A curious Capuchin monkey in the rainforest of Panama.

Challenge level
Physical

Cultural

I knew I’d gotten too close to the wildlife when the white-faced capuchin monkey I was trying to photograph started playing tug-of-war with my camera.

This was towards the end of a short boat tour from Gamboa Rainforest Resort, a lodge on the banks of the Chagres River where it empties into the Panamá Canal, and I was having of those incredible dumb-luck days for wildlife spotting.

Our little pontoon boat had cruised up the canal’s Gaillard Cut, dodging the occasional thousand-foot-long container ship, and slipped into Gatún Lake to thread the maze of tiny islands that had once been mountaintops before the canal project flooded the region.

Sloths, howlers, and gators, oh my!

Wildlife, like this three-toed sloth, can get close enough to reach out and touch during boat tours of the Panama Canal and Lake Gatún.

We motored slowly along the shore of one island where our guide, Nodiel—a veritable encyclopedia of rainforest flora and fauna—said we might be lucky enough to spot a sloth. While Nodiel scanned the treetops with binoculars, a fellow passenger pointed to the thick vegetation hanging by water’s edge not ten feet away. “Is that a sloth?”

Captain Osvaldo—usually the first to spot a speckle-backed alligator basking on the banks or giant Blue Morpho butterfly flitting past—nosed the boat toward the silver-furred creature.

The three-toed sloth was a male—you could tell by the black-striped splash of orange skin visible through the typical bald spot on his back—and moved in the comical slow motion you’d expect from an animal named for the most laid-back of the seven deadly sins. I was at the front of the boat, and as the rail bumped against the curtain of thick vines that served the sloth as a ladder, he slowly turned his head and craned his long neck to investigate me with ancient eyes. I was less than a foot away, and had to fight the urge to reach out and scratch his shaggy mane.

At a neighboring island, while we were silently willing a troop of howler monkeys lazing about the high branches to roar for us, Nodiel suddenly got excited. “Look, look!” He was practically jumping up and down, pointing to a half-submerged log by the shore. “Forget the monkeys. This is much better. This you never see!”

A pile of baby crocodiles sun themselves on a log at a Lake Gatún island along the Panama Canal.

The log was piled with what must have been 30 to 35 infant crocodiles, each no more than eight to ten inches long. More were swimming around in the water. My first thought was, “Cool, baby crocodiles!” My second, more unsettling one, was, “I wonder where mama is?” as I realized how very small our boat was.

I scooted back from the railing a bit as Nodiel mentioned that some groups get to glimpse a Jesus Christ lizard —that darling of National Geographic specials that can dash across the surface of the water on his two hind legs. Not thirty seconds later Courtney, our resident sloth-spotter, said “Hey, check out that lizard!”

Harpy eagle

Spotting the endangered harpy eagle is a rare treat, even in the Panamanian rainforest.

We joked that all Nodiel now owed us was a harpy, the world’s largest and most powerful eagle and the national symbol of Panamá—but we knew those were endangered and extremely rare. Since 1992, biologists have found fewer than 50 nests over the harpy’s entire range, stretching from Mexico to Argentina.

That afternoon, as we arrived for a canopy tour aboard Gamboa’s aerial tram—sort of a jungle ski lift gliding along at bird’s eye level for optimal viewing of toucans, parakeets, and any of Panamá’s 960 other avian species that might show up—Nodiel grinned and pointed up into to a nearby tree.

The bird perched on a high branch was massive. It must have stood over three feet tall, with a wingspan of nearly seven feet. Its wings were slate black, it’s chest white with a high black collar. The gray feathers on its head were mussed up into a raggedy punk hairdo. Its talons were the size of bear claws, and I knew they could easily crush the bones of a sloth or monkey. The thing looked like it could carry off small children.

It was a harpy eagle.

A view of the Panama Canal's Gaillard Cut from the watchtower at the Gamboa Rainforest Resort

High-fiving each other over our luck, we clambered abord the tram to glide noiselessly though the upper canopy, twittering with afternoon birdsong, toward a hilltop.

At the top of the tram, we walked down a short path and climbed a hundred-foot watchtower. From here, we gazed out over the unbroken rainforest canopy covering the 85 square miles of Soberania National Park, listened to howlers roar in the distance, and watched granary barges and mega-tankers glide along the Panamá Canal through the heart of the Central American jungle.

When You Go…

Panamá tourism info: (800-231-0568, www.visitpanama.com)

Gamboa Rainforest Resort (877-800-1690, www.gamboaresort.com) charges from $195 (from $141 online) for a double in the main building, where the balconies and hammocks overlook the Chagres River, a bit less for the mini-apartments installed in the (viewless) historic villas that were one homes for workers with the canal’s dredging authority (and where they filed scenes for 2001′s The Tailor of Panama, starring Pierce Brosnan, Geoffrey Rush, and Jamie Lee Curtis).

The resort’s hour-long Monkey Island boat ride tour costs $35 per person; the two-hour aerial tram tour costs $30.

Things to do in Panama from our partners at Viator.com:

• Gatun Lake and Monkey Island Sightseeing Cruise from Panama City
• Rainforest Aerial Tram, Gamboa Tower and Forest Exhibitions Day Trip from Panama City
• Panama Canal Partial Transit Sightseeing Cruise
• Panama City and Canal Sightseeing Tour

Falling down a mountain…with style — An East Coast skier finally learns how to handle the deep, fluffy powder skiing at Utah’s Alta and Snowbird

Be the first to carve the fresh powder in Utah.

Challenge level
Physical

Cultural

It doesn’t really hurt to fall down a mountain. Of course, it helps if the mountain in question is covered in two feet of Utah powder. Certainly it helped this poor sap, who grew up skiing the icy nubs that pass for slopes in the Poconos, where the only powder was on the doughnuts at the lodge.

See, powder—that fabled dry, airy, fluffy species of snow that blesses the Utah slopes each winter—turns out to be a wonderfully soft thing on which to land. This is key, since, if you’ve never been privileged to ski powder before, you’ll likely spend your first day doing what I did, which is fall down. A lot.

The Skills

Skiing the steep slopes of Alta in Utah's Wasatch Mountains. (Photo courtesy of Alta Ski Area)

Skiing powder comes down to an issue of trust between you and the mountain. A suspension of disbelief in the laws of physics also helps.

There’s really only one rule: point your skis down the steepest cliff you can find, ignore the self-preservation alarms clanging in the primeval portions of your brain, and jump off the cliff. The rest is just technique. Problem is, the technique for skiing powder is pretty much the opposite of what I learned.

A lifetime of sliding down manmade, packed snow back East has left me with several bad habits. One is a tendency to ski tentatively, always ready for that telltale crunchy slip of the skis that means I’ve hit an icy spot.

In powder, you’ve got to throw your body wholeheartedly into the act, leaning fully into the downhill and trusting the mass of snow itself to keep your speed in check (and its fluffiness to be forgiving if you do lose control). Lean back in your bindings even a bit, and you fall.

I’ve also always executed turns by the outdated method of edging my skis, a problem exacerbated by the fact that I only recent switched to parabolics. (Going from old-school straight sticks to shaped skis is like trading in your tractor for a Porche with power steering.)

In powder, on shaped skis, there are two ways to turn. By merely shifting your weight from one ski to the other you describe long, graceful arcs. By pole-planting and jump-twisting you can change direction quickly to navigate tight spots and gnarly bumps.

Try to edge your skis, and you fall.

The Payoff

The bowls of Alta offer wide-open skiing in Utah's Wasatch Mountains.

I spent a lot of time falling, that morning at Alta and Snowbird (the two resorts share a ridgeline; a pass lets you ski both). And even though the landings were soft, it stopped being fun after a while. The frustration that, after 20 years on the slopes, it felt like I was back in kindergarten didn’t help. Neither did the fact that, through I rarely have trouble with altitude, for some reason this weekend at 10,000 feet had me clawing for breath (and gave me trouble sleeping).

After an aggravating morning, I abandoned Snowbird—where you need wits (and skills) to tackle the huge, open bowls—and switched back to Alta, where fewer people were skiing the powder off and there were pretty patches of evergreens (I’ve always loved glade skiing).

It was easier going, but I still spent most of my time face-plowing down hillsides, tumbling down slopes, and feeling entirely sapped of energy as I fought the mountain.

By lunch I was miserable, but warm food and hot cocoa at the mid-mountain Collins Grill lifted my spirits. I decided on a new plan: ski some easier runs over and over again, concentrating on technique.

I did turn after turn until my thighs screamed, then kept going until they felt nothing at all. I focused on shifting my weight smoothly and planting my poles precisely. It wasn’t until I’d executed several hundred slow turns in a row without falling that I finally kicked the habit of edging my skis.

It felt right, it felt comfortable, and though I was still jonseing for an oxygen bottle, it felt like I’d finally gotten the hang of skiing powder. I’d learned to trust the skills, now I needed to trust the mountain.

Skiing the deep powder of Alta in Utah's Wasatch Mountains. (Photo courtesy of Alta Ski Area)

With the afternoon light fading and a light snow falling, I found a powder-covered cliff, pointed my skis down it, and jumped off.

As the powder pressed against my legs and belly to slow my descent, I leaned into it and suddenly seemed to float downhill. As I shifted my weight through turn after fluid turn I knew—I just knew—that there was a rooster tale of powder arcing in to the sky behind me.

I did not fall once.

When You Go…

Fly into Salt Lake City, a short drive away.

To increase the chances of getting first crack at fresh powder, stay up at the mountain; the road up into Little Cottonwood Canyon often gets blocked by excellent big snowfalls, leaving would-be skiers down in Salt Lake Valley gnashing their teeth behind a plow all morning.

I like no-frills Alta Peruvian Lodge: simple and comfy, with no TV or phones in the tiny rooms but free WiFi, a pool, hot tub, free movies at night, and a bar packed with hard-core, raccoon-tanned ski bums (800-453-8488, www.altaperuvian.com, $101-$276).

Utah's Wasatch Moutains offer some of the best powder skiing in North America.

Lift tickets at Alta (www.alta.com) and Snowbird (www.snowbird.com) run $66–$69 per day. The AltaSnowbird combo pass covering both mountains is $88–$93 for one day, $181 for two days.

Both resorts sell stay-and-ski packages; depending on season, three nights’ lodging, two days’ skiing, and airport transfers start at $96 per person per day at Alta, $99 per person per day at Snowbird. Even better, www.ski.com sells packages at Snowbird that include lodging, lift tickets, and a rental SUV from $112 per person per day.

I am not entirely sure why street markets in Hong Kong sell dried lizards on sticks like lollipops. I'm also not sure why my assumption that it has something to do with "Chinese medicine" and not "after school snack" makes it any less disturbing.

Challenge level
Physical

Cultural

I grew up a fussy eater—I’m not kidding; I used to pick the seeds off my strawberries—but I more than make up for it these days.

While I’m still partial to comfort food at home, on the road I’ll try anything. No foreign food is too disgusting, obscure, or of questionable provenance. If it’s unidentifiable and fried AND comes on a stick, I’ll probably order three.

A litany of unfortunate menu items

I’ve enjoyed pasta with raw sea urchin, veal cutlets with brain fritters, and indigestion with prairie oysters (a.k.a. Rocky Mountain oysters, a.k.a what ranchers cook when all they have is frying oil and the, er, leftovers from castrating steers). I once ate a whole frog: fried, chilled, and soaked in vinegar—though in my defense, I didn’t realize that’s what I was ordering at the time.

On our first night in Hong Kong, I watched my girlfriend eat her sensible scallops while I pretended to enjoy a soup of snake, abalone, and bamboo fungus thickened with—and I’m only guessing here—buffalo mucous. I debated whether the stringy snake meat or thready fungus was more disgusting, until I learned that “abalone” is a fancy (and expensive) word for “sea snail.”

The “fifth fourth”

I’ve had entire three-course dinners that turned the stomachs of my dining companions, like that night at Checchino dal 1887 (www.checchino-dal-1887.com). The restaurant’s across the street from Rome’s former slaughterhouse—where a part of workers pay was the useless quinto quarto (“fifth fourth”) of the day’s butchering—and has more than a century’s experience at transforming these leftovers into edible dishes.

My meal started with a nervetti salad of boiled veal tendons, followed by delectable rigatoni with pajata—suckling calf intestines (since mad cow they’ve switched to lamb) with their mother’s milk still clotted inside, cut into sections disturbingly shaped just like the rigatoni. The main course: Checchino’s patented coda all vaccinara (ox-tail stew).

Good thing the restaurant also had Rome’s best wine cellar. My nerves needed ample fortification to try it all.

Beware the phrase: “It’s a local delicacy”

My true weakness is anything added to the bottom of a menu by hand. These daily dishes may be innocuous enough—catch of the day, or perhaps the chef found some lovely zucchini flowers at market and has stuffed them with cheese. However, often a dish scrawled in pen is the sign of a local specialty.

Once, in a restaurant in Delphi, Greece, I asked about the penned-in dishes. The waiter nervously described one as, “Lamb on the fire with spices and, uhm, thingies.” I asked what kind of thingies, and he demurred.

“You don’t want it, sir,” he said anxiously. “It is a…local dish. You have to be born on this mountainside to love it.” Then he leaned forward and whispered, “I was no born here. I haaate it!”

Of course, I ordered it. The lamb was tender, the spices spicy, the “thingies” crunchy. I didn’t ask.

The tale of the sheep’s skull stew

One of my most memorable “local dishes” came from an osteria at the edge of Florence. When I asked about the “testicciola” penciled on the menu, the waiter/owner explained it was a mutton stew served in a sheep’s head.

I nearly fell off my seat in excitement.

Sure enough, the stew arrived in half a steamed-clean skull. I was slurping away merrily, chewing sinewy chunks of mutton and trying not to notice the bits that were clearly not meat, when I suddenly found myself with something large, soft, and spherical in my mouth.

Now, I don’t know much about sheep anatomy, but I do know there are only a few perfectly spherical parts of any animal’s body, and I’m too keen on eating any of them.

In a panic, my brain reverted to English, thought about the name of the dish, and decided now would be a great time to spit out the sphere.

That’s when the owner materialized in front of me, beaming, to ask how I was enjoying my dinner.

What else could I do?

I bit down. Hard.

The sphere went “Pop!” and deflated. I swallowed the thick liquid oozing out of the rubbery casing and responded, a bit shakily, “Very good! Er, what’s in it, exactly?”

He proudly listed the ingredients, some of them acceptable, some of them quite nasty. None of them was “testicles,” but he finished his litany with the words “…and one sheep’s eyeball.”

Somehow, I was relieved.

Travel is an adventure; foreign dining doubly so. Sampling local food is as important as touring the monuments and museums. Many waiters, concerned that foreigners’ palates might reject some of the more interesting local dishes, may steer you clear from those dishes penciled on the menu.

Perhaps this is a service you’re only too happy to let them perform. But take it from me: sheep’s eyeballs ain’t all that bad. Bon Appetit!

BEST FOR: Car camping; light/moderate overnight hikes

NOT FOR: Long hikes where weight/bulk is a concern

COST: $59.95 at REI.com

Normally I’m all about the smallest, lightest gear possible, but some gadgets are worth their extra weight and bulk—especially for car camping. Also, I still have a soft spot for the Transformers toys of my childhood.

The new Joby Gorillatorch Switchback is both of those—a great gadget worth its extra weight, and a Transformer toy for the camping set.

It is basically a headlamp—a particularly powerful one, with both white and red LED light modes—that also happens to fit into a lantern casing.

As a headlamp

The lowest setting engages two white LEDs to provide basic illumination of 5 lumens that will last up to 72 hours on two AA batteries (included).

The third, more powerful LED in the center provides bright flood illumination with a dimmer function that allows you to ramp it up as high as 130 lumens, which will reach out to a rated 23 meters (76 feet)—though it will only last 90 minutes at that level of power.

The two red LEDs are great for preserving night vision.

The headlamp’s “panic” mode (to signal for help, or start an impromptu disco) flashes between red and white lights a la police cruiser.

So it’s a headlamp. That’s great. I’ve got half a dozen of them, of various makes and models, rattling around in my gear bins (or would have, if my Boy Scouts would stop “borrowing” them, never to be seen again). Headlamps are great for finding your way in the dark while leaving your hands free to hold hiking poles, fiddle with things, or simply hold the book you’re reading.

Ah, but the Joby Gorillatorch Switchback is not just a headlamp. It has a social side as well. It helps you share your light with the whole group.

As a lantern

The Joby Gorillatorch Switchback comes with a hollow white plastic block, roughly 4″ x 3.3″ x 2.1″.

Stuff the headlamp into the base of this block, pull the yellow tab on top, and a translucent rectangular lantern “globe” pops out, increasing the total height to 6.5″.

The battery pack and its light controls now form the base of a lantern with enough glow to light up a large cabin—or any tent, or just the picnic table at dinner.

It diffuses the light nicely—most LED lanterns just scatter the light off mirrors, resulting in uneven lighting and a harsh glare from the bare bulb in the lantern itself. This Joby incorporates what it calls a “92% ultra-efficient holographic lens”—which is apparently marketingspeak for an inverted mirrored cone at the top to scatter the light, and some kind of silvery translucent coating on the interior of the plastic “globe” to soften and spread the glow.

The lantern works fine just to stand it there, or you can hang it by built-in plastic hook on top (perfect for inside the tent), or use the included Gorillapod tripod to stand it on a table or secure it to a branch or pole.

Yep. The kit comes with a classic Gorillapod tripod. If you’ve never seen this, it is a small tripod, about 6.5″ long, buts it’s legs are flexible, made up of grippy knobs that you can wrap around poles, branches, etc. (or you can stand it up, traditional-style).

Bonus: The tripod comes with the removable screwplate that fits into a standard camera thread. You remove the screwplate to slide the lamp bottom into place, so it’s probably best to just leave the screwplate attached to your camera so you don’t lose it.

» Get it at REI.com

The free morning Tai Chi lesson on Hong Kong's Kowloon waterfront

Challenge level
Physical

Cultural

“Now mount the tiger, then grasp the swallow’s tail.” The elderly Chinese gentleman was staring right at me, his loose, ivory silk Mao pajamas flapping in the breeze.

My arms ached, my foot was twisted around backwards, and I realized with a rising sense of panic that I had no idea what he was asking me to do.

I stared beyond the barges, ferries, and sampans crisscrossing Victoria Harbour to the endless skyline of Hong Kong cloaked in morning mist, took a deep breath, and twisted my body through what I hoped at least resembled the proper movements.

Tai chi master William Ng was too kind to comment on my bull-in-the-china-store performance. He just said: “Good, good,” and swept his gaze across our pack of variously contorted tourists, some 30 of us ranged beneath the overhang of the Hong Kong Museum of Art by the Kowloon waterfront promenade.

“Tai chi brings a balance of the physical and the spiritual,” said Master Ng, explaining it as balancing one’s passive yin and active yang.

“Tai chi takes 10, maybe 15 hours to learn,” he went on, getting himself back into position beside Pandora Wu, his wife of 38 years, in matching mint pajamas. “It takes a lifetime to practice.”

Great. And we only had an hour.

“Now, get the needle at the bottom of the sea,” continued Mr. Ng as he and Mrs. Wu gracefully swooped down in unison and we neophytes struggled to emulate. “You are scooping sea,” the pair rose with their arms curled poetically and we all jerked upwards. “Looking at sky,” they offered their scooped sea to the heavens and we flung our arms up, too. “And now step forward to seven stars.”

The masters ended with their arms out in front of their chests, wrists crossed, hands lightly fisted. I looked down at myself to find that my wrists were bent improperly, fingers splayed, elbows akimbo, and I still had a foot turned around the wrong way. Also, I’m pretty sure I threw out my yang on that needle move.

So much for achieving physical and spiritual balance.

How to Be Chinese in 8 Easy Lessons

Your intrepid author attempting to find inner peace at an hour way too early in the morning for him.

Tai Chi is just one of eight “Cultural Kaleidoscope” opportunities to engage the local culture sponsored by the Hong Kong Tourism Board at absolutely no cost, turning this famously expensive and futuristic city into a free classroom for quickie lessons in some of China’s ancient traditions.

If tai chi isn’t quite your speed—or you simply don’t want to get up that early for this traditional morning ritual—you can kick martial arts up a notch with a Sunday afternoon kung fu lesson in Kowloon Park.

Engage in a more sedentary study of Chinese mysteries with a class in Chinese Medicine led by a local pharmacist, or learn just how poorly laid out your living room is with an introductory course to Feng Shui.

Then there are cultural “appreciation classes” devoted to Cantonese opera (which, no matter how open-minded you are, really does take some explanation before you can appreciate it) or to the complicated art of the Chinese tea ceremony.

(This tea ceremony intro lasts about 45 minutes. If you want a three-hour version, head to the traditional tea house attached to the—also free—Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware in Hong Kong Park and ask for an excitable but earnest young man named Eddie; 011-852-2801-7177, www.lcsd.gov.hk/CE/Museum/Arts/english/tea/tea.html).

Sightseeing-oriented freebies include guided tours of the “Hong Kong Story” exhibition and the Dr. Sun Yat Sen Museum (in past years, there have also been tours of the Maritime Museum and of the Chinese Antiquities Gallery in the Hong Kong Museum of Art, so look for those to return).

The program offers a few other experiences that are no longer, as of October 2010, free, but are still good deals, including a Chinese cake-making class (HK$30/US$3.85), a Victoria Harbour cruise on the traditional Chinese junk Duk Lung (HK$100/US$13), and an Architecture Walk through Central (HK$200/US$26).

Of course, it’s also free to hike the 180 miles of trails in Hong Kong, which, contrary to popular belief, is actually made up of two-thirds green space.. » Full story

When You Go…

Learn just what goes into those traditional Chinese medicines with a free class run by a Hong Kong pharmacist.

Info: Details on all of these are on the “Cultural Kaleidoscope” page in the “Things to Do” section of the Tourism Board’s Web site (www.discoverhongkong.com), or call 011-852-2508-1234. Though Tai Chi takes place at 8am Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, other courses and tours are offered only one or two days a week. Most last from one to three hours.

Dining: Supermarkets abound—including one in the Victoria Peak mall—for picnic supplies and hiking snacks. In the city proper, stick to noodle shacks and dim sum; simple restaurant meals will set you back $30 to $50—though I did have an incredible steak sandwich at Post 97 (9 Lan Kwai Fong, Central; +852-2186-1817; www.ninetysevengroup.com). If you go to see the Tian Tan Buddha on Lantau Island, grab a $13 vegetarian feast at Po Lin monastery.

Lodging: Bishop Lei House is cheap and convenient to the Mid-Levels escalators, but has unforgivingly hard beds (4 Robinson Rd.; +852-2868-0828; www.bishopleihtl.com.hk; $88–$235 rack rates, or from $87 online).

The Ice House is a funky boutique hotel—mod furnishings, kinky see-through showers—with kitchenettes and free broadband in the heart of the Central action (38 Ice House St.; +852-2836-7333; www.icehouse.com.hk; $129–$232 rack rates, or from $77 online).

Related pages

• Hiking the hills of Hong Kong
• More Asia Adventures
• More adventures
• The best inexpensive adventure tour companies
• The Ultimate Packing List

The shady pathways of the Hong Kong Trail.

Challenge level
Physical

Cultural

Hong Kong is not a city. Oh, sure, it’s got towering skyscrapers, tony mega-malls, and thronged street markets.

But that’s just Hong Kong’s type-A side, the sea of high-rises clustered along Hong Kong Island’s north shore, filling the Kowloon peninsula across Victoria Harbour, and gathered in thickets across the mainland’s vast New Territories.

What few people realize is that this iconic urban landscape covers a mere 30% of Hong Kong’s 425 square miles. The rest of Hong Kong is open green space—farmland, forests, and designated Country Park —and it’s criss-crossed by more than 180 miles of hiking trails.

This is a Hong Kong of waterfalls and family farms, of meandering pathways strewn with gordonia blossoms, of 32,640 woodland acres where macaques live in the trees and you kick up a cloud of butterflies with every step.

Heading for the hills

When the chaotic traffic, stifling crowds, and incessantly plinking walk/don’t walk signs get to me, I hop the scenic Victoria Peak Tram like everyone else. But at the top, halfway along the popular Lugard Road stroll around Hong Kong’s highest peak, I abandon the throngs of joggers and sightseers, turn right while they continue left back to the tram station, and start down the first leg of the 31-mile Hong Kong Trail.

Soon, birdsong drowns out the city’s distant din. The shady path courses over forested hills, across rushing streams, and through high grasslands. A break in the jungle canopy affords a view of the Pok Fu Lam Reservoir, snuggled into a cleft of green forest. A few picnic tables mark the site of a World War II pillbox bunker on a hilltop. I stand at the edge of a cliff and watch hawks wheel on the thermals below.

Rarely do I run into another person; just the occasional Cantonese out for a constitutional, who sings out a hearty “Hello!” to my “Ne ho ma!” greeting, a subtle honoring of each other’s culture and language.

After a couple blissful hours, the skyscrapers of Aberdeen on Hong Kong Island’s south shore pop into view. I head to the waterfront, dodge the old women haranguing me to take a junk ride, hop on an idling bus, and am back amid the high-rises of Central in 20 minutes.

Trailheads by public transport

High above the skyscrapers on the Hong Kong Trail.

That leisurely, four-hour hike to Aberdeen covers just the first 7.5 miles of the Hong Kong Trail, which is actually merely the shortest of the region’s four long-distance hikes.

The granddaddy of Hong Kong hikes is the 62-mile MacLehose Trail, which meanders across the breadth of the New Territories and summits most of its highest peaks.

The 48-mile Wilson Trail, which crosses Hong Kong Island, Kowloon, and the New Territories, offers the most varied terrain—paper bark forests, ancient stone paths, and abandoned villages.

Rugged Lantau Island, larger than Hong Kong but far less developed, has its own 43-mile trail linking villages, sandy beaches, farmland, and mountaintops. It even takes in the island’s famed, 87-foot Tian Tan Buddha, sitting on a hilltop above Po Lin monastery.

Hong Kong Maps & Resources

All the mall bookstores carry locally produced hiking guidebooks. Pete Spurrier’s The Hiker’s Guide to Hong Kong is the best, packed with photos, public transport directions, ten family day walks, and the four long-distance trails broken into easily digestible one-day stages of 2.5 to 6.5 miles.

Hong Kong Pathfinder by Martin Williams—vignettes of two-dozen top hikes with clever tips from an enthusiastic local who has clearly walked every inch of Hong Kong’s paths—is charmingly hand crafted but lacks the detail of the Spurrier book. Williams’ Web site (www.hkoutdoors.com) is a far more useful tool, its walks well worth printing out.

Though trails are well signposted, it’s wise to arm yourself with detailed maps. The Lands Department Survey & Mapping Office (www.landsd.gov.hk) publishes an excellent “Countryside Series” of topo maps with trails marked and good marginal info on bus and ferry routes.

When you go…

It's tough to get lost on the Hong Kong Trail, with distance, time, and bus stop directions detailed on bilingual signs.

Info: Hong Kong Tourism Board (www.discoverhongkong.com).

Dining: Supermarkets abound—including one in the Victoria Peak mall—for picnic supplies and hiking snacks. In the city proper, stick to noodle shacks and dim sum; simple restaurant meals will set you back $30 to $50—though I did have an incredible steak sandwich at Post 97 (9 Lan Kwai Fong, Central; +852-2186-1817; www.ninetysevengroup.com). If you go to see the Tian Tan Buddha on Lantau Island, grab a $13 vegetarian feast at Po Lin monastery.

Lodging: Bishop Lei House is cheap and convenient to the Mid-Levels escalators, but has unforgivingly hard beds (4 Robinson Rd.; +852-2868-0828; www.bishopleihtl.com.hk; $88–$235 rack rates, or from $87 online).

The Ice House is a funky boutique hotel—mod furnishings, kinky see-through showers—with kitchenettes and free broadband in the heart of the Central action (38 Ice House St.; +852-2836-7333; www.icehouse.com.hk; $129–$232 rack rates, or from $77 online).

Since 1995, the Greater Yellowstone region has become home to the highest concentration of wolves in the world.

Challenge level
Physical

Cultural

“We’re going to follow that bald eagle up the river,” said veteran Yellowstone guide Leslie Quinn as we watched the magnificent bird flap past.

Leslie threw into gear his bright yellow Bombadier—a vintage 1960s snowcoach shaped like a gumdrop reclining on tank treads—and crunched up the snow-packed road into the heart of the world’s oldest national park.

Yellowstone in Winter

Elegant trumpeter swans glided between the ice-encumbered banks of the Madison River. An American dipper—a tiny slate-colored bird that lives its entire life in the rapids, nesting in the lees of rocks and swimming with equal ease through the air or water—splashed in the rushing current, bobbing for insect larvae.

Elk picked their way though lodgepole pine up a snowy hillside. A coyote trotted down the road toward us before turning to lope off into the woods.

Where the road curved along the foot of Mount Haynes, an obstinacy of bison—part of America’s only surviving herd of wild buffalo—ranged along the riverbanks, some using their great shaggy heads to piledrive through several feet of snow to munch on the grasses beneath.

Yellowstone National Park is home to America's last remaining herd of truly wild bison.

A few miles on, Leslie hit the brakes to let another troop of buffalo amble along the road past us. We cowered excitedly in the Bombadier, popping out of the roof hatches to snap photographs of the beasts passing not ten feet away.

As we turned south to follow the Firehole River towards the Old Faithful Snow Lodge, fumeroles puffed on the opposite bank. Hot springs steamed the air as their waters bubbled and flowed down the to the river along rocky banks swirling with colors from the archaic bacteria that thrive on these thermal features.

This was Yellowstone in winter, and it felt like we had the entire park to ourselves.

Sunrise over the Yellowstone

“This is one of the premier times to come to the park,” said George Bumann, a naturalist who teaches ecology, backpacking, and art courses for the Yellowstone Association (and can imitate the calls of more than 200 birds).

Fog flows through the Yellowstone River Valley like a glacier at the point where Hellroaring Creek doglegs out of the Absaroka Mountains.

I yawned. This was not out of boredom—my pen was flying across my notepad trying to keep up with George’s flood of interesting facts—but because I had been roused from my warm bed at Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel well before dawn.

A 6:30am start allowed us to take in the sunrise from the overlook where Hellroaring Creek doglegs down from the Absaroka Mountains to join the Yellowstone River.

We watched the geothermal mists swirl through the valley below as sunlight flooded over the Bearthooths to awaken Yellowstone in a dawn chorus of Clark’s nutcrackers, mountain chickadees, pine siskens, nuthatches, and distant ravens.

As the birdsong died down, George explained that it was on the slope below us that the last wolves in Yellowstone were pulled from their dens and killed in 1926. It would take 70 years, and much controversy, before 31 wild wolves were once again let loose in the park.

Running with the Wolves

The alpha male and alpha female of Yellowstone's Druid Peak pack of wolves (you can tell he's the alpha male because he keeps his tail stuck straight out; the beta male—not in the picture—keeps his tail hanging down.)

In the decade since reintroduction, Yellowstone’s Lamar Valley—a cradle of wildlife often called “the Little Serengeti of the Americas”—has become the most densely populated wolf habitat in the world.

Wolf numbers have now swelled to more than 300 in the Greater Yellowstone area, and two hours after begrudgingly getting out of bed, I was peering through a roadside scope to watch members of the Druid Peak pack, not a quarter mile away, glide through the frost-velveted landscape of wild rye grass, sage, willow, and aspen above Soda Butte Creek.

The pack’s charcoal beta male beat a path past some grazing bison—the pack had a fresh elk kill nearby, and no interest in molesting the shaggy giants—with the black alpha male and his silver-blonde alpha female mate trotting two dozen feet behind.

A trio of pups—full-sized, yet just nine months old—romped and gamboled behind, wrestling and chasing one another, pausing to sniff clumps of grass, then bursting into a flat-out run that usually ended with someone face-planting in an unexpectedly deep snowdrift.

When they got to a sun-lit plateau, the pack shifted into warp speed, streaking along faster than I could have imagined, disappearing into a stand of ice-glazed willow and aspen just as thick fog rolled back into the valley.

A nearby coyote sent up a series of tenor yips, and the now-invisible wolves answered in an eerie baritone howl. To me, the message seemed clear. The wolves were letting their smaller cousin know: this was wolf territory now.

When You Go…

How to get to Yellowstone

Though a few roads are open to cars, most of Yellowstone is accessible in winter only via Bombadier snowcoach.

Though 96% of Yellowstone National Park (307-344-2117, www.nps.gov/yell) lies in Wyoming, its northern and western borders overlap into Montana and Idaho, making Bozeman, Montana the most convenient wintertime airport.

Bozeman is about a 90-minute drive from the park’s north gate in the Montana town of Gardiner.

Where to stay in Yellowstone National Park in the winter

All in-park lodging is managed by Xanterra (866-439-7375, www.travelyellowstone.com).

Of Yellowstone’s nine lodges, here are the only two that remain open in winter.

• Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel: Charming simple, old-fashioned rooms just inside the north end of the park (five miles south of Gardiner) and accessible by car, even in winter. Lodging starts at $87 for a room with a shared bath, $117 for a private bath.*
• Old Faithful Snow Lodge: A 30-mile snowcoach ride from the park’s west gate at West Yellowstone, Montana. (Note, this is not the famous Old Faithful Inn, which is shuttered in winter, rather a modern hotel in the same complex just a few hundred yards from the world’ most regular geyser). Lodging starts at $96.*

Winter packages to stay, tour, and discover Yellowstone

Xanterra has teamed with the venerable Yellowstone Association—a nonprofit helping visitors interpret the park since 1933 (307-344-2293, www.yellowstoneassociation.org)—to offer multi-day “lodging and learning” packages.

These packages bundle several nights at the historic inns with courses on wildlife, geology, and history while exploring Yellowstone by van, snowcoach, snowshoe, and ski.

The four-night Winter Wolf Discovery package runs $649 per person double occupancy ($809 if you are going it alone).*

* All quotes prices are for winter 2010/11

Berbers charge during a fantasia at the moussem de Tan-Tan, Morocco.

A dozen Berber horsemen thundered toward me across the Sahara sands. Their pale blue drâ’a robes billowing behind them, they rode with their rifles raised in the air, ululating a war cry.

When the turbaned sahraouis were almost upon me, their horses still at full gallop, they lowered their guns toward me and fired.

All I could think was how warm and friendly these nomads had seemed an hour ago when one group invited me into their black tent to sit cross-legged around a communal platter and join them in sopping up camel stew with hunks of fresh-baked bread.

Le moussem de Tan-Tan

The author and some of his Berber horde buddies at the moussem de Tan-Tan, Morocco.

The great Saharan leader Cheik Mohamed Laghdaf died in 1960 after decades of fighting French and Spanish colonial occupiers. His tomb, outside the town of Tan-Tan in what was then the far southern reaches of a newly independent Morocco, became the focus of a great moussem, an annual gathering of nomadic tribes.

It was a festival of religious worship and a chance for the tribes to parlay, engage in song and horse competitions, swap stories and herbal remedies, and do a little camel trading on the side.

By the mid-1970s, turmoil in the area forced skittish authorities to suppress the moussem, and Tan-Tan—a bland administrative city and desert outpost—became more famous as the staging point for the “Green March.” In 1975, some 350,000 unarmed Moroccans walked 50 miles south to occupy what most maps (expect those in Morocco) still mark with a dotted-line border as the disputed lands of Western Sahara.

In 2004, UNESCO (www.unesco.org) teamed with the Moroccan Ministry of Tourism (www.visitmorocco.org) to revive the moussem de Tan-Tan as a “masterpiece of the oral and intangible heritage of humanity,” and it has once again become the largest gathering of nomadic tribes in northern Africa.

Attending the Moussem

Berber nomads sing traditional songs at the moussem de Tan-Tan, Morocco.

Which brings me to why I was standing in the Sahara watching an armed band of desert warriors bear down on me at alarming speed. This was a fantasia, a choreographed reenactment of a Berber attack charge—clearly designed as a not-too-subtle hint that you never wanted to be on the receiving end of a real one.

I was invited to the festival by Prince Moulay Rachid, brother of Morocco’s King Mohammed VI. Actually, a bunch of Western investors were invited; I was merely using my press pass to tag along—and to share the sumptuous midday feast involving entire spit-roasted sheep.

The speechifying by dignitaries was accompanied by a procession of camels, a phalanx of tribespeople singing traditional songs, and lines of women in elaborate costumes clutching brass teapots, wooden bowls, and other accoutrements of nomadic life in hands covered with delicately patterned henna tattoos.

The camel parade at the moussem de Tan-Tan, Morocco.

We were surrounded by the 800 tents of somewhere between 40 and 60 nomadic tribes from all over the Sahara —not just from Morocco but from as far afield as Mauritania, Mali, and Niger. Several tents held thematic displays on Berber tribal life: cooking, marriage ceremonies, weaving, popular games, the teaching of the Koran, and the nomadic lifestyle.

Though a few tents offered some chunky Saharan silvery jewelry for sale, most commercial transactions were limited to the camel souk where around 2,400 dromedaries had been brought to trade; the prince later bestowed the “Camel Prize” on the owner of the finest herd.

Tent city

A city of traditional Berber tents by the Oued Chbika, Morocco.

Our group stayed about 30 miles south of Tan-Tan at Oued Chbika, one of the few breaks in the undulating cliffs where the flat, rocky hammada landscape of the desert meets the sure, strong currents of the Atlantic Ocean.

The inlet of Oued Chbika was marked by a properly Saharan-looking pile of sand dunes to the north, and a low plateau and ridge to the south. In between the plateau and the ridge was slung a depression, and in the depression was a sea of dark brown tents serried in ranks between colorful walkways made of Berber rugs.

Following a dinner of pigeon pastilla, fish tagine (a spiced Moroccan casserole), and glass after glass of super-sweet mint tea, groups of Berber musicians gathered on the plateau to perform traditional songs. I clapped along, and even danced a bit at the encouragement of an ever-smiling man from Laâyoune named Mahmoud, who hitched up his swirling red robes to chicken-leg through a series of complicated dance steps.

Tent sweet tent; the author's traditional Berber lodging by the Oued Chbika, Morocco.

After a while, two tribes began trying to outplay one another in a sort of Saharan battle of the bands. I left soon after someone in Mahmoud’s lot put aside his traditional lute, broke out an old Fender guitar and plugged it into a battered amp to gain the upper hand, at least in volume.

I retired to my tent —where the billowing wind made the walls breathe in and out and carried with it the smell of the ocean, tagine spices, and camel—to read by lantern light. Soon, the sounds of guitar, drums, and call-and-response chanting faded, and all I could hear was the washing of waves and occasional keening of sea birds.

I turned out the lantern, lay back in bed, and tracked the spot of the full moon, filtered through my roof of loosely woven goat wool, as it slowly make its way across the Sahara sky.

Heliskiing is the best way to commute to a glacier 10,000 feet up in the Swiss Alps

I’m not saying the shots at the Yeti Bar were powerful, but the next morning, when I got on the shuttle bus to the heliport, it took a fellow passenger to point out I wasn’t wearing any pants.

“Un moment, s’il vous plait!” I said to the driver, and dashed back into the hotel.

I must have been a sight, clumping through the lobby in ski boots, jacket, and skintight thermal underwear, but half an hour later—fully clothed—I was flying over the Swiss Alps, and the pilot was pointing out Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn on our way to Glacier 3000.

Glacier 3000—Skiing at 10,000 feet in the Alps

This snow-covered sea of ice sitting at 10,000 feet above the village of Les Diablerets is the secret weapon of the greater Vaudoise Alps ski area, allowing for year-round skiing and snowboarding in a French-speaking corner of the Swiss Alps that sees a mere fraction of the crowds that clog the lift lines in chichi resorts like Zermatt, St. Moritz, and Verbier.

Though you can get to the glacier via cable car, the chopper makes for a far more scenic commute. Mine landed next to a rock pinnacle called the Devil’s Bowling Pin, at the very top the glacier. The strings of T-bars chugged along empty, and the only tracks through the powder were from the four folks in an earlier helicopter.

Skiing Glacier 3000 high in the Swiss Alps above Les Diablerets.

Cruising across the glacier was great, but I kept getting distracted by the breathtaking 360-degree Alpine panorama, so to keep my eyes on my skis I traversed to the Combe d’Audon on the shady north face of the 10,306-foot Oldenhorn. From there I snaked down a six-mile run with plenty of deep stuff between the switchbacks.

Skiing at Meilleret

The other major ski area above Les Diablerets, Meilleret, is a pretty mountain of intermediate and beginner runs (perfect family mountain). It also sports an interconnect lift to swanky Villars —the only Vaudoise resort that could count as “famous” (though the regional lift pass does also cover nearby Gstaad in the Berner Oberland)—and has the 4.6-mile Col de la Croix sledge run.

Sledging in Switzerland

Sledging now ranks as my favorite way to get to the bottom of a mountain: perched atop a tiny wooden sled, slipping softly through the forest in crystalline Alpine silence—and wiping out spectacularly every time I try to steer around a sharp turn.

At the bottom I nursed my bruised pride over a cup of mulled wine and hopped a bus into Les Diablerets for a bubbling pot of fondue at the 215-year-old Auberge de la Poste.

And then? I taxied back to my hotel in the town of Leysin for another round at the Yeti Bar.

When You Go

The Alpine panorama is practically a distraction when skiing Glacier 3000.

You have two choices for setting up camp in this valley: Les Diablerets (www.diablerets.ch), which lies at the foot of the Glacier 3000 (www.glacier3000.ch) and Meilleret, and the laid-back village of Leysin (www.leysin.ch), sashaying up the mountainside below its own ski area (featuring a couple of sweet black runs, a revolving restaurant, and a World Cup half-pipe where Olympic snowboarders qualified for the Games).

Leysin, a 25-minute scenic cog train ride from Aigle (just south of Montreaux), was renowned in the 19th century for its TB sanitariums—patients would lie on giant terraces soaking in the all-day sun that graces the valley—but the sanitariums have since been converted into international schools, and the village has become gateway to the Vaudoise.

Where to Stay in Leysin

The cheapest digs in Leysin are at the Hiking Sheep (+41-24/494-3535, www.hikingsheep.com), a bohemian mix of private rooms ($57-$62 double) and shared dorms (sleeping up to eight, $21-$23 per person) in a converted 19th-century hospice way at the top of town.

Where to stay in Les Diablerets

In Les Diablerets, Auberge de la Poste (+41-24/492-3124, www.aubergedelaposte.ch) has cozy doubles for $54-$77. You can find more hotels in Leysin here.

Activities

Grab a group of five and a helicopter ride to the glacier —or just a scenic buzz around the top of Europe—is $38 per person (+41-24/494-3434).

Rent a sledge for $6-$9 from Mountain Evasion (+41-24/492-1232, www.mountain-evasion.ch).

Where to Eat

Moonrise over the village of Leysin in the Vaudoise Alps.

Switzerland is no place for the lactose intolerant; the main dinner choices seem to be fondue or raclette (a deliciously gooey pile of melted cheese served with potatoes, gherkins, and tomatoes).

This goes doubly at Leyin’s Le Fromagerie (+41-24/494-2205), installed in the oldest chalet in town, where cheese makes up most of the menu and they’re constantly making more of it right in the middle of the dining room (they love it when you ask to help stir the cauldron).

You can also get cheap grub at Leysin’s après ski hot spots, Le Lynx, where the ski school guides tend to chill, and the Yeti Bar with its free WiFi—though once the staff locks the front doors at 1am and starts passing around beer and shots for free, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Challenge level
Physical

Cultural

Ah, sailing!

Everyone dreams of sailing the Caribbean, cruising around the Mediterranean or Aegean Seas on a sailboat, or exploring the Florida Keys in their own chartered bareboat (landlubbers: that means there is no crew; you sail it yourself).

Sadly, most people also assume this is the sort of a vacation reserved only for the rich and famous.

Not so.

Hey: if my Boy Scout troop can do it on their tight budget can do it, anyone can. That boat in the picture above to the left? My troop chartered it (and another) to spend a week sailing the keys in the summer of 2010, and it cost us only about $400 per person for the full seven days—and that was in high season.

How much does chartering a boat cost?

• It can cost as little as $700 per week to charter a 31-foot sailing yacht with two cabins and six berths. That means two couples could afford their own sailboat for as little as $25 per person per day. Of course, that’s in the off-season.In high season (in the Caribbean, roughly November to March; in Europe, usually mid-July through early September) you’re looking at a starting price of around $1,100 per week.
• That said, the average range of prices is $1,200 to $3,000 a week for most standard sailboats and motor yachts, depending on (among many, many other factors) season.
• A  38-foot catamaran sleeping nine runs around $4,400 in high season—still decent once you break it down: Go with a group of, say, four couples and it’s less than $80 per person per day.

How much does having a captain, crew, cook, or hostess on a boat charter cost?

If you’re not feeling up the idea of captaining your own boat, most charter outfits will also rent you a skipper for around $150 per day. Taking along a hostess or cook would run another $100 to $150 per day.

What about cruises?

Prefer to leave the driving and the schedule to someone else? You needn’t board an enormous cruise ship to go sailing.

There are plenty of small sailing ships out there, as well as loads of private yachts looking for a few extra bodies to fill berths and haul sheets for as little as $700 per person for a week’s sailing.

How can I sign on to crew a boat and sail for free?

You could also hire yourself out as a deckhand on a boat—sometimes just for free passage and the chance to sail around Europe, sometimes even to make a few bucks. » Full Story

Resources for chartering sailboats and finding cruises

• Boat Bookings (www.boatbookings.com) – Charter sailboats, motorboats, and luxury yachts all around the world.
• Sailonline.com (www.sailonline.com) – Loads of info and one-on-one contacts between yacht owners and charter groups. Some excellent info covering all the basics of sailing and chartering boats and the process of renting and sailing a yacht.
• Charterworld.com (www.charterworld.com) – Another great general sailing and boat-chartering resource.
• Ocean Blue Yachts (www.oceanblueyachts.com) – Britain-based charter service offering bareboats and charters on the Mediterranean and the Adriatic Seas.
• Odyssey Sailing (www.odysseysailing.gr) – Thousands of bareboat charters, crewed sailings, and set cruises both high-end and economy, msot in Greece. Nice site; good selection; not always the cheapest.
• Small Ship Cruises (www.smallshipcruises.com) – Loads of links, tips, and resources for all sorts of boating and sailing trips around the world.
• RealAdventures.com (www.realadventures.com) – Online site to find more than 50 sailing trips in nearly 60 countries.
• InfoHub (www.infohub.com) – Order hundreds of brochures for sailing and boating programs, both major cruise lines and small, local charters and tour companies around the world.

Related pages

• Crewing a boat
• Adventure cruises
• Sailing adventures
• The Ultimate Adventure Packing List