Road Trip to Great Basin National Park

Memorial Day weekend can be a tricky time to travel, with floods of people anywhere you go. This year we made a wise choice and missed the crowds. We traveled northwest through some pretty isolated country, our final destination being Great Basin National Park in Nevada.

From our home in Enoch, Utah, the one-way trip is 138 miles. The largest town we passed through was Milford, population 1,360. Other than that, it is a desolate stretch of land. We saw a few small herds of antelope, sheep, and cattle; small farms in the desert, and a ghost town.

The average person could call this land boring and monotonous. "Ugly" may be the term used by the most cynical. But for me, it is fascinating! Any terrain that is this remote has got to have layers of mysteries waiting to be discovered. I ponder the stories that may never be told and geological wonders that have never been discovered. Here's a small collection of what we found.

Frisco. Just fifteen miles west of Milford on Highway 21 is the ghost town of Frisco, named because it lies at the foot of the San Francisco Mountains. At its height—around 1885—this mining town had twenty three saloons and a population of 6,000. That's really hard to believe because now, no one lives here.

We parked just off the highway and walked across strewed debris and old foundations. On the side of the hill are five beehive-shaped charcoal ovens (below) used by miners to serve the smelters. Most of the large conical ovens are well preserved.

With more time, and a big enough interest, a man could spend all day exploring Frisco. Many old mines and buildings are scattered around the area. Being on a tight schedule, we chose only visit the ovens, and then the cemetery.

The cemetery (above left) is located due west of the ovens, and accessed by a good graveled road. I was pleased to see that the graveyard still sees visitors, as evidenced by coins, flowers, boots, and other knick-knacks left at many of the graves. Headstones are intermingled with wild grass, sagebrush, and juniper trees.

The demise of Frisco is a fascinating tale. One evening in 1885, the night shift had just emerged from the Horn Silver Mine when the foreman realized the ground was shuddering beneath him. He held off on sending the next crew down, and a few minutes later there was a “thundering roar” that shattered windows as far as Milford. All at once, the entire mine collapsed, taking with it not only dirt and ore, but also the jobs of those in town who were employed at the mine. In the years that followed, Frisco held on by a thread, but by 1920, the town became empty.

The next sixty or so miles from Frisco takes you through some pretty lonely territory, with long stretches that cross the Wah Wah and Pine Valley's (above).

As the highway climbs another crest and takes a noticed turn to the northwest, the first view of the snow-capped mountains of Great Basin National Park come into view. I was also impressed with the fields of Indian Paintbrush that grew like wheat in the valley (right).

We pulled over to a corral that was just off a dirt road and found scattered wool on the ground. It appeared that this had been a spot for sheep-shearing not too long ago.

Garrison, Utah. The first hint of any civilization in nearly seventy five miles, Garrison is a tiny town in Snake Valley. I don't know much about the history of this little place, other than it was founded in the 1850's by cattle rustlers and other outlaws. Sounds interesting to me.

Other than farms, there isn't much here. An LDS church that appears to be made with two modular homes sits in the middle of town. Behind the church is an interesting cemetery (left), with several old graves and a graveled ground. The majestic Snake Range stands as the backdrop.

Baker, Nevada. Less than a mile after leaving Garrison, we cross the state line into Nevada. Seven miles later, we are in Baker. Baker isn't much bigger than Garrison, if at all. Total population: 68.

Baker is headquarters to Great Basin National Park, and tends to have the look of a National Park border-town with hippie-like art on some of the buildings. 

We took a small drive around town, past the elementary school playground, and past the community church (above).

At the center of town, it is necessary to take a left-hand turn onto Lehman Caves Road. This is the road that will take you to the main entrance of the park. Along this stretch you will find several pieces of “art” if you pay attention to the fence posts (above). Although this is the main thoroughfare to the park (and we were there on Memorial Day!), you'll still have the road mostly to yourself. Take your time and see what you can find.

Lehman Caves. Around 1885, Absalom Lehman discovered a small opening in the hillside above his ranch, leading to a spectacular cave that would later bear his name. Although the exact story of how this rancher/miner from Pennsylvania discovered the caves may never be known, we do know that what he found is pretty amazing.

The cave is damp and cool inside, maintaining a constant temperature of fifty degrees Fahrenheit. We opted for the ninety-minute tour, which we took with fifteen other people. No gum, no food, no water bottles, no camera bags, no touching—among other rules—are strictly enforced. Cameras are allowed, and flashlights and jackets are recommended.

Our tour took us a little over half a mile past stalagmites, stalactites, helictites, shield formations and other configurations. The entire walk is conveniently placed on a cement path, along with some stairs. There are a few clear pools of water inside the cave. In the Inscription Room, several names are written across the ceiling, including one from 1903.

It is hard to fathom how the early discoverers of the cave got around without a foot path. They must have used lots of ropes and candle light.

There is evidence that Native Americans used the entrance hole as a burial spot, judging from bones found below the opening. But nothing suggests they explored the cave.

Wheeler Peak. The omnipresent Wheeler Peak seems to be visible from about anywhere in Snake Valley, and inside the park. This snow-capped crown is the second highest in all of Nevada, reaching 13,063 feet in elevation.

Although hiking this summit is on my to-do list, I knew it wasn't practical on this trip. We had little time, young kids, and the peak was still packed in snow. I had hoped to hike to Stella Lake, which sits below the peak in an Alpine setting, but the rangers told me it was under snow also.

So, we did the next best thing and drove ten miles up the Wheeler Peak scenic drive to a lookout point near 10,000 feet. The drive is pretty, and climbs at a steady pitch. Along the way you have great views of nearby Mount Moriah, as well as distant Notch Peak. There is also a roadside kiosk explaining the history of the failed Osceola Ditch project.

I will admit that when I came to the view point I was very disappointed.  Several tall trees grew around it (blocking the view), and it faced the wrong direction (toward the east, rather than Wheeler Peak). Therefore, the vista it provided was only mediocre.

I did what I tend to do and briskly walked a quarter of a mile further up the road toward a bend that appeared to have a promising panorama. Few cars passed me. Patches of snow clumped around the foot of the Englelman Spruce that grew from the steep slope that dropped at my immediate left. The high mountain air was welcoming and I breathed it deeply as I continued a quick jaunt.

At last, I reached the bend in the road, and as expected, the trees opened up, the valley below unfolded, and Wheeler Peak in all her majesty stood before me. Caked in white, with rugged granite ledges peeking out, I admired the splendor of the mountain.

But knowing that I had a wife and three girls waiting on me back at the car, I knew I had to leave. I steadied my camera with my right hand and trotted back down the road. ♠

1918

[My great-great grandfather, Charles Adelbert Workman, diligently kept a diary between 1894 and his death in 1923. He and his family lived in Hurricane, Utah, a young town which they helped settle. Although most of his journal entries are small in size, they help to paint an image of daily life, as well as some of the struggles in early Washington County. Of all the pages I read, there seems to be one year that stood above the rest. The following synopsis is taken solely from Grandpa Workman's journal.]

The year 1918 is both an exciting and sad year. Quickly, it is noted that there are a spike in the number of deaths, many of which the cause is unknown, but others which are classified as pneumonia. In February alone, William Stout, Florence Reeve, and Jennie Wright all die from pneumonia. It is interesting to note that of the two funerals where the location is mentioned, they are both at the home of the deceased. Mrs. Shamo's funeral is held “at their tent out in Amos' pasture.” The funeral of Anthony Jepson's little girl is held “at his residence.”

World War I is at its climax. In May, young Henry Pickett goes off to war to join the Engineers Corp. In July, Harvey Hall is drafted and expects to start training camp. Moroni Kleinman and W.R.Terrell's son are killed on the battlefront in France. Charles spends time canvassing the neighborhoods in an attempt to sell War Saving Stamps. This is a way for the citizens to contribute financially to the war, and to be paid back with interest at a future date.

The production of food is a large part of the Workman way of life. Gooseberry, currant, and rose bushes are planted in the hotbed, and strawberries west of the orchard fence. A garden is planted south of the vineyard, where peas, watermelon, and much more are sown.

They also have a lucerne (alfalfa) field that must be cared for and watered, the head gates and head ditches repaired. At harvest time it is cut, then raked and cocked. August delivers one of the heaviest thunderstorms Hurricane has seen in a long time, sending floods down the hills, drenching the fields, and destroying much of the hay, including some that was cocked and ready to be hauled.

Charles is a member of the Bishopric and devotes ample time to his church and civic responsibilities. Sundays are spent resting from everyday activities and dedicated to church meetings: Priesthood Meeting, 9 am; Sunday School, 10:30 am; Sacrament Meeting, 2 pm; Teacher's Report Meeting, 4 pm. He usually attends all meetings, with exceptions such as this one in January when he “did not attend Sacrament Meeting nor Mutual on account of the cold disagreeable weather. Besides, there is no heat in the auditorium.”

Charles and his wife, Josephine, travel to Parowan where their daughter, Flora, is married to David H. Tweedie. Another daughter, Eloise, is baptized “in the swimming pool at the Sulphur Springs.” (These are now the Pah Tempe Hot Springs located on the Virgin River between Hurricane and LaVerkin.)

May 30th is Decoration Day, which is what we now know as Memorial Day. “President (Woodrow) Wilson has proclaimed this as a national fast day and requested all the people to meet in their places of worship and in their homes and pray for the success of our armies in France as they fight for freedom.”

A sudden tragedy comes to the Workman family on September 22 when their son, Eldon, is electrocuted to death while replacing fuse plugs on a pole. Charles and Eldon worked side-by-side during much of his life and were very close. “It was certainly a sad blow to us,” Charles records in his journal, “to see the lifeless body of our dear boy who only a few minutes before had left us full of life and hope. We thought of the many plans he had made for the future, how he had expressed to us so many times his desire to be of use in the world, to help his fellow man, to preach the gospel to the nations, to join the army to help fight for the freedoms of the world, to attend college to prepare to be most useful in society.”

Spanish Influenza is sweeping the nation, and beginning in October, a quarantine is placed on the town of Hurricane. Public schools are closed and public gatherings not allowed. It appears that no traveler is allowed in town, as the duty falls upon Charles to help guard the way into Hurricane. In November it is reported that a dozen cases of influenza have been reported, but they all seem to be getting better. The quarantine remains until December.

The entry on October 27 reads: “Time is set back one hour today to comply with act of Congress.” This is the first year that Daylight Savings was implemented in the United States.

Newspapers on November 12 announce the end of the war. As Charles writes in his diary: “The greatest war has terminated in the greatest V I C T O R Y. The armistice, which amounted to unconditional surrender by Germany was signed about 6 A.M. yesterday (French Time) by the official German delegation. Fighting stopped at 11 A.M. Thus ends one of the greatest wars that was ever fought on earth.”

As the year comes to an end in the month of December, Horatio Picket, who is the father of Charles' wife, Josephine, dies from influenza, followed by pneumonia. He was residing in St. George at the time of his death.

The very next day, December 22, this is the entry in Charles' journal: “President Heber J. Grant (Prophet of the Mormon Church) has designated today as a special day for fasting and prayer for the relief of the people from the scourge of influenza that is sweeping over the earth. It is one of the most dreadful diseases that the world has ever known. Hundreds of thousands of deaths from it have occurred and almost all parts of the civilized world have suffered from its ravages.”

Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad

One of the fond memories I have with my grandpa Lacy is riding the Narrow Gauge Railroad from Durango. Although it was over thirty years ago, some of the memories have remained with me.

It was wintertime and north of Durango we saw a herd of elk that must have been two hundred in number. They grazed at a distance, in the flat of the valley. It was early when we began the ride and I remember thinking that it must have been cold for the elk and that hoarfrost must have grown on their fur.

Once the train left the sparsely scattered houses and any hint of civilization, we entered higher timber with ponderosa pine trees and then we rode through a slit in the rock and came to a narrow gorge. The train hugged the edge of the cliff and it was a long ways down, but it was the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. At the bottom of this massive gorge, swishing down-river with visible whitewater currents, was the Animas River. I remember the turquoise-blue color of the river, and that it was more vibrant than any river I had ever seen.

Although it was winter, we sat in the open-air coach for part of the ride, feeling the crisp wind on our face and occasionally getting a burning cinder that floated past. We were with my brother, Walt, and younger cousins, Karson and Lehi. They were young and I wondered if they took in anything they saw.

At Cascade Canyon we turned around and made the trip back to Durango. That is as far as the train goes during the winter.

As an adult, I've ridden the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad three times. Each opportunity was unique in its own way. My favorite time of year was June, when the Animas River is at a turbulent rage from melting mountain snow. If you take the train to its terminus, you will end up in Silverton, elevation 9,318 feet.

Here are a few pictures of what you might expect along the way.

Trains leave every morning from Durango, Colorado's historic downtown. Not only do passengers line up for the train, but tourists also come to watch it depart.

The railroad reached Durango in 1881, and just eleven months later, in 1882, the spur to Silverton was complete.  In the early days it was used to haul silver and gold from the San Juan Mountains, but these days it carries tourists and backpackers.

The Durango to Silverton line is one of the few places in the United States that has seen continuous use of the steam locomotive. This series was built in 1925 by the Baldwin Locomotive Works. 

And we're off!

The route follows the Animas River for 45 miles to the old mining town of Silverton.

The San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado are some of the highest and most rugged of any mountains in North America. Dozens of peaks soar above thirteen thousand feet in elevation, and a handful topple the fourteen thousand mark. These mountains are very rich in minerals, drawing miners and prospectors alike.

Inside the coach passengers feel at ease sitting next to the window, gawking at the scenery. Windows are usually down and occasionally a burning cinder flies inside.

About an hour into the ride, and during the climb between Hermosa and Rockwood, the train passes beautiful Shalona Lake.

One of the most photogenic spots is where the train enters a slot in the mountain and emerges high atop the gorge of Animas Canyon, with the river far below. When everyone rushes to one side to take a picture, you worry that the train will tip over and topple off the edge!

From time to time, the conductor will blow steam over the river and create these eye-catching rainbows.

In early summer, when water levels are high, rafters can be spotted rolling on whitewater.

Just past Tank Creek is the Tall Timber Resort.  Anytime the train passes, you're sure to find a show-off going down the zip-line.

Needleton is one of the few stops along the route. A bridge that spans the river connects with other trails, including the path to Chicago Basin, a popular spot for peakbaggers. Here, a lone prospector plans to try his luck panning for gold.

Needleton was a station on the old Denver and Rio Grande Western railroad, with a post office between the years 1882 and 1919. Today there are just a few relics that remain.  

Just beyond the Needleton flag stop, there are two water tanks.  This wooden water tank seems to be more for appearance. . .

. . . while this one serves a more practical purpose.  Here the train stops to fill up with the water that will help run the steam engine.

It is silver that gave its name to the area. Since 1860, the San Juan Mountains have been a destination for those hoping to strike it rich. Hidden on steep mountain slopes and behind thick timber are abandoned silver mines such as this one.

Also hidden, but sometimes peeking out, are beautiful waterfalls cascading down the hillsides. Several streams feed into the river, most of them having to wend their way through tortuous landscape to get there.

The Animas River is cold and clear. I had no hesitation stooping down and taking a long drink from its rushing waters, or filling up my canteen.

Riding through some of Colorado's most scenic country, it would only be natural that you would find the Colorado Columbine.

You never know who you might find loitering along the track.

Before the days of the railroad, the ore was hauled out on burros and mules, each being able to carry 150 and 300 lbs., respectively. A packer normally led the mules tied together by ropes, and just herded the burros like sheep, along a variety of pack trails throughout the mining district. It was a daunting task considering the amount of animals and men needed to do the job, and the terrain of the mountains.

An old bridge crosses the river alongside the new bridge, just south of Elk Creek and Elk Park Siding.

The narrowness of the mountain canyons open up and the valley of Silverton comes into view.

The arrival of the railroad to Silverton in the summer of 1882 was a blessing. Ore could now be shipped to the smelters in Pueblo, Colorado at a rate of only twelve dollars per ton. The new, cheaper transportation proved to be a boon to Silverton, drawing both miners and businessmen alike, and dubbing it “the new Leadville.”

The train stops in Silverton (elevation 9,318 ft.) for a couple of hours and we take in a meal at Grumpy's Saloon. Without the tourists that come in on the train, Silverton is a sleepy town of 531 people; but a few times a day, it sees a significant influx.

Our saloon is complete with mounted deer heads on the wall, and a tireless girl at the piano.

Anytime during the day, especially along the upper elevations near Silverton, be prepared for a sudden burst of rain. This storm drenched the street just outside our saloon, but only lasted about ten minutes.

The mining district suffered some major setbacks, including the silver crash of 1893, and the Spanish Influenza that killed 10% of Silverton's population in 1918. Eventually, the train shifted from hauling ore, to hauling tourists.

After a little over two hours in Silverton, it is time head back to the train. People tromp over muddy ground to the train yard.

The three and a half hour ride back to Durango seems to take a bit longer.  We are tired and have just seen the same scenery. Now we struggle to stay awake. But there are moments when one can't help but to pop their head out the window and get that perfect picture. ♠

Blessed When Afar

Panic began to set in as I poked through my money belt for a second time: passport, debit card, drivers license, a few hundred baht, keys to our locks.

We stood at the ATM on an unknown street in Bangkok on our very first day in Thailand and felt like throwing up. I had lost our credit card!

That evening when we returned to our hotel, I immediately began rummaging through everything I had—on the nightstand a handful of loose change, my journal, and granola bar wrappers. I checked my pants pockets from last night and pulled them inside-out. We looked in the bathroom and under the bed and all over the floor.

Then I retraced my steps at the airport last night. It was late. The plane landed at 1:40 am and we were both tired when we threw packs over our shoulders and walked for what felt like miles through the terminal of a foreign airport and went through immigration.

I knew I needed Thai baht if we were to pay for a taxi ride to our hotel. I fumbled the credit card from my money belt, which was hid beneath the waist of my pants. I had to pull the belt up to my stomach and unzip the pouch and finger through the pockets to find the right card.

At the first kiosk they told me I had to go to the “machine” that was further ahead. I kept the card in-hand and found the machine and withdrew 2,000 baht.

I know I had the credit card at that moment and that is the very last time that I can say with certitude that it was with me. I don't remember if I tried returning it to the money belt, or put it in my pocket, or just held it in my hand until I sat down and had a moment to put myself back together. I remember waiting on a bench at the front of the airport for Jenelle while she was in the bathroom. Maybe I dropped it on the floor, or perhaps it slipped from my hands when I intended to replace it to the belt.

Once Jenelle got back from the bathroom to tend the bags, I took my turn. You take care of business and you unbuckle your pants and maybe it was there that the card dropped. But anytime I leave a place, it is always my habit to look behind me as I walk away. I'm sure it was no different then.

On our way to call a taxi, our burden was heavy. We both carried a backpack on our shoulders and I carried my camera also, strapped in a case that slung cross-ways over my body. We ordered a taxi from a booth near the exit of the airport and they handed us a paper receipt. Just something else to hold in our hands. It is no wonder that I would have lost a credit card as there were so many different distractions calling our attention.

Of course, it could have been lost in the taxi. It was dark when we sat down in the back seat, relieved to finally be on our way to the hotel. The driver spoke almost no English, but the ladies at the booth had already given him the address of our lodging.

He looked like an honest man and if we had dropped it on the floor of his cab, I don't think he would have used it. But you never know. Jenelle and I enjoyed the twenty minute ride, cruising along a nearly vacant freeway, watching signs pass by in Thai script, completely oblivious that we had just lost our credit card.

After learning our sudden misfortune, a dismal gloom hung over us. As far as we knew, a stranger from Singapore had been racking up the purchases as quickly as possible during the last twenty hours. Not only did we not know the password for our Citicard account, but we only had one phone, and without a tourist SIM card. Without that, we couldn't even make a phone call. We carried an extra credit card and one debit card. Two weeks left in Thailand was a long time and the thrill of our trip was squashed on day one!

Luckily, Jenelle finally figured out the Citicard password, and we gave a sigh of relief when we learned that there had been no new purchases. Perhaps the thief was a little slow at shopping. We still had to cancel the card. We couldn't do it online, and then we worried of losing our debit card. Then we'd really have nothing. We'd be begging in the streets!

Each day as we walked the streets and came by a 7-eleven, we would walk inside and ask for a SIM card. And each time they would look around and come up with nothing.

But also each day, we would check the account, and still, no one had made a purchase. As time went on, we began to breathe easier and feel more confident that our card had fallen into the hands of an honest person.

Now as I write two months later, I am pleased to say that no one took advantage of our credit card. It is a huge relief and I am grateful that there are honest people in the world.

Not all are so lucky. A friend of mine has a son who is living in Cameroon. He lost his debit card and someone drained the account, making purchases in Vietnam and Houstan, Texas.

Just last week I went to the store to buy food for my wife's birthday dinner. I picked out a large round seedless watermelon that would have been a treat during the off-season of April. Instead of bringing it into the house, I left it in the back of my truck while we left in another vehicle to a church party.

I returned home that evening after the sun had set, and spent my time in the kitchen working on dinner. As I turned off the stove and set the table, I pulled out a knife and cutting board, then eagerly ran outside to grab the watermelon. It was gone! Stolen!

I was quite perturbed that in my own apparently safe neighborhood, I had something swiped from the back of my truck. My mind quickly turned to a group of teenage boys that tend to wander after dark and cause trouble.

At least it was only a watermelon. I would much rather have that, than a compromised credit card. ♠

Home Sweet Home

I remember when I returned home after living in Spain for two years and drove down West Temple in Salt Lake City. A city of 200,000 people appeared like a ghost town: low lying buildings, wide streets, and sparse traffic. The experience was so surreal that it has stayed with me for over twenty years.

One lesson I soon learned was that not only did my experience in Spain teach me about Spanish and European culture, it also taught me about my own. I now realized that things like rodeo, dutch-oven potatoes, and wide-open spaces are characteristic of my own native land.

Now the lesson is replayed as we return from a two week trip to Thailand.

The sky is blue and clear and you can see over fifty miles in any direction. There is no haze, and the mountains on the horizon are crisp in image. The air is clean and pure and I can inhale to the deepest part of my lungs with no hesitation. The temperature is a bit brisk, but we no longer sweat or break out in rashes from the heat. A skiff of snow remains on the mountains.

The water is pure. Here I can turn on the tap in my kitchen and fill a big glass of water. In the mountains I can find a young stream, then kneel, and drink to my own satisfaction.

In the mountains I can smell the musky scent of pine trees or the woody smell of juniper bark. My favorite is to get a whiff of pungent sage brush, especially after an August rain storm. In September there is the masculine scent of a bull elk that has recently bedded down.

While on a hike through the hills there is the fine grit of dirt between tufts of wild grass, intermingled with random boulders strewn across the landscape. Cactus is a sure sign you're home—scattered clusters of prickly pear. And amidst all this, a jackrabbit takes off at a hundred miles an hour through the brush and out of sight. 

Perhaps the most telling sign that we are home is the sight of three cute little girls, waiting at the door, then latching around our necks when we pass the threshold. ♠

Toilets in Thailand

I will admit that one of my biggest fears before traveling to Thailand was the taking care of business in the bathroom. I knew that Asia was famous for its squat toilets, and it was recommended to bring our own toilet paper. That would take a little adjustment, but wasn't an issue.

The bigger issue: Thai's warn tourists not to put their toilet paper in the toilet, but rather, in the trash can! Apparently the sewer system of Thailand can't handle the extra bulk of sanitation paper, and a simple act of flushing your used tissue down the tank might result in a clogged pipe. And I didn't want that! But, tossing the tissue in the trash could become a stinky proposition. I think you understand my dilemma.

Anytime we travel to another country, they may do things differently. That's part of the experience and a component of what I love about traveling.

We only stayed in Thailand for two weeks. Many of the toilets I encountered were in hotels, which of course are catered to tourists. But I tried to “explore” as many others as I could, even if that meant just walking inside to check it out. For what it's worth, here are a few pictures that illustrate my experience with toilets in Thailand.

This is a typical toilet that you will find in hotels and most pubic restrooms. The hose on the left has a jet spray that will get you cleaner than any bathroom tissue (in my opinion). The toilet paper can be used to dab yourself dry. This way, very little is used, and it is clean when you throw it in the trash can. (Notice the sign on the wall.)

This is the other type of toilet you may encounter: a squat toilet. Although the government is trying to fade away the squatter because of Thailand's aging population, they are still quite prominent, especially the further away from the city you go. This one had a jet spray, and everything was very wet with water when I walked in.

The best place to find a toilet outside your hotel room is to take advantage of public places and tourist sites such as train stations, malls, and popular temples and shrines. Always carry spare change, usually from three to ten baht, as many of these places charge for use.

You may encounter a squat toilet like this one, with no jet spray, and no apparent way to flush it. I am not an expert on this, but I believe you use a ladle of water and your left hand to clean your underparts. Sounds fun, right?! Then you dump a bucket of water into the hole to flush the waste.

If for some reason you forget the process, you might find a reminder on the bathroom mirror. 

The next three pictures all come from a small eating establishment/house on the back-roads of Krabi Provence. It is a comfortable sit-down toilet with jet spray for cleaning and bucket for flushing.

I thought the PVC plumbing was interesting. Just twist open the valve to flush the urinal.

Backed up to get the broader view, we can see the PVC pipes are hooked up to the sink also. This bathroom has a bar of soap in a holder at the upper left side of the sink. This doesn't happen too often. Always bring a small bottle of hand sanitizer everywhere you go!

This bathroom is exactly half way up the 1,237 stairs leading to the Buddhist shrine of Wat Tham Suea. It is always important to be thinking ahead when it comes to using the loo, and to take advantage whenever you can. Most public bathrooms (but not all) have some of their signs in English. I never had a problem figuring out which was the mens and which the womens.

Sometimes you may be surprised and find a toilet where you least expect it, like this squat toilet just off the alley of a back-street. It is very rudimentary: no jet spray, no toilet paper, no flusher. It has a hose, which you could use your thumb to create a jet spray.

Lastly, this is a squat toilet at the airport in Beijing on our way home. I include it to point out that Thailand seems to be “ahead” of China in this regard, as I saw no squat toilets at the three airports I visited in Thailand. This had a jet spray and paper, but no trash can to put the paper into. So what did I do? I put my small piece in the toilet and tried flushing it. The flushing suction was so weak that it took five times to get it down! Looking back on it, I was probably supposed to carry it out of the stall and throw it in the trash can.

On a lighter note, the farangs aren't the only people who have a hard time figuring out another culture's toilet system. I recently read an article that told of a problem in Grand Teton and Yellowstone national parks, where the seats in their pit toilets were mysteriously breaking at the hinges. After some sleuth work, it was discovered that Asians were standing on the seats and using them as squat toilets! Ha, ha, ha! It's probably just as funny to us as it is for them when we try flushing paper down their toilets and clog it up. ♠