A Few Memorable Days

By Philip Larson

Philip Larson began delivering newspapers in his hometown of Boone, Iowa, when he was ten years old. One afternoon while walking his paper route he looked up in the sky and noticed a narrow, white cloud developing behind an airplane. Although he had never seen a contrail before, he knew what it was. What he did not know is how the advancements in jet aircraft would revolutionize travel and enable a young Iowa paper carrier to one day explore all seven continents. He hiked, canoed, rode motorcycles, and traveled in automobiles, planes, trains, and ships.

In a fascinating chronicling of his travels from 1969 to 2019, Philip Larson shares a glimpse into his global adventures as he journeyed from the frozen lakes of arctic Canada to the outback of Australia to the barren Namib desert of western Africa as well as many more destinations. As he leads other travel adventurers through his vast experiences, Larson details a frigid New Year’s Eve camping trip in northern Minnesota, an one-hundred and eighty-mile trek on the back trails of Nepal, a memorable campsite in Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula as a typhoon blew in from the Sea of Okhotsk, and much more.

A Few Memorable Days is the travel log of an experienced adventurer as he explored the world over five decades in some of its most inaccessible places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665745574

Philip Larson

Philip Larson has been a long-time member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America and the Association of Great Lakes Outdoor Writers where he served as president and chairman of the board. He is a member of the Travelers Century Club, a Fellow of the Explorers Club of New York. Larson resides in Iowa.

Book preview

NEW YEAR’S EVE CAMPING

IMG0006.JPG

Philip Larson, left, and Mike McCoy study a map of their route in Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

The fierce wind that forced us to move camp in the late afternoon had subsided. The wilderness became silent, inky black, and cold. A few stars shone dimly overhead, and a faint hint of the aurora borealis marked the northern horizon. But even with that, the night was overwhelmingly dark. The three of us stood on skis, staring up at the endless void. Nothing in that frozen night indicated that other life existed. We seemed totally alone. Each of us thought of other places we could have been on this New Year’s Eve night. Then we turned and skied back up the river to where our camp sat sheltered in a grove of fir trees. Here was protection from the brutal cold.

Our camp was in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness of northern Minnesota. It was not a hospitable place in winter. Temperatures dropped as low as minus fifty degrees on some nights. Frigid arctic winds drove the windchill factor even lower. The snow cover deepened with each fresh snowfall. It was a very unlikely vacation spot. Snow had to be melted for drinking water and for mixing with dehydrated foods. Relieving oneself was a dreadfully unpleasant experience in that cold.

Even so, Mike and Roger McCoy and I had gone there. We skied in. Warm down sleeping bags and extra clothing necessary to combat the intense cold had been added to the backpacks. The human body burned extra calories when maintaining body heat in that weather. The food that supplied us with that energy was packed too. The full packs were heavy. Carrying them was burdensome but very necessary.

We skied over frozen lakes and rivers. The snow cover on the wide exposed lakes had been swept thin by winds. Skiing in the shallow snow was easy and fast. We followed the zigzagging course of the waterways ever deeper into the quiet wilderness. In some places, the channels narrowed to the width of a small stream and then abruptly expanded into a flat, white plain, a mile or more wide. Trees covered the land and stretched away from shore. They extended back over rolling hills and flat marshy bottoms. They were white and bowed from the snow covering their branches.

Occasionally, we came upon turbulent water that had not yielded to the intensity of the cold. Here, we were forced back onto the land. In the shelter of the trees, the snow lay deep and powdery. Skiing took more effort here, and despite the cold, we found ourselves sweating. Sweating in such conditions could be the start of real problems, so we were forced to remove packs, peel off a layer of outer clothing, re-shoulder the packs, and proceed. Soon we were down to heavy wool sweaters. Then the open water ended. We were once again on the frozen lakes and exposed to the wind. We put the shirts, vests, and windbreakers back on. We had placed more distance and difficult skiing between civilization and us.

We skied in silence. The only sound came from the rhythmic cadence of our skis as they shuffled through the snow. My eyes scanned the frozen countryside while my thoughts went to a line from Robert Service’s The Spell of the Yukon. He described the land during the northern winter as being locked tight as a drum. That seemed a fitting description of the area we were passing through. We crossed many tracks on our trek—wolves, deer, moose, river otters, bobcats, and foxes. The forests held them all somewhere, but the animals themselves eluded us.

I fell through the ice once. We were near the shore of a small lake. Suddenly, I felt my skis tipping backward. There was no mistaking what was happening. Instinctively, I lunged forward, transferred my weight to the poles, and thrust hard on them. My skis came up and out of the water. They were coated with ice, and needed to be scraped and cleaned. But I was dry and safe. We looked back over our tracks from the safety of solid ground. The narrow lines were just shadows in the snow, which came toward us from far across the lake. Then close to shore, they changed. The ski tracks became dark and slushy and extended like that for ten yards before reaching the hole where I broke through. It was a very distinct reminder of the danger inherent in such winter travel.

img006.jpg

Left to right, Philip Larson, Roger McCoy, and Mike McCoy finish dinner near a fire at twenty below zero.

When the sun went down there was very little to do. We built a fire and cooked dinner. Then we huddled close to the flickering warmth. All too soon, the logs were coals, and more wood had to be gathered. We wandered farther from the fire and brought in larger, heavier logs. But they all burned like paper and yielded little warmth. After an hour, we decided that the task of maintaining the fire was too demanding. There was nothing left to do but climb into our sleeping bags for another long, long night.

In the morning, my thermometer outside the tent registered minus thirty-four degrees. When I reached out and brought it inside my small enclosure, the needle rose to minus eleven degrees.

When our time came to leave the wilderness, we did so without hesitation. The temperature still stood at minus ten degrees when we reached the last lake between us and my truck. A thirty-mile-an-hour wind blew in our faces, so we put on face masks and down mittens. Finally, we skied up to the truck. The truck started. In a short time, we were back in Ely checking into a motel. It was nice to be warm, to sleep in a soft and cozy motel bed, and to enjoy restaurant meals. Creature comforts and simple luxuries seemed unusually appealing. It was so different from life in the bush. Basic survival had been an issue there. Our trip provided us with a look at nature at its harshest. The winter’s landscape had been beautiful. We saw and experienced it as few ever do. That made the trip worthwhile.

IN THE BOMA WITH THE ANIMALS

Eden Game Resort in northern Namibia is a wildlife showplace. Most of Africa’s unique wildlife inhabits this seventy-seven-thousand-acre ranch. Elephants, rhinos, giraffes, ostriches, sable antelopes, elands, gemsboks, kudus, warthogs, and zebras roam Eden’s brushy habitat. So many animals thrive on the reserve that each year, some are captured and trucked to less populated regions.

Capturing free-ranging, large, powerful, and wild animals is not easy. It requires daring professionals. Today, only four contractors in all of Namibia do such work. During the first two weeks in July of 2009 while I stayed at Eden, one of those contractors, Herbert Henle, arrived with his crew. They brought a helicopter, trucks, and loading chutes, and all the material needed to assemble a boma.

Their goal was to capture 260 animals. Waterbucks, kudus, wildebeests, elands, gemsboks, giraffes, and red hartebeests were all included in that number. Some species presented special problems. Gemsboks’ horns are so sharp and the animals so aggressive that plastic pipes must be placed over the tips to prevent the animals from stabbing each other. Giraffes require extra-tall trailers and capture pens.

No matter what species is being captured, the method is always the same. Workers begin by erecting a capture pen or boma as Africans call it. The boma is a large V-shaped enclosure. Constructing one begins when the men dig post holes and anchor tall poles into the ground along the sides of the V. A taunt wire is strung along the top of the poles, and another is strung at ground level. Then plastic tarps are draped between the wires on both sides of the V. The open end of the boma—the top of the V—can be as much as five hundred feet wide. This opening is also wired with tarps, but they are bunched together until the animals enter. Then they are pulled across the opening, completely closing it off. The tarps present only visual obstacles, but that is enough. Animals trapped inside only run toward what they can see, and they can’t see through the plastic screen. So the boma tarps confine them as effectively as a stone wall. And the only opening to the trap is at the bottom of the V where a loading chute, a truck, and trailer await.

DSC1044.JPG

The helicopter hovers above the capture boma after herding three giraffes into the enclosure.

Once workers finish constructing the boma, the real work begins. The animals are rounded up with a helicopter. The aircraft ranges several miles out, locating and then herding them toward the boma. The chopper flies barely above tree level. It climbs, dives, spins, and maneuvers to cut off any escape. As it advances and nears the boma, the frightened animals flee past the ground crew, who are hidden on the outer edge, and enter the trap. Inside the enclosure, a team of very brave men shout, wave clubs, and do everything possible to drive the captives to the loading chute.

It is dangerous and dirty work. I stood inside the boma when two giraffes raced in. It was a chaotic place. The chopper maneuvered twenty feet above. Its spinning blade kicked up dust and dead leaves while the running animals added more dust and confusion. As I watched, a giraffe kicked his front foot out at a worker. Such kicks can kill a lion. But this one missed. Within ten minutes, the two huge animals stood docilely in the trailer.

DSC0963.JPG

A captured giraffe stands in the dusty air after entering the loading chute.

The capture took a week to complete. Herbert and his crew collected all seven species they sought. Every day, I watched them, and every day, it was exciting. The animals never cooperated or went easily. There were many tense moments, as with the giraffe. To professional game capturers, though, it was just part of their job—a job I felt fortunate to have observed.

TREKKING IN NEPAL

Late in the fall of 1978, Eric Umland and I decided to hike the back trails of Nepal. When we discussed the plan with two other friends, Roger McCoy and Gary Reitz, they committed to joining us. Roger lived in Colorado and became the active planner. He contacted local mountaineers who had traveled to Nepal and got addresses of several people who lived in Kathmandu. He wrote to each of them, asking if they might assist four men to self-organize a trek. Only one replied. He was a Tibetan named Phuntsok Kongsta.

Phuntsok’s response offered help finding a guide and porters and locating and buying provisions in Kathmandu. He added that he would like to have a new Canon camera, and if we could bring one, he would greatly appreciate it. His final letter explained that he had attended hotel management classes at Cornell University in New York. He would wear a Cornell sweatshirt and meet us at the airport.

The trek we decided to hike was the approach route to Mount Everest. It required walking approximately 185 miles over constantly ascending and descending trails. The elevation changes on the complete route amounted to seventy thousand feet. Essentially, that meant we would climb or descend on much of the trail.

I walked hundreds of miles preparing for the trip. I purchased leg weights, and wore six-pound lead anklets above each shoe. By October, I logged more than eight hundred miles and completed thousands of push-ups. On the day we left, I thought I was physically fit for the trip. And with Phuntsok’s help, all necessary arrangements seemed in place. The days that followed revealed where my thinking was correct and where it wasn’t.

Each of us purchased an Air India’s around-the-world airline ticket. It allowed multiple stops and layovers if the route continued in one direction. We booked layovers in Hong Kong, Calcutta, Kathmandu, New Delhi, and London. Our departure city was Minneapolis. When the seat belt light went off as the plane climbed out of the Twin Cities, Eric stood up. I’ve always wanted to walk around the world, he said and strolled up the aisle. For a few minutes, he paced from the front of the plane to the rear. Then he returned to his seat. I’ll probably have another chance though. If I’m on my feet for seventeen hours, I’ll be too tired to enjoy Hong Kong tomorrow night, he said and sat back down.

From Seattle, the plane flew north toward Alaska. I dozed until the pilot announced that Mount McKinley could be seen. The sight of that peak brought back memories of my summers in Alaska, and the people who had shared my life during those times. There had been many, and now, they were gone forever.

We’re over the Kenai Peninsula, the pilot announced. I remembered the thrill of watching the first moon landing on a TV in a homesteader’s remote cabin outside of Kenai and the many nights of camping alone in the wilderness below. But the plane sped on, and the memories faded.

The flight path went above Kodiak Island and then out over the Aleutians. The first islands were snow-covered and icy, with glaciers in the mountain valleys. Snow eventually disappeared as the plane flew west. The islands became barren, isolated stones dotting the vast ocean. Then clouds obscured everything. There was no land or sea but only clouds and the drone of engines as they rushed passengers toward the international date line, Tokyo, and new experiences.

The plane landed in Tokyo on schedule. After an hour layover, we flew to Hong Kong. No cars were waiting for us at the airport, but a call to the Peninsula Hotel quickly brought two Rolls-Royce sedans. The treatment spoiled this small-town Iowan. I’d never ridden in a Rolls-Royce before. At the hotel, attendants opened the doors of the lavish sedans and carried our luggage up steps to big glass entry doors. Doormen wearing immaculate white suits opened them, and the lobby, which Clark Gable strolled confidently through in Solider of Fortune, extended to a lovely check-in counter. Imitating Gable’s style was impossible for four tired men, who had just got off an airplane after flying halfway around the world, but