Barceloneta

We passed La Gamba de Mariscal and came to the walk next to the port that leads to Barceloneta. Sub-Saharan men, as dark as sable, sold merchandise on both sides of the walk, stretching all the way to the beach. In neat arrangements laid on shawls were t-shirts, sweats, sunglasses, shoes, bags, and anything else that might lure an innocent tourist on his way to the playa. We moved on.
 
The port leads to a point where it meets the beach. There we saw the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean. A boardwalk lined with palms follows along the water, with a fine stretch of sand between the two. Kaitlyn and I staked a spot about half way down where we unrolled our towels and laid them on the sand.
 
I grabbed my bag and waited in line for a small bathroom where I changed into my swimming trunks.
 
I returned to Kaitlyn where I sat on my towel and looked around. The beach was crowded today. Not many people dared the water, but most laid on their towels like us, with bags and sandals nearby. Some women laid on their belly with their strap undone to brown their back, while others wore no top at all.
 
More dark-skinned men from Africa advertized their goods. They waved around shawls and pushed cans of beer. Holding a tray of cold green drinks they'd broadcast, “Fresh mojito!”
 

I pulled off my shirt and stood from my towel. I slid off my glasses and placed them inside a shoe. The hot sun baked my shoulders. I walked across the beach and down a short slope to the water. The sand gave way to small pebbles at the fringe of the sea where miniature waves lapped the surface. I smelled a strong scent of fish. I waded to my knees, then hips. The water was green, but clear, and I could see at least ten feet down. Two long fish with silver scales swam in opposite directions. Then I dove in, head first.
 
Cold, but welcoming water enveloped my body. I kept my eyes closed and stroked forward with my arms until I slanted upward and emerged from the sea.
 
I wiped the water from my eyes with one hand and licked a strong salt from my lips. For a minute I tread water and bobbed lightly up and down with the waves. Sail boats slowly glided in the distance and nearby a figure maneuvered a stand-up paddle board. Beyond the shore I could see the twin towers of Olympic Village and the Golden Fish. I dove into the water again, holding my breath for longer, and wishing I could open my eyes to look for silver fish.
 
When I came back up I lazily swam to the shore and walked up the sand with salty sea water dripping from my hair and trunks. I walked past clusters of sun-worshipers, past a group of men playing volleyball, and entered the boardwalk. Beneath my feet I felt the gaps in the sandy wooden planks and almost instantly I felt the wetness evaporate from my back and shoulders. Cyclists, rollerbladers, and pedestrians used the boardwalk and I had to dodge them all.
 

Two more times I returned to the water, repeating the same scenario each time. After the final time I walked to the outdoor shower and rinsed myself with frigid fresh water.
 
When I dried off, Kaitlyn and I dusted our towels, folded them in half, and rolled them up. We returned to the boardwalk and bought ice cream on a stick at a kiosk—hazelnut chocolate! Much refreshed, we began walking again toward La Gamba de Mariscal. ♠

La Gamba de Mariscal

10 Pleasant Surprises in Barcelona

1. Frederic Marès Museum.  While wandering through the Gothic Quarter (and keeping our eyes peeled for a bathroom) we stumbled across the Frederic Marès Museum. I noticed it had free entry, so I thought we could take a look and use the restrooms on our way out. We ended up spending nearly an hour in the building, which used to house the kings of Aragon and Castile. Christopher Columbus was received here upon returning from the new world. But the museum is dedicated to sculpture, particularly really old sculptures. Some date back to Iberian, Greek, and Punic culture. The largest and most impressive display comes from the large collection of crucifixes from the medieval era. Room after room exhibits carvings of the crucified Christ, often with arms broken off. 

2. Street Festival.  Probably our funnest surprise came one evening around dusk when we heard explosions from somewhere on the street. I told Kaitlyn that we had to immediately leave our hotel and investigate. Near the San Antoni Market we found the street blocked off and a party like none other. Dozens of people dressed in orange jackets held torches with sparks shooting from the top. They would run up and down the street and onto the sidewalk and scare anyone they could by brushing the torch near their feet. Others lit off fireworks that would boom and scream. The entire street was one large pyrotechnic display, with no order, but chaos. Another group of people formed a band and played music, which included steady drum beats. Then they attached twirling sparklers to a giant pig on wheels and sent it racing down the street. In the end they lit a firework display right in front of us that echoed off buildings and was so loud I had to plug my ears.

The group responsible for the din was the Diables, or Devils, de Sant Antoni. I don't know much more about the occasion other than it was a local affair, a fiesta put on by people in the neighborhood. It was quite the serendipitous moment.

3. Cathedral Rooftop.  Tucked away in a nook in the Cathedral of Santa Eulalia is a door that gives access to a small elevator. Coming across this nook had eluded me during my other visits to the cathedral. The lift takes the visitor to the roof of the church, but it might as well be another world. Not only does it bring you up-close to the gargoyles and red tiles of the roof, but gives you an expansive view of a sea of other rooftops and steeples and bell-towers that one would otherwise never see. One can also see Montjuïc, the sea, Tibidabo. We spent at least half an hour up there, pleased to gaze upon a peaceful view that I had never seen before.

4. Camp Nou.  After church on Sunday we caught the metro and had traveled two stops on the blue line when Kaitlyn remembered she had left her watch on one of the pews. We got off the train at the Collblanc stop. Knowing where we were, I told Kaitlyn we had two choices: we could immediately get on the first returning train, or we could exit the station and see Camp Nou. We chose the second option.

Camp Nou is the home stadium for the world renowned soccer team, Barcelona, or known locally as Barça. The stadium is gigantic, holding 99,354 people. We had to walk ten minutes to get there, but it was totally worth it. We walked through the store and got our pictures taken in front of a couple icons outside. We didn't go inside, or pay for the “Camp Nou Experience,” but we still got to feel a bit of the atmosphere that comes with Barcelona football.

5. The Champions.  After eating lunch in a bar one day we heard echoes of excitement coming from up the street. Immediately we sought to investigate. We found a local soccer venue and a rowdy crowd on their feet, cheering the team who had just won the championship. It was a youth team, and I don't know what championship they just won. But the team was excited, throwing their arms into the air, jumping up and down, and putting on the winner's jersey. The crowd yelled, “Olé, olé,” and chanted a victory song. I wish we had shown up a bit sooner, but we were lucky to show up at all.

6. Santa Maria del Mar.  In Barcelona, as well as about any other city in Europe, you will have the opportunity to visit many old churches. I enjoy all of them, but will admit that after a while, they all tend to blend together. One church that stands out is Santa Maria del Mar. This church began construction in the 1300's outside the city walls, as a worshiping spot for the fisherman. For me, the thing I enjoy most is the openness of the church. Doors on three sides and a plethora of stained-glass windows let in a lot of light, thus Santa Maria is much more well-lit than many of the other churches and cathedrals. The design is open, allowing for an unobstructed view of the interior. On different inscriptions are memorials to those who helped build it, as well as to the mariners to whom it was built.

7. Hotel Balcony.  When getting a hotel in Europe, especially the cheaper ones in my price range, you never know what kind of window view you will get. It may be a wall, parking lot, or empty space in the middle of the complex. Our first hotel in Barcelona was nothing to brag about on the inside, but our view out the balcony was pleasant. Our fourth-story room looked over Carrer de Josep Anselm Clave, a narrow street just a block from the harbor. Far to our right we could see the mouth of the Rambla, almost to the Columbus statue. On our left we could see the dome and angelic statue atop the Basílica de Mercè. We could hear voices of people roaming the streets, mopeds zooming, and the occasional church bell.

8. El Raval at Night.  Our final hotel was in the Raval District of Barcelona, an area once known for drug problems and prostitution. Although the city has done a good job cleaning up, it is still a little on the seedy side. Each night as we returned to our room, I chose to wander a different route through the Raval. The streets, all narrow alleyways, were well lit. Some were full of bars and nightlife, while others were devoid of people. But it was always a pleasure to walk through these streets at night and take in the sites and smells of whatever we passed. Often I would have to pull out my map to figure out where we were. I watched old ladies at midnight going on a stroll. Shop-keepers sat outside their doors chatting. Independence flags hung from balconies and occasionally I heard television coming from an open window.

9. Castellers.  I was pleasantly surprised when I learned that, following our church services we would attend on Sunday, there would be a competition of Castellers. This is a sport unique to Catalunya where teams build human towers, standing on each others shoulders, often seven levels high. It had been many years since I had watched in person. We weren't disappointed. In the municipality of Esplugues (a suburb of Barcelona) we observed three teams take turns and build some amazing “castles” as they are referred to in Catalán. There was even an upper-level terrace that led to a park where we had a birds-eye view.

10. The Magic Fountain.  On our final night in Barcelona we climbed the stairs of Montjuïc to the famed Magic Fountain. I wasn't sure what to expect. The first time I went there (during the 1992 Olympics) I as thoroughly impressed. We had been exploring some of the Olympic venues when we happened upon the fountain. I didn't know it had a name back then. Thousands of people gathered around, so we thought something exciting was about to happen. When the show began it was a booming exhibition of light and dancing water, choreographed to the song Barcelona, sung by Freddy Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. The experience has stayed with me for 26 years.

In 2001 I visited the fountain with my wife, but found it not even running. I was disappointed.

So I tried again on this last trip with my daughter. We were not disappointed. As in 1992, there were thousands gathered around the fountain. At 9:30 promptly the display began and the song Barcelona blared into the air! I turned to Kaitlyn and explained that this is exactly what I had experienced 26 years ago! ♠

One Final Adventure

Ribbon Falls, Grand Canyon.

Some deaths are harder to take than others. This was a hard one for me. Dave was someone I saw nearly every day and heard his voice. I can still hear it in my head. It is as clear as if he were with me right now.

Dave and I have many of the same interests. We are both avid hikers, although he has far out-paced me in that category. He once told me that he may not have enough money to travel to exotic places around the world, but he certainly has enough till fill up a tank of gas. We are blessed to have some of the best hiking scenery in our backyard: Buckskin Gulch, The Subway, The Narrows, The Wave.

He loved to take his family. On his desk is a picture of he, his wife, Vickie, and five kids posing at the edge of a red-rock canyon somewhere near Moab. His son, Josh, tells the story of hiking the 12-mile long Narrows when he was ten years old, and the Virgin River being so high that his dad had to carry his pack so it didn't get too wet. This was the hike when he got the birds-and-the-bees talk.

Bright Angel Trail in the Grand Canyon, 2010.  Dave Bolton on right.  This was our rim-to-rim hike.

Havasu Creek, 2010.  Dave is on the left. (Russ Eyre photo)

On the trail to Havasu Falls.  (Russ Eyre photo)

David Bolton was my boss, but I also considered him my friend. Over the years we have done a handful of hikes together, including Havasu Falls and the Grand Canyon, rim-to-rim.  We have slept under the stars in the middle of nowhere, stayed in a simple lodge in Supai Village, ate breakfast at five in the morning at a cafe in Vegas, searched for Aron Ralston's choke-stone, and have had several spiritual discussions together.

As we traveled, most of our discussions centered around past adventures. He was always fond of his backpacking trip with his son and a friend through the Wind River Mountain Range in Wyoming. The hike was 85 miles long and took about a week. He was so worried about his son's pack being too heavy that he emptied his own food and carried his son's. When he returned to work he was twenty pounds lighter and still looked exhausted, but swore that it was the greatest adventure he ever had.

Lots of stray dogs near Supai Village.  Dave is in the green shirt.

Early-morning breakfast at the Havasupai Tribal Cafe.

Dave raises his arms in triumph at Navajo Falls.

Just last summer he was at it again, but this time on the Colorado River. He was anxious to pull out his phone and show a video of he and his son on separate inflatable kayaks called duckies. An eddie pulled them both under and Dave was underwater for nearly a minute. He said it was black and quiet. He thought it was the end, that he would die. He prayed fervently that his son would resurface. In spite of the situation, he said there was a peaceful feeling. Then, at once, he felt as if an arm had grabbed his shoulder and pulled him above water. His son had resurfaced shortly before him. He was so grateful to be alive.

That was typical Dave. He seemed invincible.

Dave, at left, relaxing in Havasu Creek in 2010.  Robbie Armbruster, seated; Russ Eyre, standing.

Little Wild Horse Canyon, 2017.

The last time I spoke to Dave was on Friday. It is interesting that neither of us were supposed to be at work that day. I was supposed to be on vacation, but came back a day early because I couldn't get Saturday off. Dave was supposed to be on vacation also, but the Postmaster forced him to come to work. He wasn't happy about coming in because he had a lot of packing that had to be done.

As I passed by his desk his face lit up and he asked, “John, have I told you what I'm doing next week?” He then went on to explain that he and the scouts were hiking Coyote Gulch, and possibly a couple other slot canyons. Then they would hike down Hole-in-the-Rock where Todd Boyer would meet them with his boat on Lake Powell. Then they would travel south on the lake where they would spend a night or two near Rainbow Bridge, then come out at Wahweap, where they would drive to St. George and cap off the week with a trip to the temple. He was so excited. He had been planning this trip for a long time. I was excited for him. I was anxious to hear every detail when he got back.

Five days later, on Wednesday morning, I knew it was no ordinary morning when I came to work. Everyone was gathered around the time clock weeping. I came a few seconds late and Carol turned to me and whispered that Dave had died from a heart attack while hiking. Not many details were known at the time. All of us were in disbelief. A hike couldn't kill Dave Bolton.

I later learned a few additional details. Dave had successfully led the scout group out of Coyote Gulch on a very hot day. They crouched under the shade of a juniper tree while they waited for the rest to catch up. He started getting a little delirious and talking to himself, and then collapsed just 100 yards from the vehicles. He passed away with his fifteen year old son, Jacob, holding his hand.

* * *

Dave is buried in the nethermost part of the Cedar City Cemetery. In fact, he is so far west that no one is buried beyond him. Past his grave are sticks, bushes, dirt and a little stream with trees growing along it. A very fitting resting place. ♠

Dave relaxing at Colorado River in 2010.