Travel Biography - Week 115.

Plausible? Perhaps, but too impractical.

Last week, I ended my travel blog by commenting on the 1998 visit to the Boston USS Constitution - spoilt by following a group escort in a mandatory ranger-led tour. I then referred back to 1982, when I paid to visit the underground Catacombs of St John in Siracusa, Italy. Back in 1982, I had the freedom to wander through the tunnels on my own and at my own pace. I then compared my second visit to the same catacombs 24 years later in 2006, when I had to join an escorted tour. I then briefly remarked about the Corridor trails leading into the Grand Canyon becoming restricted to ranger-led hiking tours sometime in the future.

That wasn't a glib shot at sarcasm. Rather, I thought it through before making the statement. Considering the rate of erosion caused by thousands of feet treading the same area each year, the rate of accidents, illness - especially heatstroke or hyponatremia, along with exhaustion, and even death, I'm somewhat surprised that, unlike the USS Constitution and the tunnels of the Sicilian catacombs, anyone could casually stroll down, or serious hike the Canyon trails unescorted.

No escorts here! Start of lone GC hike in 1978.

Ranger-led hikes into the Canyon? How could that be possible? Considering that, for example, only 1% of all visitors hike all the way down to the river to spend the night on the Canyon floor on a typical day, thus, installing a secure gate at the trailhead of both the Bright Angel and South Kaibab trails. Phantom Ranch, on the floor of the Canyon, accommodates up to 90 guests, hence four or five groups could be led by bus to the South Kaibab trailhead, hike down, spend the night at the ranch, and then after a hearty breakfast, be led up back to the rim via Bright Angel Trail.

As plausible as it seems, escorted hikes would never work in practice (thank goodness!) First of all, with the large number of escorts required for duty days and days off for recovery, each ranger must be thoroughly fit and fully trained, having knowledge of every crook and cranny of each trail and surrounding environment, including the names of every butte and other rock features visible, along with the names of different species of vegetation and wildlife. Furthermore, there will always be hikers who would discreetly break from the group to do their own thing, others tiring and needing to rest, especially on the ascent, and some falling ill, thus in need of rescue and medical care, and holding up the group.

Indeed, the idea of ranger-led escorted hiking groups into the Grand Canyon and along trails through other National Parks is so unrealistic, that I doubt that would ever happen. To that, I'm relieved.

About to board the ferry to Provincetown.

We sail past the Boston Bay NP Islands.

A crowd of casual sunbathers on board.

How a Ferry Sailing to Provincetown reveals my heart's inner core.

Therefore, how gutted I felt when, after publishing last week's blog, my curiosity for updates on the USS Constitution led me to browse the website Tripadvisor under the heading, USS Constitution. Since my visit to the frigate docked at the Boston district of Charlestown in 1998, much has changed by the time I wrote this blog in 2024. That is, at present, each visitor is free to wander unescorted around the decks and the interior of the ship. How I felt gutted - despite the tightened security! 

Before boarding the frigate, each visitor must pass through an airport-style security system and show their ID. As an overseas visitor, I would have to show my passport before boarding. In 1998, none of that was there, as to be led by an escort, it wasn't needed. Thus, my dayhike along the Freedom Trail ended with a feeling of humiliation after I was ordered off the ship after wandering alone from the group.

The next day was warm and sunny, after the cloud that made the overcast sky that hung over the city, dispersed. From the hostel, I made my way to the harbour. At one of the docks, believed to be where the tea was thrown overboard in 1773, a ferry was moored, taking on passengers before a three-hour, 50-mile sailing to Provincetown, on the tip of Cape Cod Peninsula.

Once on board, the sailing was smooth and uneventful. After pulling out of Boston, the ferry sailed past several islands that make up the Boston Harbour National Park. But what struck me was the crowd of mostly young people sunbathing topless on the deck. I had never seen any of that before, and I cannot imagine anything like this on a British ferry, especially those which cross the Channel. There was no rowdiness, no drunken debauchery. Instead, everyone sunbathed quietly while the crew concentrated on getting the ship safely docked in Provincetown Harbour.

Boats in Massachusetts Bay.

The ferry docks at Provincetown Harbour.

Provincetown Dock.

Cape Cod is a peninsula jutting out of the southern stretch of the Massachusetts coastline near the border of Rhode Island. On the map, it resembles a human arm with its hand clenched in a tight fist - as if America is shaking its fist in anger at Britain across the Atlantic Ocean. Cape Cod is a striking geological and geographical symbol of the Boston Tea Party and the American Revolution.

The town of Provincetown is built on the southern side of the 'fist' - the terminus of the 65-mile (105 km) peninsula. The town was the vacation resort for President Clinton during his term of office. I saw no skyscrapers there. Instead, each building was two to three storeys high. I found that the sunshine brought out a cheerful atmosphere, with the main street swarming with pedestrians strolling casually along. In all, I would say that Provincetown resembled more of a spruced-up Olde West settlement than a modern American city.

Throughout the few hours I spent at Provincetown, I did little other than explore the town and its sandy beach and its ugly, industrial-looking dock on which the ferry was moored. Some small boats were anchored in position on the bay, each one rocking gently in the near calm sea. Unfortunately, at the time, I knew very little or next to nothing about the town or Cape Cod itself, except that there was an alternate way to get to Provincetown from Boston. The main freeway, Route 6, enables the motorist to drive the whole way. However, it would have been possible to hike from Provincetown to Race Point Beach, a beautiful stretch of sand backed by a sandbank covered with beach grass. Race Point Beach is on the 'knuckle' of the 'fist' and faces directly north, and it's approximately 3 miles (5 km) from Provincetown.  

 

However, for me to complete the Knuckle Dayhike, as I would affectionately call it, I would need a full day on Cape Cod. Since six hours of the day was spent on board the ferry, to enjoy the hike without feeling pushed, I would have needed two nights spent at Provincetown. The hike would be completed on the second day, between the two nights.

The afternoon turned to early evening, and it was time to board the ferry for the return sailing to Boston. In all, I liked Provincetown, and its casual holiday environment presented an alternative and a break from the hustle and bustle of city life, even if Boston was more quieter and sedate than Manhattan. The sunshine brought out the colours to their full glory, hence allowing me to see the resort at its best.

Provincetown. The town hall is to the right.

Walking along the main street, Provincetown.

A lively resort.

On the ferry, I was leaning on the parapet, looking out to sea, when I was approached by a pretty woman close to my age. She opened the conversation to find out our backgrounds. She was impressed when I said that I was from the UK and backpacking. Her American drawl was obvious and I knew that she was local. Her name was Sarah.

Sarah and I talked for the whole of the three-hour duration of the journey. When the ferry docked in Boston, I was expecting her to part, so I could return to the hostel. Instead, we stayed together until we found a coffee shop. There, we sat for a long time, talking, and I was amazed at how interested she was in me.

She eventually left, making her way to Boston North Station to board a train to her home in the city's outer suburbs. But I was shaken all over emotionally. My thoughts flashed back to 1994. That was the year I was a volunteer at Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre in Isfya, near Haifa in northern Israel. It was at Stella Carmel where other volunteers treated me as a pariah.

The source of this dreadful putdown and humiliation was Josephine, one of the Christian volunteers who disliked me for being 'old school' and that I believed that appropriate tasks should be assigned according to gender. In other words, during one of the weekly meetings with the permanent staff, I said that domestic work should be assigned to the girls while we boys tackled the heavier maintenance tasks. When the manager knew that I was right, he made that known to all of us. This shocked Josephine and the other female volunteers, and I was verbally bullied and came close to a physical attack. Eventually, I was dismissed from the centre before my time and spent a full month in Jerusalem before flying home in a dreadful emotional state. My Christian faith was almost permanently destroyed.

Wind forward four years and here I was, on a ferry to Boston, and I was approached by a friendly American who seemed interested in me. There was an inner clash of emotions. 

The next day, I was alone as I walked the streets of the city. I looked around. I was standing at Quincy Market. I was about to cry, to shed tears. Sarah's friendliness has broken me down, and the deepest secrets of my soul, of which I was unaware, came to the fore. In desperation, I phoned the number she had given me, in a public phone booth. The call was answered by a male voice. When I asked for Sarah, he said that she was not at home. Suddenly, a rush of relief filled my soul. After the phone call, I felt much better, and I was able to continue with my stay in Boston. Sarah's power over me was broken.

But a light has illuminated my soul. I was in my forties and still single. It wasn't right. Something was missing. It was love. Physical love. Not only to be loved but to love and cherish another person. Someone to love and protect, to care for, to cherish. And to be loved, cared for and cherished. A two-way relationship with another human, a female, someone to alleviate fear and loneliness. Instead, as a singleton approaching middle age, I thought about my school classmates of the sixties. I wouldn't be surprised that by 1998, over thirty years, many of them would already be grandparents. And here I was - single, lonely, and childless. Furthermore, I was at the end of the family generational line.

No wonder I resorted to world travel! Yes, all that was good, as I still had in mind another Round-the-World backpacking trip planned in the next few years. But as I grow older, my legs weaken, my facial complexion starts to wrinkle, and in need of a walking aid, what would I have? An extra large photo library to revive a fading memory? Unfortunately, I'll be leaving all that behind the moment I step off the planet. 

Hence the dramatic contrast between Josephine and Sarah, four years and thousands of miles apart. A churchgoer takes away all sense of personal worth. A secular woman helps restore it.

But in Boston, I knew nothing of the coming life-changing set of circumstances. Back in our hometown, another interested female also has her eyes on me. And so, as I look ahead, would South Africa become a reality, as Australia already has?  

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Next Week: A visit to the Aquarium, whale watching, and preparing to fly home.