“You…You…” The man searched for the word from Arabic to English in his head, “…America”. The word more of an accusation than a question from suspicious eyes. I was startled in place. Why the question?
 The encounter surreal. as I was rushing out of my suite from a Bahrain resort located near the fringes of the island, an area still under construction so any interaction is seldom and brief. I was in a hurry to beat the traffic to Manama City for the night’s dinner, some cocktails, maybe a bout of Cricket on the telly at an undisclosed restaurant sports bar. The discovery of which only comes from exploration of the area. The only reason I was even here was to wash the weathered sweat and salt from a long day’s work in the hull of a ship. The 100-degrees of the day augmented by the sun beaten ship’s hull and its confined quarters. Refreshed and change of clothes, I rush out to the man’s path.
 The Arab was unkempt, the sight pitiful. Tousled hair caked with clumps of dandruff and with straggly beard festooned with foodstuff trapped in their curls and dried spit. A stained t-shirt and acrid body odor betrays any consideration of hygiene long abandoned.  And though with an armful of bottled water, his dried and cracked lips evince dehydration, his queries looked painful. He blocks the stairs I intended to use. His shock clearly displayed that he did not expect this encounter either.
 I notice the opened door beside us to the his suite around the corner from mine. Shadows mill around in the dark. I see their silhouettes against a cooking fire in the middle of the great room the only source of light for the drapes are drawn in the darkened apartment. As the questioning is repeated louder, ambulation stops and figures approach the portal. Curious.
 Their presence here incongruous. Obviously longer than mine. The reason I was isolated here, instead of a city hotel by our client, is to prevent such interactions. With tensions between east and west it seemed a good plan. Apparently they had the same idea. A month here and a few more days to go before leaving attests the futility of the plan.
 Before this trip, I have been warned. Attempts to deter this field job decision came from my immediate manager. “You can always back out, no reflection on you or your work.” Clandestine calls received by government representatives, all advising to reconsider the trip. However, the boss and owner of the company, Bill, was adamant on his intent and I agreed to accompany him. He now was gone a few weeks and I was alone now realizing the cause for the concern.
My mind races in that moment, have I discovered a zealous and xenophobic cell in hiding? Worse, they discovered me.
 I have seen the movies, in the book “Den of Lions” correspondent Terry Anderson’s unfortunate encounter in the 1980s lasted in sequestration for seven years. Others not as fortunate as videos appear of their demise at the hacks of dull machetes.  We were assured safety at the beginning of this venture of course. A security detail at the ready to extract us to the safety of Dubai at the moment’s press of a pager phone. A phone I have now kept in my suite for lack of imminent danger these past four weeks here already.
 Frozen in place on this terrace alone, with all of these thoughts racing through my head…my fate depends on my response to probing questions.
 An answer is expected...

I was deviated from the main highway hours ago, and since then a hundred miles of back roads have passed. Surprised, because the highway was heading in my general direction but the wise GPS says, "No, this way is quicker." I heed to the suggestion without question. Since then, there has been nothing but fenced off grazing lands to my left and right, with even less grazers in vies and I wonder if those barb's intentions is to keep us out than the livestock in. Snowy-capped mountain ranges surround me at every turn that I never quite cross. Only an undulation of a straight road that runs unperturbed toward the hazed horizon where mountains meet the gold-green-tan sage patchwork of earth that is my world.
My Mini Cooper is low on fuel. With only 350ish-mile capacity in its sparse 10-gallon tank, I found a while ago that my little car is better suited for urban travel, not for the expanse of western deserts where gas stations are sporadic and hundreds of miles in between. I am getting within a hundred miles of capacity now. I kowtow at Google Maps for wisdom, careful not to blank the map in my search for nearby gas stations, I find that Denio Junction, a brief 60 miles away, has the only gas station anywhere near me and , coincidentally, the point where I am to turn westward on route 140 toward the Oregon State line.
I continue on, rolling road undulating as it has now been for forgotten hours. Hypnotic and accompanied by the soft roar of rubber on asphalt. This is my world now, all else forgotten. I lose myself in the tedium of it. My blank glaze only interrupted with the occasional glances to my dashboard, hoping my fuel depletion is not as accurate as my gauges indicate.

"I will have no man in my boat," said [chief mate of the Pequod] Starbuck, "who is not afraid of a whale."
__the most reliable and useful courage was that which arises from fair estimation of an encountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is far more dangerous comrade than a coward.__
                                                           The Ship, Moby Dick
 
It is always prudent to remember that, whatever your station, a cautious approach to the unknown with skepticism and fear is necessary. These rapids (of any class), are as unpredictable as Starbuck's whale.
 
                              Gauley Expedition Sept 2020 Journal Entry

Years after the installation of new diesel propulsion controls on a couple of transports the maintenance fell on us. The intent was for these ship crews to maintain their hardware but all engineering mates were mechanical. None was adept in the computer programming required to run the engines. Therefore, with my familiarity, I was constantly called out to maintain the systems. Not that there was a need, of all the thousand components that makes these ships move, the computers were low maintenance.

I am often asked, as is the case of at least once every hiking trail I have traveled lately, “What is that on your back?”
They are referring to a girth of a branch that hangs over my shoulder, secured in place by the straps of my backpack. “This is my hiking stick.” I would reply. The look on their faces tells me I need to explain further.
I proceed with the story of my finding it some years back in the Guatemalan jungle. Or, as I more aptly believe, it found me.

After our return from Boulder Bay, we settled into an existence of inactivity. With work at the lagoon camp concluded, we decide not to heed the order to continue work at the new site. Our first and only trip was treacherous enough. With the shortening days, it would be difficult to get any progress going at a remote site.
We contemplate an escape. By now, we both have conceded to the idea that Harry Waterfield was not going to return. The matter was in our hands now and so we gauge how long it might take us to achieve this by land or by water.

We could already hear the breakers as we approached the southern tip of what is marked on the map as Dangerous Cape. Around the tip of this peninsula is our destination, Boulder Bay. We were about to learn that the names for these locations were aptly named.

After nearly twenty hours of planes, busing and taxis, six of them consisting of an uneventful and boring layover in Dallas. Not to mention the day of preparation before that. We have arrived at our small burg in Guanajuato Mexico nearly at 11 PM that February 16th. Fatigued, looking to retire in our familiar room at the back of my grandfather’s house. The same room we've inhabited all those years of travel as a whole family but my uncle Rodolfo says I need to go with him to settle arrangements with the mortician.
“Now?”
“Yes, he has been waiting two days for your arrival now.” I was the oldest member of my family now. The patriarchy unexpectedly fell on me unwanted.
With an exhale I replied, "OK".
We leave the rest to settle in our awaiting rooms as my uncle and I depart.

The burs and frayed strands of the hemp rope burned in my bare palms. Not a problem under normal circumstances, I would simply let go and re re-grip with care and continue, but this was not normal circumstance and I had to grip harder and ignore the pain. I held on as if my life depended on it. Because it did, literally.
I hung precariously on a Jacob’s ladder.
What is a Jacob's ladder? Well, that is the same question I have asked just moments ago.

The sights to be seen was spectacular...

As we clear the shoreline cove and approach open water we are now fully in the chop. Waves rolling as high as five feet with the wind whips shore-ward. Our skiff rolls up and down with a left and right sway on the water. As we gained momentum westward against the current the experience was surreal, if not exhausting.

Setting off on our trip we experience an unexpected problem...

We got started.  Bobbing down to the mouth of the lagoon that leads to open waters. To pump out the excess water collected in the bottom of boat during the storm I use a hand held pump whose hose continually ejected after two or three attempts to siphon the mess, practically useless as it required constant repair, Jim scooped the excess water from his side of the skiff with a small bucket. We made some progress but soon the wild waters of the pacific would splash into our vessel making this beginning effort moot.

With all work complete at Ugak bay it was time to consider our next step...

A month in field already and our November days are brief and cold. It has been two weeks since the last sighting of Harry’s Piper Cub plane, and we have complete all our work at our current location. Harry left instructions that we should pack up all gear and move to Eagle Bay to a location called Fallen Rock Cove, an inlet south of our current location. This was the site of a couple more survey contracts acquired.

Our work is about to be completed...

That following week progressed without incident. Jim and I covered the necessary work on our assigned plots. When done we verified and completed the others Harry mentioned. What the heck, we were there anyway and now with the promise of added wages we did not mind the additional duty.

Setting up the new abode...

The next day we did not return to the job site.  Overcast skies threatened rain and we were glad to avoid another wet trek out. But the main reason was to do as instructed; we were to put up the tent. We proceeded in opening the bundled package

Supplies! At last...yet...

As we walked we could hear the echo of an engine winding down, our pace quickened at the thought of all that food waiting for us back at shore base. Yes, and Harry too. We were curious as to his delay.

As work continues we come up against an unexpected predicament...

We continue our work over the remainder of that week as the days merged into a steady cadence of activity.  I would get to know and appreciate this man who has at first rubbed me the wrong way. His work ethic was impeccable; as we worked his refusal for short cuts to avoid difficulties was not his habit. So all that was accomplished was done and done well. He did find lazy calculations on the remaining “completed” work from previous expeditions, this would lead to our re-measuring the erred lots and his updating the findings in the logs.

Just when things are moving alone I try out the Rokon Motorbike...

At one point we needed some more tools and about four 2x4 studs. The reason for them I cannot remember but Jim suggested my using the recently repaired Rokon motorcycle. This way I did not spend a couple of time consuming trips collecting the materials. Hesitantly, because of my lack of knowledge in running motorcycles, I agreed. His logic was sound.
I hiked back to shore, distracted by Star Trek episodes. Arriving at the igloo I collected all that Jim listed for me to get. I placed it in a crate and secured it on the padded rack over the back of the bike. The six foot 2x4s were secured on the same rack. Two per side and the other end would drag on the ground behind me.

Back to work...

In the time since Harry’s departure we made ourselves at home in two metal igloos located between the shore and lagoon. These oddities located halfway down a well-worn path from the beach to lagoon. One, the brown one, was used to store all our equipment and excess food. It was well guarded against the elements so we couldn’t have chosen better. The weather beaten white one with the peeling green hide was our chosen sleeping room only because the door on that one was latch-able. We slept comfortably at night after a long days’ worth of survey work and the five kilometer hike to and from the work site.

The man becomes a quick trusted friend whose influence stays with me for decades...

Jim is an avid reader admitting that often he is reading a few books at a time. Yet for this trip he brought with him only one book that he would read voraciously on lapsed times. His choice for this expedition: Farley Mowat’s The Siberians. A study on how human nature perseveres when forced to live in an unhospitable environment as the frozen Siberian landscape. Instead of conquering the harsh landscape they utilize it in their routines, construction and all. Jim would later state that he only reads subjects that educate, informs him on the unknown if something is learned from its pages then it is a good book. My book of choice on this outing was ‘Star Trek the Movie’ adaptation penned by Gene Roddenberry, to my shame particularly since this was my second reading of it.

An opening in overcast skies provides a wonder...

Jim proves to be an observant man but sometimes oblivious in his deductions. He was confident on Harry's return. I had my doubts. Even so, not much was missed by his gaze; he would pride himself on his good judge of character. He would speculate that I would abhor the lonely life and be married with the first girl “looking my way”.

A brief respite before continuing...

We decide to take the weekend off before returning to the chore of work. Since now our days will involve a long hike to and from a couple of days respite will be reinvigorating. Besides, the backlash of the exhausting week suffering the rain took more of its toll on us.

As we assess the situation Harry delivers some news...

As if its point proven the rains finally abates that next morning. We rise and cloth ourselves with not quite dry enough clothes. Returning to the site we find the tent collapsed. Everything else was strewn about as if victim of powerful winds. But nothing major damaged. Our equipment usable we will be able to continue our work as soon as we clean up.

Mild mists becomes a troubling downpour

Another night without a fire and in mere 50 degree weather we are getting chilled to the bone now. With the rain continuing we have adjusted to sleeping on our baggage to keep us off the damp ground. Our sleeping bags by now are sodden and heavy with the seeping waters, barely dry on the inside.

Working the job in an uncomfortable environment

After that first night’s uncomfortable sleep we started our work at first light. Sore and unrested. The floor’s incline toward the creek more cumbersome than expected and the padding protecting us from protrusions under the tent not nearly thick enough, surfaced roots dug into the small of my back. But I slept some. The same was could not be told of the other two.

Arriving at the camp we find unexpected news
 
“Why did they leave without finishing?” asks Jim as we are inspecting the abandoned equipment
Apparently an accident incapacitated one of the workers over the summer. He had fallen off of a cliff riding the Rokon motorcycle, the same broken motorcycle found at the shore camp. With broken legs (possible back) they had to extract him back to Kodiak City thus leaving this site as is. Ours is the first attempt in returning to finish the job.