeping bag separating me from the ground.
The next 24 hours introduced me to even more new terminology.
When camping, apparently water can come in multiple colors, at minimum grey and black, and perhaps purple and orange as well for all I know. The distinction between these was apparently very important to bear attack prevention.
The spot we chose was officially designated a “walk in” spot, vice a “car camping” spot, but my friends gleefully said it may has well have been a car camping spot. (Because we didn’t have to walk far.) The food locker (again, because of bears) was right by the site as well.
It was early afternoon when we selected our campsite. Before we could enjoy the rest of our day, we had to pitch the tents to claim our spot. Pitching the two tents was, with apologies to my camping friends, an ordeal.
These nylon palaces had to be erected with great precision, with a long series of sticks that had to be assembled and bent just so, staked into the ground, clipped into place, and then there were rain flaps that also had to be clipped into place and fastened, and even when all that was done the whole thing looked a little lopsided and the doors didn’t seem to line up where they were supposed to.
And even then, we had only built our shelters, but not our beds. Putting out the sleeping bags and sleeping pads would have to wait until later, because… theft I guess?
A nice thing about hotels and AirBnBs? Your shelter for the night is already arranged when you arrive. You do not have to spend an hour building it before you can go on with your day. ‘Nuf said.
After this we ventured up to Miette Hot Springs, which I have to say was skippable. I love hot springs in almost all their forms, but this one had all the ambiance of a public pool that just happened to be hot—both in terms of the aesthetics and the behavior of its guests. A peaceful spa this was not.
But I digress.
On the way back to the campsite, we ran into three bears (and it has just now occurred to me that they may well have been Papa Bear, Momma Bear, and Baby Bear), demonstrating that I really did need to pay attention to all these rules about water color.
Papa BearMama Bear and Baby Bear
Back at the campsite, we had to finish the construction of our sleeping quarters by dragging the sleeping pads and sleeping bags into the tents. (Making the beds: another thing that is already taken care of in a hotel or AirBnB.)
The rest of the evening was nice enough. We ate food from the cooler that really did not amount to a proper meal but sufficed.
We built a fire in a poorly constructed fire pit that was sunk a little too deep into the ground to properly oxygenate. But this was the one challenge of camping that I was entirely up for, as I do love a campfire. And we drank wine around our little gimpy fire, which was really the one part of camping that I was looking forward to.
Then came the part I was dreading. Sleeping.
Though it was June, it was still chilly in the Canadian Rockies. When it was sunny during the day, we could shed our layers down to a long-sleeve t-shirt. But as the sun went down, it got cool then cold. Even with the campfire weakly blazing, I had on my Paka hoodie, mid-weight Patagonia winter coat, cashmere hat, and gloves.
In the tent, under my sleeping bag, I still struggled to warm up. My SmartWool socks were doing nothing to warm my toes, and (upon my friends’ advice) I had taken off my coat to serve as a poor facsimile of a pillow.
I couldn’t get warm, and I couldn’t get comfortable. All night I shivered, burying my head under the sleeping bag. And the sleeping pad that my friends had so touted did not solve the fundamental challenge of sleeping on a hard, cold ground.
I must have slept some. At least my FitBit told me I did. But it was not a happy sleep.
I do get the appeal. I awoke in the morning in a beautiful place. I inhaled the scent of pine needles and the leftover musk of campfire smoke. The chirps of birds and the gurgle of the brook greeted me good morning.
But in my book, no amount of pleasant outdoorsy things can compensate for a good night’s sleep.
A big part of visiting the Canadian Rockies parks of Banff, Jasper, and Yoho is exploring their various lakes, famed for the array of colors you’ll find among their sundry waters. Lakes in the Rockies come from glacial melt. Glaciers erode rocks, which turn into finely ground particles that suspend in the lake water. The rocky sediments in the water reflect the sunlight, making the water appear striking shades of aqua, turquoise, blue, and green.
Most famous of these is Lake Louise. The Lonely Planet lauds its beauty: “there ought to be a rule in life that no one should depart this mortal coil without first visiting Lake Louise” (p. 102). Compared to the typical iconic shots of the lake, this is taken from the opposite shore, coming the Plain of Six Glaciers. We accessed this side of the lake by first hiking up the Lake Agnes trail, stopping for a bit of tea and scones at the Lake Agnes Tea House, and descending past the Beehives to the glacial plain. Here in the distance, you can see the famous Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, originally constructed in the 1890s.
Lake Louise, seen across the glacial plain
For a slightly different, but no less beautiful hue, Yoho National Park boasts Emerald Lake. Red canoes dot the water, making for a picturesque contrast with the jade waters. We circumnavigated Emerald Lake on our first day in Canada. It was a easy, flat walk, perfect for adjusting to the elevation of 4000-5000 feet.
Emerald Lake, with red canoes
Peyto Lake is an even purer shade of azure. It can be reached by a short but steep hike up from the Icefields Parkway, which links Banff and Jasper National Parks.
Peyto Lake
Bow Lake doesn’t require a hike at all, just a quick stop on the Icefields Parkway. Here it is in the morning light, serving as an almost perfect mirror for Crowfoot Mountain and Bow Peak.
Bow Lake, a smooth mirror
We hiked around Lake Edith in Jasper National Park early one morning. Here it is reflecting three different hues: the fluffy clouds of the sky, the deep blue of the mountains, and the evergreen of the pines.
Lake Edith, reflecting sky, mountains, and trees
Early 20th century explorer Mary Schaffer, the first white woman to ever see Lake Maligne, declared it, “the finest view…in the Rockies.” We found it a little bit of a letdown after that kind of advertising, perhaps only because its waters were a bit more muted that day.
Maligne Lake
But waters need not always be blue to have a sort of feral beauty. Here is shallow Lake Jasper, its muddy bed tossed by strong winds before a coming storm.
My friends and I were driving south down Rt 16 toward Jasper. I was sitting in the driver’s side backseat, peering into the distance toward the Athabasca River, looking for wildlife drinking by the riverside.
Nearer to the road, I glimpsed pale shapes moving. They were whitish, or perhaps tan or grey. My brain frantically tried to identify the shapes as we sped closer. Were they mountain goats or bighorn sheep? No. Dogs? No.
As our car drew almost even with them, I looked one directly in the eyes. It was a wolf.
They roamed in a pack of four, heading from the river back towards the mountains.
Our car sped past, and the moment was over. The whole encounter lasted perhaps a couple of seconds, but I will remember it for the rest of my life.
“Those were motherfucking wolves!” We were shouting in the car. “Holy shit!”
We were still moving quickly down a busy highway, and there was nowhere to pull off. But as soon as we could, the driver whipped the car around and returned the way we’d come, hoping to find the pack of wolves again.
It was a fruitless hunt. By the time we made it back, the wolves had already evaporated into their elusive mountain abodes.
Still, the fact that there was no question that we would turn the car around and try to find those wolves again was a friendship-affirming moment, a reminder that I had found my tribe in life.
I was in Canada for a friend’s 40th birthday. She had decided to spend the whole month of June hiking, camping, and photographing her way through the Canadian Rockies national parks of Banff, Jasper, Yoho, and Kootenay, which span Alberta and British Columbia. I flew from DC to Calgary with another friend to join her for a week toward the end of the month, when she already had a good sense of bearings.
In theory, we were there to hike and see all the sights—the mountains, the lakes, the rivers, the waterfalls. As the wolf story highlights, extraordinary as all of those things were, the wildlife really excited us the most.
On the first day, we went to Yoho National Park and, among other things, hiked around Emerald Lake, with its vibrant waters dotted with red canoes and rimmed by mountains that were still snow-covered in June.
Emerald Lake
By the end of the day, we were disappointed to have seen no wildlife, so the birthday girl (by this time attuned to the movements of the local creatures) drove out toward Lake Minnewanka, where got our first glimpse of elk, grazing in the middle of a field dotted with yellow flowers.
elk near Lake Minnewanka
On day 2, we headed north to Jasper National Park. Less touristed than the more southern parks, Jasper was by far the most fruitful for wildlife viewing. As we drove out of the town of Jasper, we encountered mountain goats on the side of the road. At one point I sighted this guy on top of a rocky crag and cried, “Goat, goat, goat!” to get my friend to pull over for photos.
mountain goat near Jasper, Alberta
That night, when driving back to our campsite near Miette, we saw three black bears, including one tiny little baby foraging by the roadside. (Warning: Photos taken from the safety of a vehicle. Bears are dangerous, do not try to take photos like this if you are in the open.)
black bear near Miette, Alberta
The next day, it was a small herd of bighorn sheep, wading through some tall grasses outside of Jasper and snacking.
bighorn sheep near Jasper, Alberta
Later some more goats, including this little baby, as we drove south down the Icefields Parkway back toward Banff.
a baby and adult mountain goat on Icefields Parkway, Alberta
The next two days were disappointing, wildlife-wise (and only wildlife-wise… an entire post on Lake Louise is coming.) So the last day of our trip, we drove out to Kootenay National Park, in hopes of catching some last glimpses of creatures… maybe a moose? Or a grizzly? Alas, we drove for hours and only managed to see a few more goats.
a baby and adult mountain goat in Kootenay National Park, British Columbia
There were plenty of things we could have done with our last day. Surrounded by so many natural wonders, what was it that drew us to seek out the wildlife above all else? Why do animals so captivate us?
One could say it’s because we’re city gals, unaccustomed to seeing wildlife on the daily. Maybe people who live out in the wilderness no longer get excited when they see an elk or a bear.
I’m not sure about that explanation. My neighborhood is crawling with squirrels and chipmunks and I suppose they don’t excite me too much. But I also have a family of rabbits that lives in the vicinity of my building and I never fail to get excited when I see them.
Certainly rarity breeds fascination. No matter where you live, encounters with wolves are pretty fucking rare. And if you live in the suburbs of Washington DC, you’re very unlikely to encounter a mountain goat or a bighorn sheep. Still, I sometimes see deer when I’m hiking locally, or visiting friends who live in the country, and I still loved seeing these guys.
a doe and fawn in Jasper National Park, Alberta
Does the fascination come from the danger? The wolves, bears, and even moose are dangerous and engender a healthy sense of fear, even when you’re safely in your vehicle as we were. Is seeking out wild creatures then a form of thrill-seeking, the same as riding a roller-coaster?
Perhaps all of these provide a partial explanation, and they certainly are not mutually exclusive.
I think it’s deeper than that though. I think we seek out our wild animal brethren not because they are exotic, but out of recognition of distant kinship. We dearly love and have even co-evolvedwith our domesticated pets.
But we are not so distant on the tree of life from our mammalian kin who still roam free in the world’s jungles, forests, plains, savannas, and deserts. It was not so long ago that our ancestors lived among them, hunting prey and avoiding predators as a matter of life and death.
I love photographing wild creatures with my 100-400mm telephoto lens because it lets me get shots like this one.
a lone bighorn sheep near Jasper, Alberta
Look at this guy. He knows things. Maybe not the things that you and I know. Who knows what wisdom is of value to a sheep? But he is certainly not some dumb beast. He is alive and canny and as interested in me as I am in him.
When we see these guys across a field and they see us, we feel the excitement that we feel in spotting an old friend (or enemy) we haven’t seen in ages across a crowded room. “Oh hey there, fancy meeting you here. It’s been a while.”
Maybe for some of us, those of us who live most distant from the wild, it’s been longer than for those of you who live in cabins in the woods. But I still feel a thrill of kinship when I see my local bunnies.
That is why, as awe-inspiring as mountains and waterfalls are, there is some special excitement to seeking out wild creatures. At least for me. And for my well-chosen friends.
I’ve been absent here for a while. And it’s not because I haven’t traveled. I spent a week in Banff, Canada and its environs at the end of June, a trip I hope to write about in coming weeks. I just haven’t been up to writing.
On June 5, in the middle of the night, my good boy Felix passed away in his sleep.
Felix
He was about 13 and had started showing his age the previous fall. We had a cool spring here in Washington, DC, but as the weather started warming up, he visibly struggled to walk, plopping down and panting even on a short walk. A few times I had to carry him part of the way home (and he wasn’t light).
Exercise intolerance aside, he was still hanging in and showing joy in life until the last week, when after one bad night, he was diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension. He declined rapidly, ate up until his final day (he did love to eat), and passed away at a time of his own choosing.
This post isn’t about Felix’s death, though, not really. It’s about healing when a beloved someone passes, and how travel can be a vital part of that healing process. I’m focused on pets here because that’s most recent to me, but I think the lessons here could equally apply to humans as well.
I’ve been through a lot of death in my life, both human and animal. All of my grandparents and my dad are gone. We had three cats when I was a kid, and as an adult, I’ve had three pets of my own, all overlapping, for the last 18 years.
First was Amber, who passed away in 2019 at 12 years old, just a few months after my dad had passed.
Amber
Second was Frankie, who just passed away last year at 13 years old.1
Frankie
Both cats had been with me since kittenhood.
I rescued Felix in 2017 after Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico, when he was already around 6 years old. He was probably around 13 when he died in June, leaving me petless for the first time since grad school.
After each of my pets died, I traveled. Here are the three ways that I think it helped:
Getting away from home gets you away from the ghosts
Within two weeks of Amber’s passing, I was in Miami Beach, staying with a friend who was living in one of those iconic high rises with views of aqua waters.
Miami Beach
I needed to be anywhere but at home, where Amber’s ghost still roamed the halls, and her fur still clung to the sheets.
Pets imprint themselves upon your life in infinite ways. After they are gone, they linger on their favorite chairs, rugs, and corners of the bed. You even miss their even their most annoying habits. Frankie’s howling at 5 am for someone to wake up and pay attention to him. Felix barking like mad every time the buzzer rang for a delivery. (Amber had no annoying habits, she was an angel.)
You even miss the pet hair, which you will still find in surprising places months and years later, a physical reminder that this beloved little creature really lived and shared your space.
Felix shed a lot, and now that he’s gone my condo is much cleaner. No more piles of black and grey hair collecting in the corners of rooms. I no longer trip over stuffed toys all over the living room. The new cleanliness feels like emptiness, and I don’t welcome it.
The ghosts of dogs are are more mobile than cats because in life they travel so many more places with you. Yes, Felix was on the couch, on the bed, greeting me at the door when I got home, begging for food in the kitchen, digging through his massive basket of stuffed toys. But he was also in the backseat of my car, rolling on the patch of grass in front of my condo building, frolicking on my favorite local hiking trails.
Felix on a hike
When he passed, I wanted to be anywhere but home. I almost got in the car and drove three hours to the ocean. I wanted to be free of his memory, as if I could actually forget my grief no matter where I was. Still, getting away from the places where his ghost lived offered the promise of relief from pain at a time when memory felt unbearable.
Getting away from normal responsibilities gives you mental space to grieve
In Miami Beach, I spent a few days there with my friend, exploring the beaches, eating Cuban food, and spending a memorable day on a sailboat, sunbathing to the rhythms of yacht rock.
Afterwards, I relocated solo to the Breezes Resort on Cable Beach, west of Nassau, Bahamas. For the first few days I was there, I did nothing. That is to say, I woke up in the morning, brought my Kindle out to the beach, and claimed a hammock under a palm-thatched roof. I laid in the hammock and read for hours on end, gently rocking back and forth in the hammock. Gazing out at the aqua waters. Occasionally grabbing a drink.
my hammock in the Bahamas
I’m typically a busy traveler. If I’ve taken the effort to get somewhere, I don’t like to waste time in the hotel, sleeping in, or walled off in some resort where I only interact with other American tourists. I try to cram in as much local sights, food, experiences, shopping, and culture as possible.
For the first few days in the Bahamas, I did none of that. I told myself I had nothing that I needed to do. No chores, no responsibilities, no obligation to do anything. And those days of utter, blissful inaction helped. My brain, heart, and soul had time to process what they needed to process. When I got home, I hurt less, and was able to—if not move on—at least function like a human again.
I already had the trip to Banff booked before Felix passed. One of my close friends had decided a year before that she intended to spend the full month of her 40th birthday in Banff. She rented a place and invited friends and family visit for however much time they could. Another friend and I had planned for a week.
The trip started two weeks to the day after he died. In the intervening time, I actually had to pull myself together for important things like job interviews, which felt like a prodigious act of valor. In between moments of semi-human-functioning, I snuggled Felix’s stuffed toys and cried.
My friends and I settled on seating arrangements in the Subaru early on. The birthday girl was driving, as it was her car. The other friend was prone to carsickness, so she took shotgun. I willingly took the backseat, where I was a little isolated from the conversation in the front seat, chiming in when I felt like it, singing along to songs that moved me.
But mostly I was looking out the window, taking in the scenery and searching for wildlife, while swimming in deep pools of grief.
For the preceding two weeks, I hadn’t really let myself remember everything that had happened the day Felix died. Waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, stepping in poo, going to check on him, finding him cold, debating if he was really dead or not, stroking his dead body to comfort him just in case, moving his stiff corpse, waiting sleeplessly till morning when I could call someone, wrapping him up in a blanket, carrying his stiff body down three flights of steps, stuffing him into the car, and carrying him into the vet’s.
Having a pet die at home means confronting the physical realities of a dead body in ways that you don’t have to when you put them to sleep at the vet’s. There were a thousand tiny little visceral details that I took in stride at the time out of necessity, but may have traumatized me more than I realized.
I relived them all, looking out the window of my friend’s Subaru, simultaneously heartbroken and awe-struck by the mountains, streams, and lakes. At times, a stray tear trickled down my face, and I hoped I wiped it away before my friends saw it.
I’m sure I wasn’t the best travel companion on that trip. I was quiet, withdrawn, and probably not my most fun. I certainly participated very little in planning our days, and I was immensely grateful that I didn’t have to. The last night I got drunk and finally spilled my guts about how much I was struggling and how I’d been spending my time in the backseat.
Adventures remind you that you still have a lot to live for
I didn’t come home feeling rejuvenated after Banff the same way I did after the Bahamas. Here I am, almost three months later, just getting to the point where I feel like I can post again. Other things have happened in the interim too, mostly work bullshit that felt like the universe was repeatedly kicking me while I was down. I’ve been trying to give myself grace to recover, all the while feeling like “he was a dog, not a human, I shouldn’t be grieving this hard.” Apparently, that’s a common feeling when a pet dies.
Still, Banff was awesome in the original “awe-inspiring” sense of the word. Not just Banff, but Jasper and Yoho National Parks too. So many waterfalls, lakes, mountains, not to mention all the creatures! We saw black bear, mountain goats, bighorn sheep, elk, deer, and even—for a fleetingly wonderful instant (and from the safety of the car)—a pack of wolves. No amount of grief could subsume the wonder of that moment. More on the trip to follow, but here’s just a taste.
Lake Edith, in Jasper National Park, Alberta, Canada
By the last couple of days of my trip to the Bahamas, I finally felt capable of venturing off the resort. I snorkeled with some sharks and viewed the island where Captain Jack Sparrow gets marooned in Pirates of the Caribbean. I took a little jaunt around Nassau on a non-cruise-ship day, and delighted in the Pirates of Nassau Museum (especially the tales of lady pirates!).
Even though these were small excursions, I returned to the white sand of Cable Beach afterwards and was overcome with gratitude that I’m fortunate enough to be able to see so many of the world’s beautiful places. People will die, pets will die, but I want to keep going until I can see as much of the world as I can.
Frankie features shockingly little in this story of grief. He was indeed the little misfit of the family. Where Amber was a gentle soul, and Felix was a charmer, Frankie was, in my mom’s words “a little off.” It was less than a month after his death that I went to Dominica. But I don’t really recall being in mourning still then. Maybe I loved my misfit middle child a little less. Maybe I had just made my peace with his passing before it came. Poor Frankie. ↩︎
When people ask me how my trip to Alaska was, my quick, flippant response is, “a lot of glaciers and whales.” Which may sound as if I’m being dismissive of the experience, but the truth is, the glaciers and whales were both amazing. More to follow on the whales in my next post. Today, we’re talking about glaciers.
Over the course of my seven-day journey, I saw a total of five glaciers (probably more if you count some fleeting glimpses): Mendenhall, Herbert, Hubbard, Holgate, and Bear. Honestly, I could not get enough of them. We got to see them from a few different vantage points: from the air (Mendenhall), standing on top (Herbert), and from the sea (Hubbard, Holgate, and Bear).
I got some amazing photos, but pictures cannot do justice to the experience of being up close to these massive walls of snow and ice—the radiating cold, the aqua gleam in the sun, the groaning and cracking when they calve.
According to the National Park Service, glaciers cover 23,000 square miles of Alaska. Only some of these are tidewater glaciers, which terminate at the sea, and from a boat, you’re only seeing a small part of the total mass the glacier. Behind the sea terminus and out of view from the water, the glacier may stretch for miles—in the case of the Hubbard Glacier, 76 miles, all the way to Mt Logan in Canada’s Yukon Territory.
Prior to this trip, I had thought of glaciers as massive but stationary hunks of ice, because I’d previously seen only tiny remains of glaciers in places like the Alps and Montana’s Glacier National Park. I learned on this trip how much glaciers move. Snow falls in the mountains, compacts and compacts under its own weight, and begins a sometimes centuries-long journey from mountaintop to sea.
Mendenhall and Herbert Glaciers
Mendenhall Glacier is easily accessible from Juneau, and is 13 miles long, terminating at Mendenhall Lake. We didn’t actually visit this one, but we saw it from the helicopter en route to a lesser-known glacier in the Juneau Ice Field, Herbert Glacier.
Mendenhall Glacier, seen from the air
Glaciers are formed when the amount of annual snowfall exceeds the amount of annual snowmelt. Due to climate change, many glaciers are in retreat, which happens when the melting exceeds the snowfall. This is the case for most of Alaska’s glaciers.
Both glaciers are retreating and melting quickly. In the case of Mendenhall, the melt has proven so rapid that Juneau has seen devastating floods in recent years known as glacial outburst floods (or, more colorfully jokulhlaup, in Icelandic). These happen when icemelt pools under the glacier until the pressure suddenly becomes too much and actually lifts the glacier up, providing a release for the water.
In July 2011, an estimated 10 billion gallons of water burst from the glacier over the course of three days. The phenomenon has repeated 30 times since then. In July 2023, shortly after we were there, it released its most devastating flood yet.
Herbert Glacier is retreating with far less drama, and I have to say it was still an impressive hunk of ice to fly over and land on in a helicopter.
Herbert Glacier, on approach
Up close the glacier’s surface is rough and riddled with pockmarks and electric blue crevasses.
a boulder balances atop a crevasse on Herbert Glacier
In places, it is even dirty, laden with hunks of rock ranging from gravel to boulders picked up from the mountains it carved on its journey.
my mom at Herbert Glacier, surrounded by bouldersflying to the top of the mountain at Herbert Glacier
Hubbard Glacier
Hubbard Glacier was another experience altogether. Hubbard was a stop on our cruise—not a port call, because there was nowhere to make port. But overnight on our last full day at sea, our ship made a turn north into Yakutat Bay, then proceeded further down the ominously named Disenchantment Bay. I awoke that morning to the sight of chunks of ice drifting by. By the time we had gotten our morning coffee, the ship was pulling in viewing range of the mighty glacier.
Hubbard Glacier is nearly 7 miles wide and 350 feet tall at its terminus in Disenchantment Bay. It extends 76 miles inland to Mt Logan in Canada’s Yukon Territory—an icefield larger than the state of Rhode Island.
Hubbard Glacier from afar
You know all those glacier videos you see online or in National Geographic documentaries from Greenland or Antarctica? The ones where large icebergs break off of glaciers, demonstrating the unrelenting damage wrought by climate change? Perfectly true in those cases—glacier mass is shrinking worldwide, including in Alaska. But Hubbard is defying climate change and advancing rather than retreating.
Which means that there was no reason to feel sorrow as the sun came up and the glacier began to grunt and groan, a sign that she was about to calve!
Hubbard Glacier calving
“Calving” is the name of the process by which masses of glacier detach themselves and float away as icebergs, or smaller chunks, known as “bergy bits” or “growlers.” The ceaseless movement of marine-terminating glaciers from mountain to sea means that even an advancing glacier drops calves.
We were fortunate in the weather conditions, which allowed our ship to approach within half a mile of the glacier—the closest larger ships can get—before the captain set the ship on a slow turn to the starboard, allowing the ship to spin so that all side of the ship could get a good view. Or you could do what we did, and run back and forth between port and starboard sides so that for the couple of hours we were there, Hubbard was never out of our view.
ice litters the water beside Hubbard Glacier
We saw dozens of calvings that day, mostly little ones. I’ve had a lot of amazing days in my two decades of traveling the world, and the only day that topped this one was my safari in Maasi Mara in 2013. The overwhelming scale of Hubbard was phenomenal enough up close, and it became even more so when your realized that the ice you were seeing break off into the ocean was completing a journey that began in the Yukon about 500 years before.
Holgate and Bear Glaciers
After we disembarked in Seward, we squeezed in one last excursion to Kenai Fjords National Park through Kenai Fjord Tours. I’ll have a lot more to say about this excursion in my wildlife post, but today I’ll focus on the two glaciers.
I hesitate to say that Holgate and Bear were a bit of a let-down after Hubbard. We were in a much smaller boat after all, which let us get a lot closer to Holgate. (Bear we just passed by without stopping.)
Bear Glacier
They were smaller and not actively calving like Hubbard had been. But if Holgate had been the only glacier I’d seen on the trip, it would still have been a spectacular experience.
a small boat is dwarfed by Holgate Glacier, a “small glacier”spears of ice crown Holgate Glacier
Holgate too is advancing glacier that does calve; unlike Hubbard, it’s only 5 miles long. Not far to the east, Bear Glacier is retreating. Weird how that works, isn’t it?
Such was my glacier experience in Alaska, and to be honest, it has left me craving more travel to frigid climes! I loved my trip north of the Arctic Circle in Norway in 2019, and now with a second spectacular northern adventure under my belt, I’m contemplating Greenland and Antarctica. And Svalbard, Norway. And Tierra del Fuego. These trips would probably not be very bougie, unless taken from the safety of a cruise ship (which Antarctica have to be), but there is something so spectacular in the unspoiled ruggedness of these places.
