Azores: Pico

In the prologue, I alluded to the weather zone that is the Azores. One doing her research will come upon warnings about allowing time--days, even--between flights in case of cancellations. That's one reason Sao Miguel was the last stop on our trip.We'd allowed a full day between landing on Faial and the last ferry from there to Pico, where we'd have an early start the next morning. If time permitted, we'd go see a couple of sights on Faial. We got there on time, but not quite enough time for a stress-free tour of the island (or even a ride to capelinhos), especially for the price. So we made it to the port--evidently just in time for a ferry we didn't even know was departing--and sailed to Pico.


Goncalo, the extraordinarily helpful owner of our hotel picked us up at the port, drove us past some stunning wine walls, pointed out the supermarket and the natural swimming hole, and showed us to our room. We figured it would be less time to buy groceries than to walk to and from the nearest veg-friendly establishment, so we stocked up and headed back. I also bought a pair of sunglasses--I'd left mine on the flight to Flores and made do with a floppy hat in the meantime. Flores was stunning, but we welcomed being back in civilization.

Kiera captured my return from the swimming hole

I popped into the swimming hole to cool off and helped Kiera make a Thai vegetable salad. They had all kinds of tofu in the local supermarket. We also brought what we thought would be sturdy bread for to make PB&J for the hike the next day. Goncalo came for us not-bright but early--it was still dark--and took us to the trailhead for Mt. Pico to meet our guide. It was chilly and damp, so about right for a strenuous hike.

We ultimately decided to go with a guide--and were glad we did--because we'd read that when fog covers the mountain, you can't see past your nose, including to the path markers. She was amazing. But she did rush us up the mountain, because weather, and it was very, very tough. The hike can be characterized by segments, as Raisa told us: "natural selection," not because it takes people out but because it weeds out the people who didn't know what they'd signed up for; "a walk in the park," which is exactly what it sounds like, followed by "widow maker," and so on, until you get to Piquinho--the tippy top, formed by the last eruption--where you drop your polls and scramble.

The climb to the top was that steep

We hiked up in cloud cover, and by the time I thought to hide my camera from the elements, it was too late (and then, it backfired). Kiera thought of military marching cadence to help her along; I resorted to the famous Dr. Seuss lines that have been keeping me going for decades: On you will go, though the weather be foul... though your feet may be sore and your sneakers may leak. I also, occasionally, led myself to an earworm from "The Producers": We can do it! Nothing to it!

Whatever our coping strategies, we did it. There were fumaroles up at the top to warm us as we had lunch with a view, including of Faial. Raisa offered us moonshine--an island staple--to further warm us.

 

We were able to see more of the mountain on the way down. Sadly, I didn't get too many pictures of it because my camera took a tumble off its shoulder strap, hit a rock, and developed a mind of its own.

There's a neat crater, which was invisible as we were going up but attractively misty on the way down.

Descending was less exhausting than ascending, but harder on the joints. I always descend cautiously, and on this terrain especially, I let the trekking poles do a lot of the work and take the brunt of the impact.

It wasn't enough; my hamstrings were sore for days. I felt the slightest decline over on Sao Jorge.




After the hike, we parted ways with the couple on our "team," and Raisa gave us a ride back to Sao Roque.

We stopped at our favorite supermarket to get some fresh herbs for dinner and put away a gynormous amount of food. The next morning, we took off for Sao Jorge, leaving Mt. Pico in the distance.

Azores: Flores

First stop: Flores. Flores is mind-blowingly beautiful. Not unlike Patagonia, one beautiful view opened up to another. I met the limits of my linguistic abilities to react to beauty; I just kept saying “WTF.” Starting with the rainbow that greeted us when we arrived at Aldeia de Cuada, the village where we would stay.

Aldeia de Cuada was a set of converted cottages that had been abandoned. If we'd ended up trapped there for the duration of our stay, it wouldn't have been awful. Well, it would've been, because Flores has some mind-blowing sights, but still. 

Most the sights of the islands are meant to be driven to rather than hiked around. Our first full day on Flores, we hoped to set out for various hikes around various sets of lakes; instead, we ended up driving to both, with a set of waterfalls in between. When I say “we,” I mean Kiera; I don’t drive stick, although after this trip I feel the need to relearn.  

We started with two side-by-side crater lakes: Lagoa Comprida and Lagoa Negra.

Then we went to see some waterfalls, of which you can only get the scale when you see them from the road,

but they are also worth beholding from up close.

From there, (the royal) we drove to another set of side-by-side lakes (this time, separated by a whole road). There was a lovely view along the way.

Kiera had understandably had it with the driving, especially on dirt roads, so we parked and walked to the lakes.

By the next day, we were up for more walking, but we didn't envision this as a hiking trip, the hike up Mt. Pico aside. I thought there would be more short, leisurely walks. Our second day in Flores, we thought we were setting out for a somewhat leisurely walk from our village, via Faja Grande, to Ponta Delgada (the one on Flores, obvs). We thought we were almost there when we realized we weren't even close. Couldn't complain about the view.

But oh did we complain about everything else. The problem wasn't the length of the trail, or even the elevation; it was the condition of the path, which often took us over muddy, wet rocks. I embarked on the hike in sandals, one of which broke (luckily, not in a catastrophic way) because the sandals--glorified flip-flops, really--slide around on my feet when wet. There were bees and wasps, to which I am severely allergic. There wasn't, as I said, the length per se, but the fact that we'd so underestimated it. We went through our provisions of granola bars long after we were really f*ing sick of granola bars. We were running low on water. We were running low on time (we'd thought we'd hike round trip, but we were definitely going to need to cab--if we could find a cab). The trail seemed to never end (how do we have 3 km left? didn't you say 3.1 km an hour ago??), in part because we were moving slowly over the numerous treacherous sections. At one point, as we were navigating the muddy boulders with streams running through, Kiera said, "this is fine." As in, dog in the on-fire cafe "fine."

By the time we got to this view of Corvo, we'd have real roads the rest of the way.

We made it to Ponta Delgada--to its one restaurant--and ran into a German woman who was also staying at the village. We cabbed back together to her car, seeing this other lake along the way.

Her car was at Faja Grande, where we stopped for a swim (well, I did).

And that was what we saw in Flores. The next morning, we'd take off for the central set of islands.

Azores: prologue

Behold the middle of the Atlantic.

I beheld it in person, and it was awesome.

***

“You’re going where? What’s that??” was a common reaction when I told people I was going to the Azores. I answered the question and, for the ‘why’ that would follow, recommended an image search.

 

I’d put out feelers more than a year ago to various friends about an Azores trip. A couple of people tentatively bit, enough to do some initial planning, and then unbit. I’d offered it up to Nina, which led to our going to Romania instead. Romania was beautiful and much-needed, but not entirely a vacation (what with a five-year-old present), a month or so after getting back I’d worked myself into a desperate need for another vacation. At which point, from out of nowhere, one of the original takers wrote and said “let’s do this.”

The trip came together pretty fast (although barely fast enough: we had a hard time in July getting reservations for September). We took an entire weekend to figure out exactly where we wanted to go. The big choice was between “chill” and “ambitious,” and we were close to opting for the former when we decided we really should go to Flores, which pushed us toward the latter. The best way to get out of Flores was via Faial, so we may as well spend some time in that middle island group, and hike up Mt. Pico while we were at it. So it would be: four islands in twelve days.

The most efficient way to get to the Azores from the United States is via Boston, which worked out well for me. I’d visit my dad and depart from there. The most efficient way to get to the Azores is with Sata, or Azores Airlines—which Google autofills to “worst airline ever.” But if you check the results, it’s evidently only the fourth worst, or something like that. The negative results spike every couple of years when people get stranded (often in Boston). The Azores are a weather-rich environment, and Sata has a fleet of 14 planes, which means limited options to replace any plane that experiences issues. The food was atrocious even by airplane-food standards (in contrast, Turkish Airlines, which I took to Romania, had very decent food by airplane-food standards), the entertainment was minimal and device-based, and the seats were pretty cramped. But I’d rather be on a worse airline for four hours than a great one for six hours and then a layover followed by 2 more hours.

We did not get stuck in Boston, but I did get stuck on Sao Miguel largely as a result of the incompetence of Sata. There was a slight delay, which made for a precarious connection, especially with my bag the last one off the carousel in Sao Miguel (I didn’t want to check it but it exceeded the weight limit of 8 lbs by 2 lbs). I opted for my bigger, heavier-framed bag not because I needed the space but for its ergonomics and handy pockets. Lesson to self, so as not to be in an involuntary bag-check situation: get a smaller version of the same bag (looking forward to those Osprey sales in November). Also looking forward to camera sales, but more on that later.

Kiera was assured by the gate agents that I’d make it onto the connection, but the Sata people evidently rebooked us both (but she had no bag, so she was able to use her original boarding pass to board and they let her stay). I had to spend 8 hours on Sao Miguel, which ended up being fine, although it was definitely annoying. I checked my big bag to Flores, checked my medium bag at left luggage, and wandered into Ponta Delgada, where I explored, and found a SIM.

Now, there was a Vodafone at the airport but the saleswoman told me my only option was a 10GB SIM for €20, of which I had no need. The store downtown offered me 5GB for €15, and only when I was about to walk did they reveal the 3GB SIM for €10. That was twice as much as I’d paid in Romania, for half the data, but it was a price I was willing to pay and it was worth it. Having a local phone came in very handy.

I stuck the SIM into my dad’s old phone, which we replaced because he thought the microphone had stopped working (I discovered that it just has funky settings that keep it muted even when you’ve unmuted the volume). On this trip I had more electronics than I’d ever traveled with: my ‘good’ phone, the ‘burner’ phone with the local SIM, my iPad (for ongoing trip research, among other things), my good camera, and my underwater camera (for snorkeling, kayaking, or other watery adventures). And all the associated charging devices and other gear. And I used it all. I used just about everything I brought, except for the epipen (and that’s a good thing) and one pair of lounge pants (it was warm enough, even in the evenings, to lounge in dresses, but you never know). There wasn’t anything I hadn’t packed that I missed; I’d debated bringing trekking poles for Mt. Pico, but our guide had some for us to use. I’d also debated bringing snorkeling gear, but overpaying for it was still a better option than lugging it around.

I’d have liked more time on Pico; all we really did was hike, although we got to see wine grapes growing in stone-wall arrangements during the ride from the port, and I availed myself of the natural swimming pool a short walk from our hotel. There was a lot more to see on Sao Miguel, but I was happy with what I did see. On all the islands, when the fog comes in you can’t see much of anything. We were super-lucky with the weather on Flores, mostly lucky on Pico, occasionally lucky on Sao Jorge, and half-lucky on Sao Miguel. But we made the most of it.

Bucharest

Nina had to work when we got to Bucharest, so I took Izzy for a boat ride in the park.

 A nice woman in the park gave Izzy some bread with which to feed the pigeons. Nina later noted that bread isn't great for pigeons, in which case the ones in this park were in trouble.

The next day, I took Izzy to a massive playground complex overlooked by the massive Palace of Parliament.

 Then we walked to a cat cafe, stopping to admire a duck family along the way.

 We also admired a duck family on the way back.

 We waited out a downpour under an awning, and then took a rainy path back to the apartment.