Misty FIords - Ketchikan

The Truth About Ketchikan – I can recall the vision at any time.  See the article before my eyes; my eyes that are wide open, and why wouldn’t they be?  9 DEAD IN AIR CRASH.  The headline still reverberates around in my head.

It was about the exact same route that I was about to book us both on.  The exact same type of plane.  An exact same bunch of expectant tourists had gone to their death against a sheer massive wall of rock that I was booking us to fly past; well, hopefully past.  It’s the exact sort of thing you never want to hear about before you embark on such an excursion, let alone book it with knowledge of such matter beforehand.

Lorraine, who has never heard about the headline or the article, was nonetheless venting her concerns on the other side of the table.  “Small planes crash”, she argued vehemently.  Far be it from me to argue with her on that score.  I was reminded of way back when Jason and I went heli-skiing in New Zealand.  There are always crashes you can read about over there, be it chopper or light plane; but we willingly went anyway and enjoyed one of the great days of our lives.  Thus I reconciled the Misty Fiords excursion.

The actual one I booked us on was with a different company to that which the tragedy had befallen, that was my only out, but I knew it wouldn’t wash with Lorraine so I said nothing.

The day arrives and it’s the only excursion that we don’t have paper work for, something Lorraine is unaccustomed to.  I suggest that it’s fine, be at the wharf at 10.40 and someone will call out our name.  That’s wholly inadequate for Lorraine but we wander around the town for a (very) short time then check in at the Information Centre, where every tour company in Alaska seems to have a bench.  I easily locate Misty Fiords Air and find out that it’s actually 11.40 we leave and, we are booked, and all we have to do is wait by the sculpture outside.

So it’s off shopping again, in one block by the cruise ships there are 9 jewellery shops all side by side and they make up marginally less than half of such shops in the town.  Turns out that the majority are actually owned by the cruise ships but we luck out at one. 

                                                

It’s an outlet that only has works by a man named Eddie Lee, a Vietnamese refugee who carves exquisite works out of mammoth tusks, mammoth teeth, polished buffalo horn, soapstone and walrus tusks.  The piece de resistance as you enter the door is a carving that took 4 years and represents 10,000 years of human evolution.  The detail is intricate, the workmanship of the highest order, the result world class.  Apparently it’s destined for the Smithsonian; it deserves posterity, it’s that sort of piece.  The rest of his work isn’t far behind, the man is clearly gifted.

Some of the “streets” are nothing more than stairways but they still have mail, garbage and other essential services.  I know of one that has 233 steps.  Another interesting fact about the town is that it doesn’t have a football ground.  The reason being that there’s so much precipitation (391 centimetres a year average) it washes the soil away.

Then it’s off to the bus.  We get on with about 7 Asians who start chatting in Japanese and Lorraine says she’s not flying with them.  Soon after, one turns to me and asks in clear English where we’re from.  He’s from Melbourne.  I hope he hasn’t heard our conversation.

We’re waiting for a pair who haven’t turned up.  For 20 minutes the company try everything but it’s their first no-show of the year so we head off down the bay to our departure point.  Turns out we get a De Havilland Beaver all to ourselves and our pilot, Jim, exudes an air of calm.  He’s been flying in these regions since the late 70’s so he’s no doubt seen all sorts of weather, such as the showery stuff we’re having today, before.

The seats are comfortable and I’m in the co-pilot’s chair, purportedly to get a better view though I suspect Lorraine’s better positioned immediately behind me.  After the coastal cloud we fly across a hundred lakes of all shape and size, many where trees don’t grow because of the acid that leeches from the ground.

This is the land of water and soon we’re flying through the advertised misty fiords. Gossamer thin white sheets float blissfully between sheer cliffs, shaped 12,000 years ago by a million tonnes of ice and now topped by last night’s snowfall.

Jim spots some mountain goats and banks toward them so we can get a better view.  They are generally remote creatures and close-ups are very rare and we certainly don’t get too near them but it’s interesting nonetheless to see these creatures who are actually classified as goat antelopes.

I can’t help thinking that it’s one of these cliffs that the plane crashed into but the joy of Lorraine and the constancy of the spectacular scenery keep it in the back of my mind.

We weave around mountains, tilting this way and that, vista upon vista unfolding until we swing back, returning to a horseshoe shaped canyon we’d passed before, complete with its own untouched tarn.

Gliding into the gap Jim puts the plane down with such gentleness you feel like you’re dreaming it all.

It’s where we get our stop, not the advertised walk on an island, but something much better as Jim putters the Beaver towards a bank at the end of a tiny peninsula for only the second time this season.  We feel privileged to land here and Lorraine immediately requests a photo because we both recognize the speciality of the place.

I get permission to dart off in the woods to investigate the sound of a waterfall.  The ground is merely a bog with vegetation on it.  Everywhere it’s like a sponge and water oozes from every footfall.  The colours are rich and varied, the first kiss of autumn has turned some plants and their stark beauty is highlighted against the rich green forest background.  A dappling of coloured leaves where water droplets have found refuge is laid out before me as if to guide my excursion.

I scamper off and discover a furrow in the forest where water has taken its course and denied the taller vegetation.  A thin hued line marks its route before it turns and meanders into the tarn.  I can’t thank Jim enough for diverting from the norm; I’m totally entranced, smitten by the wildness and raw energy that emanate from this location and yet it’s also the silence that beckons wonderment.  It’s the sort of moment that you hope for while visiting Alaska, something to grasp hold of when memories are regurgitated, a prized possession for the mind.

All too soon it’s up and away again, with Jim forewarning us to ignore the cliff that we’re heading for as he doesn’t plan to run into it, something that has a lot more meaning for me I suspect!  The plane gently curves around as we near it and we rotate 180 degrees as he guns it and we head for the opening.

We’re back above the snow and heading for a band of serious cloud; it’s the only time I’m really concerned as it envelopes us, rain pelting the windscreen.  Fortunately it only takes a minute and we’re through to the other side and Ketchikan beckons us.  The landing is so smooth, as was the whole flight, as to be indistinguishable from actually being in the air.  Lorraine’s joy knows no bounds, her gushing rhetoric of the whole experience brings a wave of relief over me; the day’s activity has been a profound success.

                                                  ARRESTING AREZZO

Things had started off well.  We’d gone to Arezzo, found the correct parking area and were on our way.  I say “correct” because there’s a quadruple escalator going up from this carpark through the old walls that takes you on high to the Duomo of Arezzo, which just happens to be across the way from the tourist office.  Well, except the Tourist Office was closed if course.  “Chiuso” is a word you get very familiar with in Italy.

Arezzo copped a pounding during its liberation in 1944 because the Germans made a stand here and you can see rebuilds of mediaeval stuff, like walls, here and there, but the city is generally tidy and active, except, twice a year, when the Joust of the Saracen (Moor) takes place.

This is an event to savour and we were glued to our T.V. screens the evening before at our local restaurant watching this centuries old event play out.  Originally designed as training for knights, it’s evolved into a pageant par excellence.  The city is divided into four quarters and there are eight riders on horseback dressed in fabulous mediaeval costumes from each area.  The idea is for them to ride with a lance and aim at a target held by a confronting muscled figure painted in Saracen hue.  In one extended arm it has a target like a square dartboard, in the right hand there are three metal balls on the end of a whip and, if the target in the left hand is hit, the body starts to swing around quickly.  Should it be quick enough to flay the rider, points are deducted, not to mention a bruise or two.  The balls are covered in black powder to stain their outfits and to hopefully avoid arguments but the emotions were running a bit out of hand as we watched the carabinieri get involved a couple of times as scores were read out.

Each city quarter has eight riders in varying costumes who have two runs at the target and totals are tallied up at the end.  It’s all very theatrical as a decked out man removes the scorecard and takes it ceremoniously to the judge after each charge.

The whole affair goes on for hours and, to get the festival to where it is today cost over one billion dollars, financed by banks, government and popular subscription.  As a tourist who hasn’t paid a cent, I have to say it is well worth it!

Today we park, as advised, at Posteria di Pozzolo and enter through the Porta Stufi, probably the only entrance preserved from the Middle Ages.  As we ride up the escalators (scale mobile) the walls are endlessly covered, firstly by a panoramic picture of all the riders in the 32 different outfits followed by a mural of the event, whose participants have strangely unseeing eyes with blank expressions that seem to belie the intensity of the joust, but today we’re more geared up to arriving at the top and seeing the town.

We arrive via a portal in the Palazzo Vescovile (Bishop’s Palace), full of art inside, that also holds the Information Centre but they are both closed for some reason or other.  Still, on the other side of the Piazza Duomo is the cathedral, outside of which is some modern sculpture that reflects this town’s willingness to move on with their art and not dwell forever in the mediaeval times even though the large bronze abstracts seem incongruous beside towering walls of the cathedral.

We step inside and are immediately struck by the ceiling frescoes, painted by Di Guillaume de Marcillat and Salvi Castellucci.  They underwent restoration about a decade ago for a few million euros.  Marcillat, a Frenchman, also did most of the stained glass windows from the early 1500’s.  His ability to give depth and flow in a difficult medium is a standout here.

The Ark of San Donato is another thing that grabs your eye.  An extravagant altarpiece where the headless body of Arezzo’s patron saint is entombed.  It was carved out by various Tuscan sculptors in the 1300’s.  Donato’s head was pillaged in 1384 by the French captain of fortune Enguerrand de Courcy and taken to Forli where it was venerated by the lord of that city and later returned. 

The Tarlati Tomb (1329), by three Sienese sculptors, is also of interest.  It glorifies the reign of the family, and Bishop Guido Tarlati is actually entombed in it.  It’s a bit over the top politically and fills an entire bay wall with sixteen narrative reliefs of the history of the family and of Arezzo under Guido’s rule.  It was commissioned by Pietro Saccone, the bishop’s brother, and it should come as no surprise to know that when the Tarlati’s were expelled from Arezzo in 1341 it was defaced.  Its current position came about when it was moved in 1783 and the chapel behind, containing an important fresco by Piero Della Francesca at the rear, was demolished to fit it in.  Thank goodness the art can still be viewed.

Nearby there’s the mummified remains of Pope Gregory X (reigned 1271 – 1276) that Pope Benedict XVI prayed before during a papal visit in 2012.  Along with the 4^th century Saint Donatus (who at one stage purportedly slew a dragon – no wonder there’s none left), he’s one of the two notable Catholics from Arezzo.

There’s also a more modern (1809) painting by Pietro Benvenuti of a triumphant Judith holding the head of Holofernes in front of a shocked audience paying homage from her home town.

The main church I wanted to see though was down the Via Andrea Cesalpino so we headed off, noting how well the city has restored itself after the battering of WWII and how it’s one of the cleaner places we’ve visited.

The Chiesa di San Francesca is a single nave church built to commemorate the austerity of Saint Francis of Assisi. However, it’s the Bacci Chapel, with its cycle of frescos of the Legend of the True Cross, painted by Piero della Francesca between 1452 and 1466, which people flock to see while parting with their hard earned cash. The chapel belonged to the wealthy Bacci family of merchants in Arezzo, who commissioned its decoration from the Florentine painter Bicci di Lorenzo in 1447.

But after Bicci had completed work on the chapel’s vaulted ceiling, the two Doctors of the Church in the entrance way and the Last Judgement on the triumphal arch, the maestro died in 1452, the year when Piero della Francesca commenced working for the Bacci family. It then took him just a few years to complete the most modern frescos conceivable in fifteenth-century Italian painting, with their uniquely measured perspective, bearing in mind that Piero was a gifted mathematician.  Aussies can easily distinguish his works because of the alarming blank stare in people’s eyes, bit like a roo caught in the headlights.  

That Frenchman Marcillat was also here, putting in more stained glass.

While I’m awash in Francesca, Lorraine is downstairs soaking up a special display of Italian fashions in the old crypt.  MODA is a modern online brand and they’ve sponsored the display of everyday fashion in the 20^th century and apparently it was worthwhile.

We exit past the sculpted rusty iron pieces of a horse and move up the hill, this time along Corso Francesca, stopping en route to do some gelato with 5 girls who are obviously out for the day.  Then it’s on to the back of the Piazza Grande where yesterday’s festival was held and the bombs fell during WWII.

The campinale of the Santa Maria church looms over all else as we stroll by and the three impressive tiers of columns bespeak of money.  Then there’s the smaller tower of something or other almost opposite as I begin to sweat climbing towards the town park.  Beyond that are the walls of the Medici fort but that’s for another time.

From where we enter the park you can look down on the Pretorio Palace, aka the town library these days, festooned with coats of arms, the most prominent of which is the large Medici crest right over the entry door.  I move away in the opposite direction to photograph the statue of Petrarch, fabled 14^th century son of Arezzo and the father of Humanism.  He didn’t live here long and, when he made a brief stopover en route to Padua in 1350, he was feted like a king.

There are panoramic views from the park over Tuscany but I catch a side glimpse of a figure scurrying down the stairs back to the car and decide I’d best join her.  Fatigue is setting in and there’s still an afternoon in Cortona to go.

Marmore Falls

                                                                   AMORE MARMORE

It fills the air, drifting on the currents and wisping through the leaves; the tiny droplets brightening the sky as they slowly, inexorably, fall to earth.  The roar means that you have to shout to communicate but, who needs to talk when you’re transfixed on the power and majesty of what’s before you.  Leaves flex violently in the katabatic wind that pulsates with the torrent as the light dazzles on the shafts of penetrating light.  This is one of the wonders of Italy, indeed, Europe, as Cascate Delle Marmore is listed as the highest waterfall in Europe and the biggest man made one in the world.

The fact that it’s partly influenced by man seems to matter little when you’re viewing the spectacle, in fact, its history makes it more interesting for many.  Roman consul Curio Dentato was the driving force behind connecting the two basins of the Nero and Velino.  The latter’s waters had become a huge stagnant pond when not flooding which facilitated mosquito breeding amongst other things.  Most people aren’t aware that malaria was a huge problem during Roman times and may actually have contributed significantly to the fall of the empire.  It took nearly another two thousand years before what we see today was engineered.

Today, it’s the people buzzing around this wonder of thunder that are more numerous and the Velino spits its energy over the edge.  A 1929 hydro-electric station is situated conveniently out of sight at the top and it produces 530 megawatts which has helped fuel industrial growth in nearby cities such as Terni. 

If you’re there at the right time you can also get a rainbow effect as the light refracts off the drifting mist towards the bottom of the 165 metre drop as it spreads its thrust in different directions.  I say the right time because the flow is controlled and you have to check which day you plan to go so that you don’t miss the spectacle.  It costs, per adult, 10 euros to go and see them so they’re making a killing as tens of thousands flock here to view the rampant waters as they tear past man made paths with breathtaking force to ultimately go where the white water rafters can take up the challenge as the combined rivers become slightly more benign.