Camino Frances: Treking Spain's Pilgrimmage Trail

Walking 502 miles across the north of Spain: Mountain passes, pastures, 10,000 acre fields of lavender and vineyard after vineyard.

The ancient Camino Frances pilgrim trail begins at the French border in the medieval village of Saint Jean Pied de Port. After a steep climb across the Pyrenees comes 500 miles of mountain pastures, vineyards, 1000 acre fields of fragrant lavender, the flat soul-less meseta and finally the rocky terrain of wild Galicia. You patiently walk 12 to 20 miles, day after day. Any notion of giving up is unbearable, because doing so would mean abandoning all the friends you’ve met along the way.

At day’s end Pilgrims sleep in refugios jammed wall to wall with bunk beds. For dinner it’s common to share a potluck of thinly sliced tomatoes, onions and cucumbers, rice, beans, pasta and slices of ham, all washed down with vino tinto. Gathered together around a common table, tired souls talk about walking in the sun, how badly the feet hurt and why they’re traipsing across the north of Spain. When one person can’t speak the language of the moment, another translates. It’s as if the Camino is a Rosetta stone.

The pathway is marked with yellow arrows painted on the side of boulders, the bark of trees, and buildings. Miss a waymark and a townsman or farmer will smile warmly and point you in the right direction. Pensioners warmly call out, “Buen Camino.” Engage them in conversation and you’re rewarded with words of encouragement and a reverent prayer for your protection. Pilgrims have been walking past their front doors for nearly a thousand years.

Pueblos line up on the Camino like rosary beads, each one to be prayed before moving on to the next. Walking a Camino is like following Napoleon’s army on its retreat from Moscow. There are no dropped muskets or crates of small arms ammunition. Instead you see abandoned sleeping mats, cans of beans and other items too heavy to endure for even another mile.

By day seven you will have sung every song you have ever heard. Some days tears stream down your cheeks at the remembrance of a life’s event that has stirred you to the depths of your soul. The simple act of peeling an orange and savoring in its delicious wet fruit can leave you speechless. Some days you walk alone, reveling in solitude. The next day you feel as lonely as if you were the last man on earth. More commonly the confraternity of pilgrims will fill your heart with the greatest joy you will ever know in your life.

At some point along the way you will experience an epiphany, coming to realize a pilgrimage is about your traveling companions: people like Mairead, the Gaelic beauty with flaming red hair and a dry Irish wit. Or, Daniel, the strong silent type from Mexico City, who lugged a five-pound bible that he read religiously every night. Maja from Budapest, who spent time in Indiana as an exchange student. Claudia the Italiana so beautiful she could be in the movies. There was Janny, from the Netherlands, whose stay-at-home husband thinks she’s crazy for all her wild trips to Jordan, Turkey, Morocco, Thailand, and now this, her big fat Spanish Camino. Violette, a Parisian who can walk farther in a day than any man I’ve ever known, decided to become a clown and help troubled kids through Gestalt therapy. Ralph wore the boots of a friend whose dying wish was for him to walk the trail wearing his boots, dead Fred’s boots.

I arrived in Santiago just before dark as the hometown orchestra began to set up in the plaza, dutifully lining up folding chairs, laying out tattered sheet music. The maestro took a deep breath, exhaled, stepped forward and tapped his baton. Obediently the crowd fell silent. Banker, plumber and shopkeeper, spiffed up in matching blue blazers, white shirts and brown and white striped ties began to play a medley of classical and show tune music.

Little boys and girls in blue jeans, soccer shirts and American sneakers worked to the front of the crowd joyfully dancing and swaying to the rhythm of the beat. After a song or two, young mothers, worried their kids might be considered undisciplined, came forward and made the little ones stop. Pity.

An old man tottered out of the wings to pantomime ballroom dancing with his invisible partner. In silent reverie, he lip-synced words to a song that had touched his heart when he was young. The pensioner, presumably a widower, had no mother to reel him in with a shepherd’s hook. His grateful audience, neighbors, pilgrims and tourists, loved him at once. And pitied him.

About an hour after the concert had faded away, two young German women came straggling in from the Camino. They hunkered down in the middle of the plaza and popped the cork on a ceremonial bottle of cheap wine. These were university students from Hamburg with Kool Aid red hair and a dozen rainbow colored music festival bracelets draped on their wrists.

To celebrate victory the two chanted a Zulu warrior song they had learned somewhere along the way. Just like before, with the orchestra and the maestro, when the women began to make music, the world fell silent. Soft, sweet, powerful words echoed off the walls of the thousand year old cathedral of Saint James. While it’s true I don’t understand a single word of Zulu, that night in the shadow of the Cathedral, I understood every word they sang.

Valencia, Spain - Paradise On the Med

Valencia remains a relatively quiet corner of the earth that only insiders seem to know much about. . .

Though, truth be told, this sun drenched city on the Mediterranean Sea boasts a metropolitan sophistication that rivals London and Paris.

I am particuarly fond of la Malvarossa, a beach bustling with upscale restaurants, dance clubs, and bars. There’s promenade for moonlit walks. Unlike the French Riviera, there are no damn pebbles on the beach. Instead, it’s warm sand between your toes.

Downtown Valencia is a short taxi or subway ride, away. Head for the area around the centrally located Plaza Ayuntamiento for the tapas bars. Or, one sunny afternoon visit the Plaza de Toros. Shop for the latest fashions (Zara, Lois Vuitton, Ives St. Lauren). For gourmands, a small hit of saffron costs about four or five Euros at El Corte Ingles department store, Spain’s answer to Bloomingdale’s. Paella pans are on sale everywhere. Valencia is famous for oranges, so consider a jar of orange blossom honey. Most merchants ship.

In Valencia they speak Valenciana, a dialect. It reads and sounds like a mix between French and Spanish. Rest assured, if you speak high school Spanish, you’ll have no trouble getting around. It’s pretty much the same when you only speak English. Unlike Parisians, Valencianos are warm and friendly.

If all the hotels around the port are booked solid, once again, go downtown. It’s no second city. For there you’ll find plenty of appropriate accommodations ranging from inexpensive pensiones to five star hotels. Downtown is clean and safe. The train station, with regular connections to Madrid, Barcelona and the south of France, is also located in this general vicinity.

Valencia offers world class cuisine. Local knowledge: Paella, fragrant paella, was born in the orchards just outside town. In olden times it was cooked over fruit-wood fires. Traditional ingredients include short grained rice, rabbit, chicken, mussels, calamari, olive oil and of course, a bouquet of infused saffron. Cooked in a special pan, the rice soaks up the flavors of the ingredients. That crispy, crunchy layer of rice that crusts on the bottom. Its flavor and texture is highly prized by Valencianos.

Tapas are food art in miniature, with as many varieties as there are stars in the heavens. Basic ingredient include Serrano ham, Manchego cheese, foi gras, sausage, tuna, olives, eggs, squid, cod, salmon, garlic sprouts, peeled shrimp, and potato salad. Try as you might there’s simply not enough time to sample one of everything. But you must try. So pub crawl. Order a glass of blood red Rioja wine made from the tempranillo grape. Adorning the bar top you’ll see many different platters of tapas spread about. Help yourself. You are on the honor system. Save the toothpicks to keep count. Pay when it’s time to move on.

One of Valencia’s biggest attractions is Turia park, built on a former river bed. Since ancient times, spring floods overran the Turia riverbanks. Some years it was catastrophic. In recent times the city fathers rather wisely rerouted the waters to flow south around the periphery of the city. The ancient riverbed, now as dry as a bone, is a 6 mile long park that cuts through the middle of the city. It’s walking paths, tennis courts, benches, flowers, and shrubs. Lower in elevation than city streets, traffic noise is muted, so it’s a peaceful ambiance to gather your thoughts while watching children play and loves hold hands.

Inset into the Turia green zone is the Cuidad de las Artes y las Ciencias (CAC), a grouping of glitzy modern architecture. You’ve probably seen the location in new car ads. On site it looks like a future world plunked down in the middle of an old world city center. Its avowed purpose is to promote knowledge, the science, art and respect for nature, all this wrapped up in a unique architectural environment. It is very 21st century.

Crown jewel of the CAC is L’Hemisferic, an auditorium designed by famed architect Santiago Calatrava. Fashioned in the form of a giant eye, it’s known as the eye of wisdom. Its jovian-proportioned silver screen is concave and more than a little reminiscent of a giant retina. Imax Dome Cinema, Planetarium and Omniscam Laser films are shown. The headphones speak English as well as other languages. align="justify">
CAC’s Museu de les Ciencies Principe Felipe, also designed by Calatrava, is an interactive science museum. Visitors are encouraged to interact with the exhibits. Painted on the wall the motto proclaims: “Forbidden not to touch, not to think and not to feel.”

More CAC art and beauty: The Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia complex includes four auditoriums for opera, theatre, dance and musical performances. It just opened.

CAC’s L’Oceanografic is Europe’s biggest aquarium populated by walrus, white whales, dolphins, sea lions, seals, penguins, turtles, sharks, and rays. It’s many buildings, pools and exhibitions host species gathered from the seven seas. To my way of thinking the real prize is the native-wetland bird exhibit, with local species from the mangrove swamps, tunnels, caves, and pools from around Valencia.

With 300 days of sunshine a year, the environs of Valencia boast the largest orange groves in Europe. Take heed. When you see oranges growing abundantly in the parks, and along the boulevards, resist the temptation to pluck one off the tree. They are literally bitter fruit. They have to be. Otherwise tourists would strip the trees bare.

Fans of the Da Vinci Code novel will visit the Cathedral in order to pay homage to the Holy Grail, the dark, red agate chalice used by Jesus in the last supper. Ask to see it. Some old men whisper the reason Hitler sided with General Franco during the Spanish Civil War was to allow Nazi henchmen into the country in order to seize it. But the Germans could never lay their hands on it for the simple reason the bishop hid the holy relic in a small chapel deep in the Pyrenees. For provenance search Wikipedia under Holy Chalice.

Other sites worth visiting are the ancient silk market known as La Lonja, and the Mercado Central. Mercado Central is a vast iron-and-glass Art Nouveau building,with more than 1,000 stalls selling everything from salted fish and sardines to strings of dried red peppers. Ask to taste a bit of the roast pumpkin. Unlike in American farmers markets, it’s not kosher to touch the produce. Though it is polite to point.

A worthy ecotour just a couple of miles outside of town is at the Albufhera Nature Reserve. A sprawling wetlands and lake, this is where Valencia rice is harvested. Fish are abundant. So are birds. Once there, rent a bike or take a boat tour to view the local flora and fauna and ancient fisherman huts. Restaurants around the shore offering local cuisine, including Valencia oranges, traditional paella and fideua, a type of paella prepared with fried noodles instead of rice. Drink horchata, a thirst quencher from hazelnuts. For more kick try agua Valencia, a mixed drink with orange juice and Vodka and either cava or champagne. The colder the better.

Valencia is well-connected by air and rail to all the world. Coming and going is easy. Day tripping is even easier. Just down the road towards France is Barcelona. Beyond the far horizon lies the legendary island of Ibiza, and a little further away Mallorca. Island hop by air or ferry. The final verdict: I don’t recommend visiting Valencia. You may not want to go home.

Traveling the Basque Country

Visiting Bilbao and San Sebastian:

Tapas, Sun-Drenched Beaches, Art and Beauty

There’ll always be a warm place in my heart for Madrid, Barcelona and Seville. But my true love is the Basque country, blessed with verdant mountain valleys, thousand acre fields of cultivated lavender, sun drenched beaches, haute cuisine and a metropolitan sophistication that rivals London and Paris. It is a very special corner of the world that only insiders seem to know about. No wonder the people who live there are so happy, so genuinely friendly.

Port of entry is Bilbao, renowned for its Frank Gehry designed Guggenheim museum. The glittering facade is outré, wild looking. Clad in thin titanium sheets that shimmer, twist and curve, the edifice appears imminently poised to take flight. Within resides an impressive permanent collection. Just a short walk up the hill lies the Belles Artes museum, one of the more impressive in Europe. Tip: Spending a paltry few Euros for a guided tour in either place breathes life into the works of art.

In Bilbao accommodations range from about €30 to €300 (Euros)per night. See www.Euskadi.net for a comprehensive listing of availabilities and prices. Two favorites are the new Sheraton Hotel and the Hostal Begoña, positioned on opposite ends of town. The Sheraton, a stone’s throw from the Guggenheim is eminently comfortable and only moderately expensive. Unlike some European hotel’s skimpy breakfasts, the Sheraton morning buffet is particularly satisfying.

Squeaky clean and recently renovated, Hostal Begoña is family run, its room rates a bargain. Even better than price is Begoña’s location. Just outside the door are Chinese and Indian restaurants, a Cineplex, an internet café, plus a number of taverns offering pintxos (Basque finger food). One block away is public transportation, your choice of either the above ground Euska tren tram, or the Abando subway/railway station. The subway takes you across town and onward to the beach. If you arrive by rail from Madrid, Abando is the last stop.

From Hostal Begoña it’s about a 20 minute walk along the Nervion River to the museums, fine restaurants and pintxos bars crowded all around. Or, cross the bridge to Casco Viejo, the medieval side of town where narrow streets are jammed with pintxo bars, restaurants and shopping. Shoes, purses, dresses, and curios and are fairly priced.

Bilbao is a walker’s paradise on earth. Traffic is light by European standards. Boulevards are wide, the downtown vital, even after dark. It seems everyone walks here. My favorite pathway skirts both sides of the Rio Nervion, which split’s the city in two, like the Seine does Paris. Walking the left bank from Casco Viejo to the Sheraton or Guggenheim takes about a half hour.

From Bilbao, the 112 mile coastline arcs easterly toward the foothills of the French Pyrenees. Along the way are 42 beaches, each with its own distinctive personality. For surfers, Mundaka boasts the best left hand curl in all of Europe. Zarautz, the longest beach, stretches for more than a mile and a half. The crown jewels of the empire are found in the resort town of San Sebastian. Its crescent shaped beach front is considered superior to the Riviera because it’s fine, golden sand, not pebbles. Then there’s the food.

Everybody eats well in this gourmand’s enclave where there are more Michelin Guide stars than ought to be legal. Some restaurants are sit-down fancy. Others are less formal. Just like in Bilbao, the pub crawl is popular for partaking small glasses of wine and pintxos. Snack, drink, laugh, and jabber with friends and strangers, then move on. There are as many varieties of pintxos as there are stars in the heavens. Ham, cheese, foie gras, sausage, tuna, olives, eggs, garlic sprouts, salmon, potato salad and a million other foods are prepared in a dizzying array of hors d’oeuvres. Some of the preparations are as simple as the sea is salt. Some are elaborate. Try as you might, there’s never enough vacation time to sample one of everything.

At a more formal setting consider cod. The Basques are legendary seafarers who were taking codfish by the boatload from American waters before Christopher Columbus’ great grandfather was born. Suffice it to say seafood plays an integral role in the local cuisine. Bacalao pil-pil is cod served with a creamy salsa verde (olive oil and garlic). Bacalao Vizcaina, cod smothered in a red sauce concocted from tomatoes, red onions and sun dried red peppers. Merluza, or hake, is another famous entrée. American, Continental and Asian cuisine are widely available.

Local wines are big in the Basque country. Txakoli, a light and fruity white wine is the perfect accompaniment to fresh seafood. Blood red Rioja, one of the most highly regarded varieties in the world, is made from black Tempranillo grapes. Certain wineries, like Marques de Riscal, offer tours of their vineyards and cellars, a delightful day trip away from the beach when the sun isn’t shining.

Accommodations in San Sebastian range from affordable to expensive. My favorite, the Maria Cristina, is an old world delight. Guest rooms exude an ambiance from a by gone era. Evenings I felt compelled to wear a jacket and tie to dinner and half expected to see royalty seated at table next to mine. One night I did. Maria Cristina is close to the beaches and the pintxos bars. For high rollers with money to burn it’s a midsumer’s night stroll to Casino Kursaal.

Less expensive, but nonetheless charming, is Pension Aida, also located conveniently close to the beach and train station. Clean, comfortable and with goodly proportioned rooms there’s satellite TV, internet access and bicycles for rent.

Finally, high up on the hill, overlooking the Bay of Biscay, is the Monte Igueldo campground where budget travelers ride the bus into town.

Tropic Star Lodge: Fishing is Awesome

Barely a stone’s throw from the wake of the Columbian drug boats smuggling cocaine to the west coast of Panama are fishing grounds populated by so many Marlin and Sail you can walk ashore on their dorsal fins And not surprisingly á lodge squatting smack in the middle of the jungle take advantage of that sport fishing. Barely 3 miles north of the Columbian border The Tropic Star holds more IFGÁ records than Koná and Cairns combined.

Be forewarned: getting there is half the adventure Once in The Republic of Panama catch a commuter flight out of Paitilla airport to the dirt airstrip at Jaque an outpost built by the U.S. Army Air Corp to defend the Canal Zone against Japanese Attack. After World War Two the squadron of fighter planes were sold to scrap yards Nowadays with the flat-bellied aces gone paunchy and closing fast with á pension, all that's left is a dirt strip flanked by jungle, river and ocean.

Part of the Darien Gap this lush terrain boasts some of the toughest terrain in the world How tough? In the 60's a General Motors expedition bound for Antarctica rumbled out of the North Pole in a fleet of Corvairs They gave up the ghost amidst the sky tall trees. The rusting hulks are still there the merely metal bodies ravaged by tropical palm, wait-a-minute vines and black thorn trees sprouting up through the floorboards And they say Ralph Nader was death on Corvairs.

Another attempt to dominate the jungle came in the early 70's when a cocky British commando team tried to rough house. Their way through with a pack of Land Rovers They succeeded But Not without helicopters, winches and slings to yank loose the four-wheelers every time the thick red mud snapped the axles in two The logistics drain roughly equaled the Falklands island expedition.

On your flight into the Darien and when you start to feel the altitude slipping away keep an eye peeled for the sun sparkling off the fleet of ten Bertrams moored in the calm waters.

Once on the ground at Jaque, (pronounced Hah-Kay) you're as likely as not to have some time to kill owing to the fact that the next link to the lodge is via the Bertram fleet One of the Boats shoots the inlet from the pacific Ocean and motors a half Mile or so up river to the Jaque dock Passage is no problem so long as it’s high tide If not you wait for the waves to cover the sand bar.
Until the moon and sea co-operate most visitors walk the dirt pathway to the village’s general store where there’s an ample stock of Balboa beer Carta Viejo rum and iced pineapple soda. Name your pleasure.

Are you a people watcher? While you sip cold liquid in the shade villagers pursue the job of living, breastfeeding babies, hanging wet clothes out in the sun buying black beans and rice Some will pester some dawdle at the check-out counter surreptitiously watching you out of the corner of their eye. Others seemingly unimpressed by overfed Americans simply ignore Sadly a small number of the kids are used to tourists Scattering handfuls of quarters dimes and nickels at their feet just to see the Youngsters scramble in the dust for the loose change.

One of the most interesting character studies is Chito a Short-legged malformed creature with a touch of lunacy Sane for long periods of time he occasionally goes daffy howling and prancing under the full moon He is however best known for his flawless impression of the late, great karate fighter Bruce Lee Seems they show outdoor movies in Jaque and the venerable dragon flicks requite popular With no other show in town Chito found inspiration with Bruce Lee.

During my layover I swapped stories with Tulio the village heavy owner of the general store the indoor toilet and the rice mill Slightly built fitted with black rimmed glasses Tulio looks to be in his forties I was sipping pineapple soda and nodding politely as Tulio related why he discouraged his workers from chasing Boa Constrictors away from his rice factory Tulio smiled, "Because snakes eat rats "

Then Chito walked in.

Tulio called out "Eh, Chito Karate No?”

Tulio delicately brushed thumb to nose a classic Bruce Lee gesture signaling imminent fisticuffs. Chito’s dull gray eyes flickered to life she snapped into a Karate pose Hands held like deadly weapons he slowly sliced the air Without warning he leaped into the air feet kicking knife hand striking an imaginary enemy All the while he performed his ballet clicking tongue and teeth.

One world class bill fishing-on-a-thread aficionado is a slight blond with braided hair Lisa Miller rubbed suntan oil on her already burned nose and then pulled the long billed cap low over her eyes But still her eyes glow in the shadows when she talks about the 63 pound marlin she caught on 10 pound line Or the 8 pound sailfish she caught on 6 pound line Both qualified for International Game Fish Association (IGFA) records.

True to the nature of the beast the bill fishing is sometimes slow starting It’s during these quiet moments that you stretch out in a fighting chair and read that espionage thriller garnered from the lodge’s unofficial library dozens of paperbacks lugged south from Miami and Houston airports Others pass the time gazing upon the schools of dolphin or marauding spinner sharks Seems the latter don’t have a mouth they ram their prey and spin their beak into the flesh like a cookie cutter slicing out chunk of meat You may have seen fish with mysterious holes cut in their flanks as a result of spinner shark assaults.

One afternoon during one such lull in the action we spotted a low riding boat off our starboard bow Nearly thirty feet long with about a four foot beam twin Japanese´ outboards easily pushed through the swells Amidships squatting inside a hut two men waved.

Our skipper waved back "Columbians,¢ he said working the Bertram alongside We were only a few miles from the border The mate threw them a line The Panamanians and the Columbians jabbered across the gunwales pointed at the cool green water talking about how the Pacific had seemingly inverted to renew herself Our skipper handed them one of the box lunches.

Since the Tropic Star’s boats are out all day the lodge stuffs wicker baskets to overflowing with bowls of chilled shrimp salad chicken sandwiches, bananas apples grapes pineapple yellow cheese crackers cake and cookies The Columbianos also got a six pack of cold Panama beer. Much thanks expressed they castoff gunned the engines and roared on their way North.

"Cocaine boat?" I asked.

He stared back "Yo no se nada de eso” I don’t know anything about that.

Once the fishing is done and the fleet comes in flags a flying red faced comrades slump back in rattan patio furniture and tell war stories about the height of the waves how the sea turned red when there’d snapper schooled past or what it was like when the captain threw the stern against the wall of water to follow the giant marlin into battle.

Munching on deep fried fingers of fish and plantain comrades troop over to the bulletin board drink in hand to ooh and ah the color snapshots of trophy fish hanging from the scales. Watch for Yolanda the wild parrot who winged in from the jungle uninvited and adopted the clubhouse as her eminent domain She has the look in her eye of a bird who will mess with you for the pure sport of it But should she take a liking to you she will perch on your finger and beg a few morsels of fried plantain and "fish fingers" However if she doesn’t like you and she barely tolerates most women she will dive-bomb your table until one of you spill a drink.

The Tropic Star manager is a woman who looks to be in her mid-twenties Terri Kitteridge is soft spoken and at home in the fighting chair as in her office Her latest record is a 36´ pound black marlin on 1-pound test During the recap of the day’s adventure she nodded at the appropriate times Then it was he return "We talked with a boat from Columbia that pulled aside this afternoon They say the Marlin are two hours south We'll head down toward Columbia tomorrow and check it out."

In the middle of the dialog someone noticed Midnight the black kitten staring dully at a jungle rat Then we noticed the watchman silently standing in the shadows twenty-two caliber pistol in-hand. After a few moments the rat whirled around and scurried Outside The watchman disappeared into the darkness A shot rang out. The watchman reappeared smiling proudly swinging the dead rat by its tail Midnight the cat yawned and put her head down onto her paws and went to sleep.

After the bull sessions break up dark and on your way back to your room don’t be intimidated by the night toads big fat blobs as big as your feet and stubborn about making way on the cement sidewalk Keep off the grass Poisonous snakes Fer deLance and Bushmaster have been known to wander.

To keep those slithering creatures away from the base camp barefooted workmen slash the blades of grass with machetes One old man of indeterminate age has-been bitten by Fer-de-Lance vipers number of times The first time he fell deathly ill and nearly died The next attack left him deathly ill The third bite he was sick for a few of days The fourth time only slightly nauseous Four bite later the locals are joking that the next time he’s bitten the snake will certainly curl up and die.

So if these tales of killer snakes sharks et all haven’t dissuaded you, then contact the Tropic Star Lodge.

Fishing Costa Rica's Golfitos

The young man slipped beneath the waves. Early that morning the waters at the mouth of the Pacuare river raged wildly. The usual drill at the Parismina lodge was to shoot the inlet and fish for tarpon in the relative calm of the Carribean. But on this day the waves were stacked too high for the 16-foot flatboats equipped with 25 HP Yamahas. And because these were shark infested waters, the Costa Rican guides wisely counseled their guests to fish the beach instead. But top executives are not used to being told, no.

For whatever reason, one man was able to convince or browbeat his guide into attempting the open water. As Science Fiction author Kevin Randle said in his novel Seeds of War, "Death is not a passing grade."

Minutes later a big wave slammed into the little boat, flipping it in the air and spilling both men into the water. When the hull came down, it smacked the exec in the head. With the American dead in the water, Sanchez Chalet frantically struggled to make his way to shore before the sharks tore him to shreds. Meanwhile, the guides on the beach had witnessed the accident and waded through the surf in an attempt to run a line out to him.

By some accounts, they were a scant ten feet away from rescuing him when he disappeared in a wave along with three bull sharks. Later in the afternoon his red baseball cap, a tennis shoe and a piece of lung washed ashore. The American's body washed up intact.

True to the lyrics in Billy Joel's song, "Only the good, they die young."

Sanchez, a guide since the age of sixteen, had invested his earnings from the fish camp in cattle, while his buddies squandered their money on booze and brothel girls. Sanchez' herd numbered 27 when he died. These things happen. The tragedy occurred the day I arrived in Costa Rica's capital city. We were a group of 20 outdoor, guests of Mako Marine in country to test the waters of a new sportfishing campe on the Pacific coast and barely a dozen miles from the border of then Noriega's Panama.

The prime attraction was Golfito Sailfish Rancho's guarantee that you'll catch a sailfish, or you come back free. Waiting for a connecting flight, I wandered San Jose's Juan Santamaria airport and spotted the battered and scorched wreckage of an airplane tucked out of sight behind a backlot hangar.

A nameless aircraft mechanic somberly explained, "It was a Boeing 727. One night somebody parked a pickup truck on the runway and forgot about it. The plane came in for a landing and slammed into it."

That's all he said. It was clear he was baiting me, knowing from experience I'd be compelled to to ask more about the incident. I resisted the urge, wracking my brain for any recollection of an evening news story over the past ten years about a Costa Rican plane crash. Finally I blurted out, "Was anyone killed?"

He grinned like a devil who had just won a soul. He paused a full minute before answering with a playful shrug, "No. They all got out in time." Not long after that I climbed into a twin engine Piper and headed South. An hour later we landed on an old United Fruit Company golf course, longsince converted to an airstrip. A pack of scrawny dogs barked and chased the plane all the way to the hangar.

The Golfito Sailfish Rancho is situated on a large landlocked harbour where five major rivers drain into the gulf. Needless to say, there is plenty of bait, and plenty of gamefish. The lodge proper is down the coast from the small town of Golfito.

A modest fleet of long line commercial boats were tied off at the municipal dock. Dozens of gutted marlin, sailfish and shark lay on the bloodied deck with their heads and tails chopped off. The vision was harder on the soul than a tour through a Kansas City slaughtering house. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Back in the early 60's, Cuba's fishing camps folded when Fidel astro took over. With Noriega's ascent to power and decline in favor with the US, Panama's highly regarded Club Pacifico went down the tubes (Note: Tropic Star Lodge is thriving) Interestingly, the Golfito Sailfish Rancho's boats are the former Club Pacifico fleet. And how they got here tells like a scenario from a John Le Carre novel. The Club Pacifico owner sold the 23-f00t center console Makos to then Golfito Sailfish Rancho owner, John Kollman. In the dark of the night, the fleet slipped their moorings and started to make their way north up the coast. Engine trouble disabled some of the boats and they had to be towed. Panamanian Defense Force patrol craft, nearly intercepted them once but either weren't paying attention, or didn't want to be bothered. By sheer luck all of the boats made it without serious incident.

Even though Golfito is a jungle camp, accomodations are far from rustic. There is daily laundry service. The joinery and workmanship of the buildings is superb. Beyond structural integrity, the layout is aesthetically pleasing. Behind the buildings, three separate cataracts tumble down the side of the mountain. One of them flows under the bait shop, spills over into the swimming pool and on down to the sea. At night you can look across the gulf towards the dull glow emanating from the mining town Puerto Jimenez, where the gold comes out of the ground nearly 100 percent pure, averaging from 23.5 to 23.8 carats.

The only complaint is the waves that crash so loudly on the sand beach. At night it's so loud it sounds like a car wreck outside your window. But you soon grow used to the rumble, much as dothose unfortunate souls who live adjacent to railroad tracks.

Our guide was a native Costa Rican, Lindor Jimenez. After spending hour after hour on a boat, for seven days in a row, you learn all of the intimate details of each other's life. Lindor's big news was that he had just bought a house. His priorities during the search had been simple, it should have a good water supply, be located near a dirt road and be close to a school for his children. At one point during the trip he invited me into his one room home and proudly displayed his most prized possession, a coffee table book titled: The Lore of Sportfishing.

Quiet and unassuming Lindor is well-accustomed to brash, omniscient Americans who sound off long and loudly about how they want things done their way, where the fish are likely to be schooling and what kind of bait one ought to drag behind the boat. Techniques that work at Kona or Cairns may fizzle at Golfito. Guides like Lindor know from experience what works, but won't risk offending guests by appraising them of the local conditions.

The tired, Diesel Makos are a little slow, topping out at about 20 knots. And because it takes from 30 minutes to an hour to get to the fishing grounds, it would make sense to repower with bigger engines or turbos. But then again, whose in a hurry.

With this in mind, we didn't pick the location, didn't choose the lures, sew-up Panama bellies or sharpen hooks. Instead, we relied on our guide's expertise, telling him, "Look, you live here, you know the fish, you know the fishing grounds. Show us what you know. We'll listen." Then we sat back and watched the baits.

Whenever the drag started to screech, someone in our party took turns, grabbbed the rod, set the hook and cranked. Our best and most consistent luck was with a red and white Rapala lure. Our boat landed so many Roosterfish, Dorado, Sierra Mackerel, Cubera Snapper and Jack, we literally blistered our thumbs and forefingers. Admittedly, there was no skill involved. Just tired arms and skinned fingers that stung from the salt spray.

After a four days of fishing the black rocks at Punta Burica we decided to go a mile offshore where Lindor suggested there might be sail. At varying times during the year, the blue water is just offshore a mile or so. The problem is, because the camp is so new, the bottom hasn't been
mapped and no one really knows which months are hot and cold.

Five miles offshore the water still shimmered green.

Ten miles out the Pacific finally turned blue.

Just beyond the horizon we spotted the ominous black profile of an aircraft carrier steaming south. Presumably one of ours on its way to Panama.

Lindor throttled back the diesel and the lines went in the water. As time slowly passed we watched a red 55-gallon oil drum bobbing on the surface. Throughout the morning a succession of huge, lumbering tortuga sculled past on their way to some secret rendevous. Occasionally we monitored the approach of a whale shark, or photographed the playful antics of a school of dolphins. The rest of the time we watched the bait and talked about the meaning of life and death.

Out of the blue, a sail struck what I would have figured to be the least likely target, a red and white that had been hit so many times a third of its skirt was missing, the hooks were thick with rust. Why this bait, I wondered? Because the sail couldn't spot the hook for all the rust?

In an excited voice, Lindor called his buddies on the VHF, rapidly jabbering away in Spanish that his boat was hot, that the gringo had a sail on. And this sail had cojones, it was behaving like a marlin. Indeed it did, fighting with more spirit than ought to be legal. Instead of standing on his tail, and dancing a Irish jig, it leaped into the air, smashed and throwing water time. Once it had been brought alongside the boat, Lindor dropped the mike, scuttled over to the transom and grabbed the wire leader. Estimated at 110 pounds, we revived then released the sail. Too bad the long line boats weren't as sporting.

Later that night I found myself wondering what would motivate anyone to travel so far away from home and to such a isolated location. There was no phone, no nightly news or Wall Street journal. Nor was there gridlock, acid rain, muggers, rude drivers, and the thousands of other civilized frustrations we deal with on a daily basis. Without those distractions, you're better able to concentrate exclusively on the business at hand: The sensaround blue sky and water, the swells rolling the deck underfoot. It's only after two or three days that you begin to settle in. Every day your mainspring unwinds a little more. Once back stateside and safetly nestled in your cocoon, your dreams are filled with the visions of a Dorado skimming across the water in a blaze of color, you lurch in bed as you subconcious battles a sail. And you dream of the day when those blasted crashing waves at Golfito lull you to sleep.

Hiking Panama's Las Cruces Trail

The Trek runs for 50 miles from the Pacific Ocean to the Caribbean Sea, Through Tropical Rain Forest and Across the Continental Divide

We were like kids on a backyard campout. But instead of dragging mom's fabric-softened blankets onto a lawn populated with garter snakes and lightning bugs, three of us trekked 50 miles on the Las Cruces treasure Trail. The 16th century route of the Spanish Conquistadores took us fifty miles from the Pacific Ocean, through rain forest, across the Continental Divide and down to the Caribbean Sea.

Las Cruces Trail was a caravan route for mules lugging Inca gold, silver and pearls to the king's galleons waiting for them at Portobello. When the Spaniards imported African slaves to lay the cobblestone trail, they made one critical mistake; capturing warrior stock. Many escaped into the jungle. The infamous Bayano, and his band of African renegades, delighted in capturing a straggler, dragging him off the trail, spread-eagling him on the ground and pouring molten gold down his throat. What was the symbolism of such cruelty? Simple. To cure his thirst for gold, of course.

Surprisingly intact after nearly five-hundred years, the cobblestone trail, begins near Panama City, The Republic of Panama. Along certain stretches, you can run down the path. But more typically, it's rough-going through the triple canopy rain forest. Calf muscles grow weary from lifting the knees high enough to step over fallen tree trunks speckled with the shiny, white sap of rubber trees. Then it's duck down low onto your haunches so the top of the pack frame clears the grabbing branches.

Strung across the trail are "wait-a-minute vines" with the nasty reputation of looping around ankles. You either wait a minute, and shake off the vine, or yank your way through. Make that mistake and you'll trip. To break your fall, the natural reaction is to reach out and grab the nearest tree. Invariably it's a black palm: One of God's nasty creations, its trunk is porcupined with long, black needles that jab deep into fingers and palms and then break off flush with the skin. The next day the sliver festers ugly and hurts. The jungle is very good at defending itself from mere humans...

Where 170 inches of rainfall a year has washed out the cobblestones, the going gets even rougher. You'll climb straight up and down the sides of the mountains thick with trees, brambles, bushes, vines and slippery rocks. It can take an hour to cover 100 yards on the map. Appetite fades and thirst becomes all consuming. Our most precious commodities were water and quart cartons of pink lemonade we had backpacked in. Quite literally, we measured our progress in gallons per hour.

Some of the stream beds crisscrossing the trail were as dry as a desert rock, others flowed slow-moving, crystal clear water with leaves floating lazily on the surface. Even though it looked pure, we boiled the water. Contrary to what you'd expect in the middle of a rainforest, not a single mosquito buzzed our ears. This was likely due to the fact that we trekked during February in the middle of dry season. That meant no big or small puddles of water for the larvae to grow in. Another product of the dry season: The jungle was tinged brown instead of lush green.

We spent the first night perched on the side of a mountain, sleeping at a 45 degree angle. Bare feet braced against the tent floor apron, we fell asleep to the sound of little coatamundi and peccary scurrying around outside the tent. Every couple of hours we'd groggily come to with our knees jammed against our chest, gravity having pulled us to the bottom of the tent.

During water breaks, we sat down with our backs against sky tall trees and listened. Besides wildly colored birds scolding our intrusion, we could hear the outside world. U.S. Army helicopter gunships whop-whopped overhead, presumably with the intent of terrifying the troops training at Fort Sherman's jungle warfare center. We heard the distant roar of fighter planes swooping low followed by an ominous whump as bombs exploded on the practice range south of the Canal. Another aural landmark: The faraway whine of tires on a highway, the squeal of brakes followed by silence, then a big engine slowly running up through the gears. Perhaps a bus stopping to let off passengers? The highway traffic sounded deceptively close. After consulting the topographical map we figured it to be the Boyd Roosevelt highway ten miles to the north.

The trail ends near the little town of Gamboa where we had pre-positioned a pair of inflatable boats and outboard motors. At the convenience store we filled canteens, and laid out American dollars for canned spam, bacon, cheese and fruit juices. One special find was a flavorful and refreshing fruit juice called maracuya. Alfredo, the manager said maracuya was like a watermelon, only smaller, like lemons. Further North, it's known as passion fruit.

Once provisioned, it was down to the water to raft through the middle of the Panama Canal. We shared the first couple of miles in a narrow cut, with oil tankers, containerized freight ships and tugboats. Some tugs slowed. Others threw the throttle wide open just to throw a bigger wave. No problem. Just before the wake swamped us, we steered head on into it. Once the turbulent waters calmed, we pointed the bow back on course.

When we turned the corner out of the canal into Gatun Lake proper, we bumped into a 20 mile an hour North wind. Big waves soaked our gear and filled the boats with buckets of water. We bailed with water bottles and baseball caps. Wind and waves slowed our progress to 2-3 knots per hour. But the sky was clear and the sun warm. It was a good day to be out on the water.

We pitched camp on Barbacoa Island. During the night, the lake would be quiet for a long spell, and then a tanker transiting the canal would rumble past. A few minutes later the waves smacked into shore, perilously close to the campfire.

At false dawn we unzipped the tent and tiptoed to the water's edge. Gatun Lake holds some of the purest water in the world, up to your armpits in the stuff, you can wiggle your toes and see the sand cloud at your feet.
We lashed the two inflatables together for stability and comfort, one of us could steer, the others could rub on tanning oil, or wet a fishing line. Peacock bass bit on bare hooks, shreds of fabric, beans, and of course jigs.

After transiting the lake, we portaged across a half-mile wide, well-manicured lawn, down short, sandy bluffs and into the tempestuous Chagres river. We drifted eight miles downstream to the Caribbean, and Pinas beach. From the mouth of the river we could look across the bay and up the 100 foot cliffs to the ruins of Fort San Lorenzo. Some of Sir Francis Drake's cannons still stand guard behind the remarkably well-preserved castle walls.

We pitched our tent on the site of Chagres City. During the California gold rush, 2,000 hookers populated Chagres, elbow to elbow with legions of sailors, criminals, saloon keepers, and chocolate-skinned natives. 49ers used the Las Cruces trail as a shortcut to the gold fields, it was weeks faster than sailing around Cape Horn. Chagres City has fallen to dust. All you'll find is jungle, a magnificent beach, sand fleas and my Swiss Army knife. Somewhere in the sand. If you find it, oil the hinges and think of those who have gone before you.

On The Trail
Because of heat, humidity, rocks, mud and mountains, choice of footgear is of the ultimate importance. The first consideration, the boots need to be lightweight; rocky mountain style boots are too heavy. Best bet is a hybrid with leather lowers to protect the feet from rocks, and canvas or nylon uppers to both cool and support the ankle. A good choice: Army surplus jungle boots cost about $35 new.

F.Y.I., the Vietnam style jungle boots feature what's called a Panama sole: Essentially cleats that provide traction on slippery trails without letting mud clods weigh down the boot.
We outfitted with Coleman boots, (the same guys who make the coolers and lanterns) manufactured by Wolverine. The high top, lightweight hikers supported our ankles on the lumpy, uneven trail. Another positivism, their mud grabbing traction so necessary for going up and down the hill after hill.

American Dollars Convert To Panamanian Balboas. One to One.
Panama's unit of currency is the Balboa. To convert Dollars to Balboas, multiply American Dollars times One. Balboas and Dollars are interchangeable. Also worthy of note, Panama rivals Costa Rica in both political and economic stability.

Further, the problems of Nicaragua and El Salvador would seem a world away except that U.S. troops stationed in Honduras pull R&R in Panama City. On some weekends the downtown is reminiscent of Saigon's Tu Do street in the 60's. Except that there are no Viet Cong waiting to lob a grenade into a sidewalk cafe, and it's easy to spot the friendlies. They're all friendly. And Panamanians are easy to read, whatever they're feeling, it's painted on their faces.

We did run into a problem upon our arrival at General Omar Torrillos airport. Our Yamaha outboards were still-in-the-box brand new. And because we hadn't alerted Panamanian customs we were bringing them, regulations required the motors held at the airport pending paperwork: Typically a 1 to 2 week period, and disaster for our expedition.

We stayed calm. No ugly American strong arm yelling, screaming, demanding or threatening. Instead, we simply contacted IPAT (The Panamanian Institute of Tourism) and read off the serial numbers. We had our motors 24 hours later. No mordida. These guys want to help, they want you to have a good time.

Further testimony to the friendliness and helpfulness of the Panamanians was exemplified by Sargento Murillo of the Fuerzas de Defensa (Panama's combination police force and army). Murillo, is a tall, solidly built black man with a nasty scar perilously close to his right eye. Could we store our gear in the FD Gamboa headquarters while we were in the jungle, we asked him?
Murillo gestured, first pointing his index finger to his eye and then to us. "I see you, you look like stand-up guys. No problem...."

Sargento Murillo and his associates upset the stereotypical image of a Latin soldiers in banana republics. All of the FD troopers, were immaculately groomed in starched fatigues and spit-shined paratrooper boots. To the man, they were polite, courteous and competent. The L.A.P.D. should take note.

Considering hitchhiking in Panama? After the trekking was over, we decided to thumb a ride across the isthmus to Isla Grande, a relatively undiscovered Caribbean island resort. Legions of the Toyotas and Ladas whizzed past until we held a five dollar bill up. A 4WD braked, pulled over to the side of the road and delivered us to our destination. Jose, the driver, refused the $5 bill, but seemed to take delight in sitting with us, in a roadside cafe drinking a bottle of grape soda pop and telling us why Panamanians like Americans. "Americans have vision," said Jose. "They see a native island resort that's struggling to get by. An American buys it, cleans the beach, paints the cabanas, teaches the maids and waiters how to make the customers happy. Soon everybody in the village has a job and is prosperous. Americans have vision."