Beyond the museums and Brie, Europe is a wild continent packed with adventure hot spots, where you can follow a day of hard play with a vintage Chateau Margaux. From Chamonix, France’s alpine-sports hub, to Girona, Spain’s cycling-mad town, we uncover five hamlets with unstoppable spirit and Old World Class.


High Times in the High Alps


Where the Nors Gods Play


Gnocchi by the Lake


Lance’s Spanish Retreat


Austrian Allure
PLUS: Europbash!
and

The Mountain Magnet

Fast times in Chamonix, France, the once and future epicenter of high-alpine daredevilry

SOME PRONOUNCE THE X. Others don’t. But Chamonix was extreme long before there were X Games. The highest mountain in Western Europe, 15,771-foot Mont Blanc, sits like a brooding Buddha next to one of the deepest valleys in the Alps, creating an almost Himalayan altitude difference between village and summit. Jagged, needlelike peaks called aiguilles line the valley, shadowy and menacing in the morning but inviting when they glow in the afternoon sun. This irresistible dichotomy has drawn Europe’s most serious mountaineers to the Haute-Savoie region since 1786, when Jacques Balmat and Dr. Michel-Gabriel Paccard became the first to summit Mont Blanc. But this burgeoning alpine town of 10,000 (which swells to upwards of 100,000 in the summer) is no mountaineering museum; it’s still the jumping-off point for hardcore climbing in the Alps—if you can penetrate the inner circle of the Chamonix climbing elite, that is. But don’t let the cliques intimidate you. At Chamonix, 濒颈产别谤迟茅 remains the dominant spirit.
WHERE TO PLAY Unless you’re comfortable with multipitch alpine routes, stay away from the Dru, perhaps the signature climbing peak in Chamonix. Instead, head north up the opposite side of the valley for the non-technical hike up to Le Lac Blanc, a high-alpine lake at 7,717 feet, halfway up the Aiguilles Rogues, and soak in the spectacular views of the Mont Blanc massif. The Chamonix tourist office (011-33-450-53-23-33, ) can connect you with mountaineering schools. Coquoz Sports (011-33-450-53-15-12, ) is a good place to rent or buy mountaineering equipment.

APR脡S–ADVENTURE For a fine French filet mignon, head to Le Panier des Quatre Saisons (011-33-450-53-98-77). Microbreweries have been slow in arriving, but the Micro Brasserie de Chamonix (011-33-450-53-61-59) sets a good precedent. The burgers are anything but micro, and if you’re lucky, local band the Crevassholes will be playing.
WHERE TO STAY At the Hameau Albert Premier (doubles, $208 to $286 per night; 011-33-450-53-05-09, ), an 11-acre estate tucked away in the center of Chamonix, you can choose from one of 27 sleekly furnished hotel rooms, a chalet that sleeps six, or a restored farmhouse with 12 rooms, cavernous baths, and rustically elegant furnishings. There’s also an indoor-outdoor pool and a climbing wall, and spa treatments can be arranged.
HOW TO GET THERE Chamonix is a little more than an hour’s drive from the Geneva airport, which is served from the U.S. by Air France (800-237-2747, ). Rent a car at the airport or catch an ATS shuttle (011-33-450-53-63-97, ), which runs vans to Chamonix for $50 one-way.

Go Berserker

Nothing is too wild for the adventure pilgrims who converge on Voss, Norway, for summer thrills

SIXTY MILES INLAND FROM BERGEN, in western Norway, the rustic ski village of Voss (pop. 14,000) sits quietly at the base of 3,825-foot Groseda Mountain on the shores of Lake Vangsvatnet. Until, that is, the annual Ekstremsportveko (“Extreme Sports Week”) comes to town. From June 22 through 27, boaters and mountain bikers will swarm the festival tent to see if their killer moves made the daily highlight DVD, and Norway’s best pop bands, like Surferosa, will take the stage. The annual expo features national competitions in downhill mountain biking and bouldering, but there are clinics for newbies, too. The truly intrepid should inquire about the local delicacy—smalahove, a sheep’s head served eyes and all. Clearly, the berserker spirit is alive and well.
WHERE TO PLAY Voss offers up every variation of extreme you can imagine: Class III and IV rivers for rafting, Class IV and V rapids and waterfalls for steepcreeking, fjords for sea kayaking, scenic launchpads for sick air sports, and plenty of trails for trekking and mountain biking. Notch a first descent on a roadside creek, or huck off 30-foot Nosebreaker Falls. Kit up at the Voss Rafting Senter (011-47-56-51-05-25, ). For a full-day mountain-bike ride, jump the train to Finse, rent a rig at Finse 1222 (two-day rental, $56– $70; 011-47-56-52-71-00, ), and pedal 55 miles home via the Rallarvegen, an abandoned dirt road with plenty of hills.

APR脡S–ADVENTURE The town’s best nightclub is Pentagon, at the Park Hotel Vossevangen (011-47-56-51-13-22, www.parkvoss.no/english), but the best midsummer nights are reserved for a bonfire with friends on the beach, where you can watch the sun…stay up. Skinny-dipping is strongly advised.
WHERE TO STAY Fleischer’s Hotel (011-47-56-52-05-00, www.fleischers.no) looks like it did when it opened in 1864, but its 90 rooms are bright with antique furniture and paintings by local artists. Better still, bring a small posse of two to four people and rent one of Fleischer’s 30 kitchenette apartments right on Lake Vangsvatnet. Doubles run $217; apartments cost $145 to $235 per night.
HOW TO GET THERE To make the most of your stay in Voss, fly to Bergen on SAS (800-221-2350, ) or Iceland Air (800-223-5500, ), then rent a car so you can launch your kayak into inviting whitewater or take classic walks—like one along the rim of Sognefjord, Norway’s Grand Canyon. Visitnorway.com is an excellent site for planning your trip.

Espresso Yourself

Arco, an Italian lakeside paradise, has steady breezes, a clifftop castle, and classic climbing crags

arco italy

Kingdom come: The 12th-century Castello Di Arco

SINCE THE TOWERING LIMESTONE WALLS of north-central Italy’s Basso Sarca valley were discovered by climbers in the early 1980s, the ancient Roman village of Arco, 50 miles north of Verona, has been a hot spot for European adventurers. Situated where the Dolomites meet the palm trees and oleander of northern Italy’s lakes region, Arco and the 9,000-foot peaks of the Pre-Alpi not only offer some of the continent’s best sport climbing, but the steady breezes on nearby Lago di Garda (Italy’s largest) draw windsurfers from around the world. Trails like the 19-mile Tremalzo (etched into solid rock by Italian and Austrian soldiers during World War I) provide world-class mountain biking, while the valley’s roads frequently host the Giro d’Italia cycling race. With a crenellated castle overlooking its cobblestone streets and ancient piazza, Arco looks downright medieval—until you discover its well-equipped outfitting shops, its outdoor caf茅s, and the 82-foot Rock Master wall, Europe’s tallest artificial climbing structure and home to an international free-climbing competition that draws the likes of Lynn Hill and Japan’s Yuji Hirayama each September.
WHERE TO PLAY Start by heading to the Climber’s Lounge, two blocks north of the city center at the base of Monte Colodri, where you can visit the Friends of Arco Mountain Guide Service for beta on the best local climbing (011-39-333-1661401, ). You’ll find some 135 bolted routes at Massone, a 90-foot limestone crag two miles northeast of town; advanced rock rats can consider 5.10 to 5.14 multipitch routes up nearly-1,000-foot Monte Colodri. Rent a mountain bike at Bike Shop Giuliani (011-39-0464-518305, ) and pedal up to 5,463-foot Tremalzo Pass, which overlooks shimmering Lago di Garda. Or tackle the 25-mile Arco Bike Nature route, which winds above the olive orchards of Massone to 4,000-foot Monte Velo. For windsurfing gear and lake access, visit the Conca d’Oro Windsurfing Center, in nearby Torbole (011-39-0464-506251, ).

APR脡S–ADVENTURE Enjoy strangolapreti, or spinach gnocchi, beneath the frescoes at Alla Lega (011-39-0464-516205, ). Afterwards, hang out with the windsurfers in Torbole, where Discoteca Conca d’Oro (011-39-0464-505045) cranks Latin dance tunes till 4 a.m.
WHERE TO STAY If pitching a tent in one of Arco’s campgrounds—Campground Citta di Arco has a pool—isn’t your style, do what Lynn Hill does and rent a one- or two-bedroom apartment in the Arco Guesthouse ($119–$150; 011-39-3355-241312, ). Each newly renovated suite has a kitchen, wood floors, and DSL access, and on the lower level there’s a sauna and a bouldering wall.
HOW TO GET THERE Arco is an hour and a half’s drive from Verona and a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Milan. Both cities are served by British Airways (800-247-9297, ) from the U.S. Or take a bus from Verona’s Porta Nuova train station to Riva (two and a half hours) and then on to Arco (20 minutes).

My Girona

Downshift into a Mediterranean pace and spin like Lance in Spain’s Catalonian hideaway

TEMPERATE, TRANQUIL, AND EQUIDISSTANT from mountains and sea, the Catalonian city of Girona (pop. 80,000) is the nesting ground of an elusive migratory species: the professional cyclist. Every winter, 10 to 15 of them—including five-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong—descend on Girona, establishing seasonal headquarters and stretching their shaved legs on forest roads in the Pyrenean foothills or along the sunny Mediterranean coast.
Girona proper is steeped in the history of its medieval old city, a cobbled labyrinth of narrow alleys and watchtowers separated from the city’s modern business district by the smooth-flowing Onyar River. But that’s not to say it’s a backwater. Girona is to Barcelona what Boulder is to Denver: an adventure-sports utopia just an hour’s drive from a major metropolis. Girona’s foothills, like Boulder’s, quickly ascend to high-altitude skiing and climbing. But what puts Girona in a league of its own is the Costa Brava, a white-sand stretch of Catalonian coast less than an hour’s drive east, overcrowded by sun worshipers in summer but serrated by a procession of deep coves perfect for secluded diving, kayaking, or romancing.
WHERE TO PLAY Start with the V铆as Verdes (“Green Paths”), part of a countrywide network of more than 500 miles of dirt and gravel railroad tracks turned biking trails. Sixty-five miles of V铆as Verdes radiate from Girona, highlighted by the 50-mile out-and-back route to the coastal port of Sant Feliu de Gu铆xols. Refuel on tapas and then power the short climb to the hermitage of Sant Elm, a lookout point with a grand view of the Mediterranean. Bike rentals are available in Girona at the Centre BTT de Catalunya (011-34-972-468-242, ). Visit for V铆as Verdes information. If lactic acid has your quads in knots, give your upper body a workout in the sea. Kayaking Costa Brava (011-34-972-773-806), headquartered in L’Escala, 25 miles northeast of Girona, rents gear and offers a full menu of guided trips, including a demanding six-hour tour of the Cap de Creus, a 54-square-mile reserve, the marine portion of which teems with fish ($60, including all gear and guide fees).

APR脡S–ADVENTURE In Girona, grab a beer in your bike shorts along the Rambla de la Libertat, a river walk lined with casual restaurants, bars, and caf茅s. For serious dining, change into your evening finery, then cross the pedestrian Sant Agusti bridge to the Plaza de la Independencia, where you’ll find Boira, a river-view restaurant serving specialties like arroz de lobregant, spiced rice and seafood (about $63 per person for three courses; 011-34-972-203-096). Nights go off at nearby Platea (011-34-972-22-72-88, ), a sprawling 1929 theater transformed into a thumping dance club.
WHERE TO STAY With medieval stone walls, antique wood furniture, and bougainvillea cascading from every balcony, Pension Bellmirall (doubles, $70, including breakfast; 011-34-972-20-40-09) is a seven-room boutique hotel glowing with old-city charm.
HOW TO GET THERE Girona is 60 miles northeast of Barcelona. Delta (800-221-1212, ), among other airlines, offers direct flights. Frequent and speedy trains ($16 round-trip, as many as three per hour) make the Barcelona–Girona run in less than 90 minutes. Added bonus: You can haul your bike at no extra cost.

The Gem眉tlichkeit Glow

Pull on your lederhosen and go looking for kicks in Mayrhofen, Austria’s Tyrolean treasure

FORTY MILES SOUTHEAST OF INNSBRUCK, in southwestern Austria, Mayrhofen is what so many American mountain towns aspire to be. The authentic Tyrolean chalets (dating back 400 years), 3,600 year-round working-class residents (including cowherds in honest-to-god lederhosen), and absurdly picturesque location—in the nook of the spiny Ziller and Tuxer mountain ranges—exude what locals proudly call 驳别尘眉迟濒颈肠丑办别颈迟: a warm, friendly, welcoming vibe. But once you leave Mayrhofen’s quaint cobblestone streets—and the German tourists drinking Zillertal Bier on sunny caf茅 patios—the atmosphere changes dramatically. Atop the 10,000-foot mountains, storms move in and out quickly, adding a touch of excitement even to hiking. In the Zimmer Valley, the buzz comes from outings on the wild, glacier-fed Ziller and Zemm rivers. What you find in Mayrhofen is every Euro traveler’s dream: a charming Alpine village where 驳别尘眉迟濒颈肠丑办别颈迟 meets adrenaline rush.
WHERE TO PLAY Mayrhofen’s most popular activities are whitewater rafting and peak-to-peak hiking; local guides can also take you paragliding, horseback riding, mountain biking, climbing, and glacier skiing. Pick up a trekking map at Tourismusverband Mayrhofen (011-43-5285-67600, www.mayrhofen.com), the tourism office in the Europahaus on Dursterstrasse, then choose from hundreds of miles of trails, many of which eventually return to bus stops in the valley. For a warm-up outing (and awesome views of the glaciated spires in the heart of the Alps), hike the Steinerkogl trail, a steep two-mile climb gaining 3,500 feet from downtown to the shoulder of Brandberg Mountain. Serious thrill seekers can sign on for a guided canyoneering tour and spend an afternoon climbing waterfalls and rappelling into gorges. One-stop shopping for all activities starts with Action Club Zillertal (011-43-5285-62977, ).

APR脡S–ADVENTURE You can always slug flaming schnapps with young Austrians, Swedes, Aussies, and the odd Canadian at the downtown Scotland Yard Pub (011-43-5285-62339, ), but the best summer nightlife is found in restaurants, not bars. At Brugger Stube (011-43-5285-63793), you’re likely to share chateaubriand and a beer with a 70-year-old farmer from nearby Hollenzen. Don’t miss the Wirtshaus zum Griena (011-43-5285-62778, ), a 440-year-old tavern with soot-stained timbers and fewer than 20 tables, where local specialties like wilderer sandel (braised venison served with bread dumplings) are perfect for end-of-the-day refueling.
WHERE TO STAY The English-speaking Hubers—third-generation residents of Mayrhofen who also lead tandem paragliding flights—built Apparthotel Veronika (doubles, $135; 011-43-5285-633470, ) as a traditional chalet in 1985, and they’ve recently added a lavish, modern spa. Of the ten apartments, all with kitchens, 700-square-foot Suite Zillertal has the best views, overlooking the Zillertal Valley.
HOW TO GET THERE Fly to Innsbruck on Austrian Airlines (800-843-0002, ) or Lufthansa (800-645-3880, ), then catch one of the hourly trains east to Jenbach ($5, 30 minutes), where you’ll transfer to a southbound Mayrhofen train ($6, one hour). Train seats can easily be booked at the station; contact Austrian Federal Railways () for more information.

Small Is Beautiful

Want remote, tiny, and far off the beaten track? Search out these cozy pockets of Old World tradition and scenic soul.

INVERIE, SCOTLAND This northwestern burg, on the edge of Loch Nevis, is so far off the road network that the only way to get here is by boat. If there’s any action in town, you’ll find it at the Old Forge, which The Guinness Book of World Records says is the most remote pub in mainland Britain. Surrounding Inverie is some of the most Wordsworth-worthy hiking in the world. The craggy 2,612-foot knoll Sgurr Coire Choinnichean overlooks the village; close by are the taller peaks of the Munro Range, including 3,412-foot Sgurr na Ciche. The Pier House (011-44-1687-462347, ), a 19th-century stone lodge—its motto is “We have no TV, no shops, and mobiles don’t work here”—sleeps eight; doubles cost $170 and up per night, including breakfast and dinner.
CALA GONONE, ITALY As one of Italy’s prime vacation spots, Sardinia is hopelessly overrun in the summer. But one quiet corner on the east side is Cala Gonone (cala means cove), which has some of the best beach-based climbing in the world. The limestone routes range from 5.8 to 5.13, and an hour’s walk inland you’ll find Tiscali, a mysterious 3,000-year-old Nuragic village, surrounded by more climbable cliffs. Cala Gonone’s Hotel Nettuno (011-39-0784-93310, ) rents doubles from $69.

STARY SMOKOVEC, SLOVAKIA The High Tatras boast some of the best hiking in Eastern Europe, and the diminutive ski town of Stary Smokovec is your gateway. In the summer, the hills offer a full range of mountain-biking opportunities, from serious alpine to cross-country routes. Tatrasport Adam and Andreas (011-421-52-442-52-41, ) is a gear shop right in town that rents skis and bikes. Kick back at the luxurious, Bavarian-style Grand Hotel (doubles, $64–$126; 011-421-52-44-22-15456, ) with a little tokay wine while listening to Carpathian folk music.
脜LAND, FINLAND Some 6,500 islands and rocks off the southwestern coast of Finland make up the semiautonomous 脜land Islands. (Swedish, not Finnish, is spoken here.) Known as one of Northern Europe’s most stunning rural retreats, the archipelago offers plenty of walking and canoeing. Anglers can make a pilgrimage to Kokar, a tiny islet about 50 miles off the mainland, hire a boat and guide, and pull a 25-pound Baltic pike from the shallows. Afterwards, retreat to the Brudh盲ll Hotell (doubles, $80–$108; 011-358-18-55955, ) for a glass of mead and some Karelian hot pot, a pork-beef-and-lamb stew.
MONSTER, HOLLAND Who knew that windsurfing rocks in the Netherlands? The North Sea roils just off the former hippie village of Monster, 40 miles southwest of Amsterdam. You can find hotels up and down the coast, but the best place to stay is in very cool Rotterdam, 20 miles east. The Stammeshaus Bed and Breakfast (doubles, $57; 011-31-10-425-4500, ) is a homey cottage with a garden in a quiet neighborhood, just a short walk from the Netherlands Architecture Institute.

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THE GPS READS 39掳32′ N, 31掳33′ W. In real terms, we’re 17 days east of Bermuda in the middle of the Atlantic when Flores, the westernmost of Portugal’s Azores islands, suddenly appears in the haze. Sheer green cliffs and a spray-spattered shoreline materialize eerily off our bow, as if they’ve been there all along.

Sail in, drop out: The north coast of the Azores S茫o Miguel Island

Flores’ steep coast

The nine volcanic islands of the Azores are the highest peaks of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, which separates the European and North American plates. Roughly 2,500 miles east of the United States and 1,000 miles west of Portugal, the islands have been a mid-oceanic rest stop for ships making passage between the Old and New worlds for more than 500 years, since Portuguese sea captain Diogo de Sevilha reportedly discovered them in 1427. In the 19th century, the Azores hit pay dirt when the price of whale oil skyrocketed; by 1830 they were overrun with American whalers who followed the prevailing winds and currents as they chased herds of sperm whales.

Since the international ban on whaling 21 years ago, cruising sailboats have replaced whalers as the primary visitors to the islands. Each summer an armada of blue-water sailors, emboldened by GPS, Weatherfax, and high-tech emergency equipment, departs the East Coast for the three- to four-week trip across the Atlantic to the Azores, tracing the old whaling routes either as part of an Atlantic circle cruise or on their way to the Mediterranean. Of course, plenty of travelers also arrive via the tarmac, ready to reel in monster tuna, trek the hills, and take in the views without wetting a toe. But visitors who forgo sailing altogether miss the islands’ special magic.

One June morning, my wife, Lani, and I leave Bermuda in our 38-foot ketch, Lucy. To relieve the pressure of 17 days of four-hours-on, four-hours-off watches, we’ve enlisted Lani’s brother, David—who’s just graduated from college and seems sufficiently aimless—as crew. Our plan is to spend a couple of days on Flores, cruise the rest of the Azores for a few weeks, then push on to the Mediterranean before winter sets in. We assume the islands will be a waypoint rather than a destination.
We know we are mistaken as we tack around the southern end of Flores and bring Lucy to rest among half a dozen other salt-encrusted sailboats in the slate-bottomed harbor of Lajes. Late in the afternoon, we drop anchor beneath the island’s precipitous cliffs and, possessed by a powerful craving for a cold beer, row to the fish-stained docks.

The next day, it becomes obvious why this 58-square-mile island is named Flores: The entire side of the ridge above the harbor is sprouting roses and hydrangeas. The hills beckon, and after a quick stop in town to pick up a wheel of sheep cheese and a dollar bottle of local wine, we set off on a cow path that was once the island’s main transportation route. To our right, carpets of flowers reach up to a thick cloud cover. To our left, jagged rocks drop to the breakers. Our rubbery legs hobble along for an hour before we all agree that after braving the open ocean for 1,800 nautical miles, it seems stupid to slip off a cliff on our first day ashore. So we choose an outcrop, uncork the wine, and take in the view of Lajes, 800 feet below.

Home to just 550 people, five bars, two markets, and four restaurants that offer dorado and potatoes almost every night, Lajes can be a little limited. After a week and a half of catching up on sleep and drinking enough wine to prop up the economy, we begin thinking about pushing on to the island of Faial. But before we can weigh anchor, Flores erupts into Festa do Emigrante, a blowout party celebrating Azorean emigrants’ annual return to the islands, beginning in July. A ferry arrives one afternoon to disgorge a gaggle of youth from neighboring islands. DJs from Amsterdam are flown in with knee-boot-wearing go-go girls. An enormous sound system is erected on a basketball court behind the town hall, and grandmothers, soccer hooligans, priests, and goatherds dance in the open air until early morning.

The highlight of Festa is the running of the bulls. In the Azores, it’s a drawn-out affair lasting two hours or more. People drink a lot, and I’m told someone dies every year. I show up at the running with Eddie Harary, a young entrepreneur who recently sold his environmental consulting business in Cincinnati and is now cruising with his girlfriend on their 44-foot catama-ran, Yebo. Eddie is a veteran of the Pamplona running.

“Don’t space out,” he advises. “Bulls are fast.”

The crowd jeers, hollers obscenities, and engages in not so politically correct behavior—such as taunting the bulls.

It’s at this moment that I realize I’m spacing out, and when I come to my senses, bull number two is out of his pen and racing directly toward me. I dart for a makeshift wall of shipping palettes. Luckily, number two flashes past me, intent on better game—namely Eddie, who is kicking up some serious turf in an effort to escape. It’s pretty obvious, however, that no human can actually outrun a bull, and within a few seconds this one has his hot, snorting snout within inches of Eddie’s rear. He dips his chin, and just as an expectant gasp ripples through the crowd, Eddie launches himself over the wall into a bramble of wild roses. A muffled cry rises from the thicket. The crowd cheers ecstatically. Eddie is a hero.

OUR TWO-DAY stopover has morphed into two and a half weeks by the time we finally tear ourselves away from Flores and set sail for Faial, which lies 120 nautical miles to the southeast—an easy 24-hour passage. A boomtown during the heady whaling days, Horta, the island’s main hub, is the traditional port of call in the Azores for cruisers. Besides several bars and a decent array of restaurants, Horta boasts a full-service marina. After 2,500 miles, it’s a rare vessel that doesn’t show up here looking for something.

The harbor is crowded when we arrive. The Atlantic Rally for Cruisers Europe—a rendezvous organized by the World Cruising Club, for the swarm of boats crossing the Atlantic from the United States each summer—arrived a few days ago. The marina, where we land in our dinghy, A. Robustus, is surrounded by a tall concrete seawall covered with multicolored murals left by sailors who’ve passed through. According to tradition, it’s bad luck to fail to add your boat’s name to the wall. Thousands of names, crew lists, and tattoolike cartoons of ships, whales, and sunsets pepper every inch.

We head toward the inner harbor, where Horta begins to lose a bit of its Caribbeanized, this-could-be-any-port character. Peter’s Cafe Sport, which served gruel to whalers in the early 20th century, still stands on the main street, now serving wine to Belgian and Dutch hikers who come here to explore the rolling hillsides. Farther along the wharf we find a small fleet of fishing boats bobbing in a slick of diesel, their grizzled crews eyeing us suspiciously. A few gleaming sportfishing boats sit among the old rusted hulks. One has a sizable tuna strung from a halyard, evidence that the waters around here offer some of the best sportfishing in the world.

Later, on a slope above town, we find the studio of John Van Opstal, a Dutch scrimshaw artist who immigrated to the Azores 20 years ago. As we share tea on his terrace, I ask Van Opstal if he thinks the islands have been ruined by the recent inundation of visitors. He points out that beginning with Portuguese trading posts in the 18th century and American whaling stations in the 19th, the islands have always been more connected with the outside world than one might assume.

“Horta is very cosmopolitan,” he says, patting his handlebar mustache. “We’re very far from anywhere, and yet I get visitors from all over the world all the time. They bring me news.”

Then he asks about George W. Bush and pours another cup of tea.
Those who don’t come to Faial to fix a mainsail or to hook a deep-sea trophy fish come to cross the deep straits to the neighboring island of Pico and climb its 7,711-foot volcanic cone. Along with several others in what’s becoming a transatlantic clique, David, Lani, and I take a water taxi over to Pico one rainy morning to test our mettle against the mountain.

When we arrive at the base, it’s already 60 degrees, about ten degrees colder than when we set out, and the spiked peak of the cone is now veiled by a thick, swirling mass of clouds. We set off into the mist.

The lush green landscape soon begins to change. Pastures give way to rocky crags, and hydrangeas are replaced by sheer nodules of black rock. Within an hour the gentle slope has careened skyward, and with each step loose bits of scree tumble down on those unfortunate enough to be bringing up the rear—usually me. The mist gives way to drizzle, which in turn gives way to rain. A second later, the sky is split by lightning that illuminates the hillside, followed by an earsplitting clap.

The next second, we’re sliding through mud toward the bottom, warding off our sense of collective failure with the promise of a warm glass of mulled Azorean wine and the thought that we just crossed the Atlantic in small boats. Who needs mountains?

When we finally extricate ourselves from Horta, it’s ten days later and early August. Since the fall gales will begin in a few weeks, we decide to aim for Terceira, one of the Azores’ easternmost islands.

At 153 square miles, Terceira is also one of the larger islands in the chain. Its town of Angra do Hero’smo, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, has attracted the attention of the European Union, which is pouring money into the tourism infrastructure here—namely, expanding the marina, in order to steal some of the cruiser pie from Faial. Still, despite the wonderfully protected harbor, we’re the only boat hanging off the beach. We spend a few days swimming in the cool water of the bay, fishing along the rocks by dinghy, and enjoying the village of Praia da Vit-ria’s take on Festa, which includes bull running on the beach.

In 1985, Azorean writer Fernando Aires observed that his fellow islanders live in a state of continual mutability: The islands are neither here nor there—as he put it, they’re “a spiritual synthesis of both the old and new worlds. Alpha and omega in permanent ambiguity.” After six weeks, I can’t discern whether this is true—the islands’ magnetic charm makes everything seem ambiguous. When Lucy is ready and we’re pulling away from Terceira and its gentle slopes fade into the haze, my question is whether they ever existed at all. By then, of course, they’re gone.

GETTING THERE Certainly the most interesting way to arrive in the Azores is by sailboat. Unless you own a boat and want to outfit her to cross the Atlantic, the alternative is to hitch a ride as crew. Boatcrew (info@boatcrew.net) matches needy yachts with willing bodies. Another option is to fly to the Azores and try to talk your way aboard a passing yacht. There are commercial airports on Faial, Terceira, and S‹o Miguel. TAP, the Portuguese airline, runs a daily flight from Newark to Lisbon, starting at around $550 round-trip (011-351-707-205-700, ). From there, SATA flies to the islands for about $215 (011-351-218-437-701, ). During the busy summer, SATA also organizes charter flights direct to the Azores from Boston, Toronto, and Oakland. AcorLine (011-351-296-302-370, ), based on Sao Miguel, runs inter-island ferries.

WHAT TO DO The Azores’ cruising grounds are some of the best in the world, and several individual boat owners rent sailboats by the day or week. Octopus (011-351-295-628-706, ), based out of Angra do Hero’smo, on Terceira, rents 31- or 36-foot sailboats for about $50 an hour or $200 per day. If you’re sailing from the United States on your own, buy the Imray E1 chart of the Azores ($27) and Anne Hammick’s Atlantic Islands pilot guide ($94; both available from Bluewater Books & Charts in Fort Lauderdale, 800-942-2583, ). There are whale- watching and sportfishing companies based in just about every town with a harbor. Fish for marlin, tuna, shark, and swordfish with Xacara Big Game Fishing () in Horta, on Faial. Onshore, trekking is the main form of recreation. Camp anywhere, but it’s polite to ask permission from the landowner.

LODGING On Flores, the 36- room Hotel Ocidental (doubles $35-$80; 011-351-292-590-100) is near the island’s natural lava pools and has its own big saltwater tub. In Horta, choose a mountain or ocean view at the Residencial S茫o Francisco (doubles $65-$80; 011-351-292-200-980). On Terceira, try the Casa Bela Vista (doubles $45-$80; 011-351-295-908-975, ) in the village of Biscoitos. The Azores tourism office (011-351-292-200-500, ) has a branch on every island.

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I stumbled upon Navassa one dreary afternoon in New York as I stood daydreaming before the DMA 400 chart of the Caribbean. I had never noticed that speck of U.S. territory lying between Haiti and Jamaica before. I made some phone calls and, in a couple of hours, found that Navassa is completely uninhabited. Naturally, I began to dream of unspoiled waters, pristine reefs, and swimming with endangered turtles. But more than anything I dreamed of undertaking a voyage of discovery at a time when nothing seemed undiscovered. A year later, I found myself aboard Lucy with my wife, Lani, heading toward Navassa.


“Navassa is a complete treasure house,” said Joseph Schwagerl over a bad connection from Puerto Rico. “We’re calling it ‘the Galapagos of the Caribbean.'” Schwagerl works for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, which took over management of Navassa from the Coast Guard in 1998 and sent a team of biologists to the island to survey the plants and animals. What they found was mind-blowing. “Four new species of fish, one of the largest pristine sponge forests in the Caribbean, and hundreds of spiders,” says Schwagerl with infectious wonder. “Spiders rule the island. The arachnologist catalogued 40 new species.”
But what makes Navassa important to science aren’t just the 40 new spiders; it’s the 760 other plant and animal species, at least 250 of which were unknown to science, crammed onto the island’s two square miles. In terms of evolutionary biology, this is astounding. No sea captain with a ship full of critters and seeds crashed here hundreds of years ago. Instead, life evolved in a mad rush of speciation atop a five-million-year-old pile of guano phosphates, or bird shit, accumulating on a coral reef.

Schwagerl mentioned a 30-foot ladder on the southwest cliffs. “It’s a chain ladder that’s pretty much rusted apart,” he said. “We almost killed ourselves getting on the island.” As we round the sharp tip of Navassa I spot the ladder clinging to the cliffs inside what the chart calls “Lulu Bay,” named by some cartographer who was probably dating a girl named Lulu at the time. Dear Lulu, I hate to break it to you, but the bay is a farce, unless you consider a slight depression in the sea-ravaged rock to be a bay.


We anchor Lucy in 70 feet of clear, cobalt-colored water about 50 feet from the cliffs. I decide to start my reconnaissance underwater. The bottom is devoid of reef. Instead there’s a dense mesh of sponges and elkhorn corals that ramble across the sand, like cacti in a desert. Because the bottom around Navassa slopes off so dramatically, the underwater rock terraces here are flat and deep. Away from the wall, scuba diving underneath Lucy, I find a parrot fish as long as my arm and a jewfish the size of a small car.
What blew the minds of the ichthyologists on the FWS survey were not the large fish. Instead, it was the tiny gobies and other rockfish living in the coral. Here, in three weeks, the team catalogued 242 species of fish, four of which are endemic to Navassa waters. I poke my snout among the rocks, sniffing about for the scent of biological discovery. Mostly what I find are majestic overhangs, mysterious caves, rock pinnacles, and miles of peacock-blue sea that roll off into the deep nothingness of the Cayman Trench. It’s pretty damn cool. It’s also exhausting, given that a steady two-knot ocean current rips through Lulu Bay and I have to swim like a dog just to keep from drifting off to Jamaica.


The sky is dark when I emerge from the water. The atmosphere has that heavy, low-pressure feeling like a moldy towel. I wonder if a squall is coming.

TO CALL NAVASSA undiscovered isn’t quite accurate. It first entered consciousness in 1504 when Christopher Columbus, shipwrecked on Jamaica, dispatched a crew to Hispaniola to find help. Along the way, the sailors stumbled upon the island, climbed the cliffs, looked for water, found none, and left. For the next 350 years everyone avoided Navassa, except pirates running between Tortuga Island, Haiti, and Port Royal, Jamaica. Supposedly, the waters around the island are littered with wrecks and, theoretically, treasure.


In 1857 the United States seized Navassa from Haiti under the Guano Islands Act. This law gave Americans the right to claim uninhabited guano-splattered islands for the States, allowing its citizens to set up operations to mine the phosphate-rich fertilizer. Conditions on Navassa were horrendous: The white overseers terrorized their black workers, lashing them with ropes and tricking them into indentured servitude. In 1889 the workers rebelled in a bloody attack that resulted in the murders of five bosses. According to legend, the survivors fled and a single boy was left behind. The Haitians believe Navassa is haunted by evil duppies, among which is certainly the spirit of the lone boy. They call it Devil’s Island.


Navassa stood virtually abandoned for 100 years until 1996, when Bill Warren, a scuba diver from San Diego, filed a claim under the Guano Islands Act. Warren wanted to build a salvage operation on Navassa to search for pirate wrecks. But when he learned that guano is still fetching up to $600 per ton, he drew up plans to revive the mining operation. Warren secured title to the island from the heirs of the original mining-company owners, but then the Department of the Interior, under Bruce Babbitt, stepped in and declared Navassa a wildlife refuge. The refuge status makes all nonpermitted visits to the island illegal (including mine), and has stymied Warren’s ambitions. He hopes that a sympathetic George W. Bush will revoke Babbitt’s declaration. When I asked about the environment, Warren assured me his plans are “environment-friendly.” “We’ll make the mining operation green,” he said. “But the scorpions are one of the deadliest species on the planet. We’ll have to eradicate them entirely.”


Fittingly, Babbitt mentioned scorpion protection in interviews shortly after he declared the island a refuge.


IT’S 3 P.M. by the time I towel off, drop into our dinghy, and row over to the ladder. When I grab the inverted staircase it swings and utters a gut-wrenching moan. The dinghy bucks in the swells beneath me. I’m rising and falling with each swell, and it occurs to me that one rogue wave could run this steel right through my chest like a Haitian voodoo pin. So I jump and, luckily, latch on.


I climb to the top and wander amidst guano boulders and hardpan scrub until I find shade under a single palm grove. The place is littered with trash—remnants of old fires, rubber soles, plastic bags and bottles—left by Haitian fishermen who scramble up the cliffs and camp here. Besides garbage, there are crickets and grasshoppers and a whole assortment of creatures that fit into the buzzing, hopping, crunch-when-you-step-on-them taxon. I have in mind to reach the lighthouse, which the Coast Guard erected in 1916, on the other side of a massive ridge. The lighthouse was manned for about a decade; but after the last in a succession of keepers murdered his family, The Shining-style, the thing became automated. But from what I can tell, a steep, eroded cliff surrounds the ridge, below which is an impenetrable screen of poisonwood. I’m beginning to get a sense of why the Haitians have always believed Navassa was a land of evil spirits. The fishermen who camp up here obviously possess bad voodoo.


Since I’m already enmeshed in the evil, I gingerly step around the poisonwood and head up the ridge, a steep mass of stones that roll every time I try to get a handhold. I’m on my hands and knees crawling up the side when the sky finally lets loose. In a minute the rock and mud are coming apart in large, sopping fistfuls. OK, I’ve seen it. I’ve discovered Navassa, I say. Good enough. I turn tail and run, skinning my knee on rock-hard guano before hurling myself down the rusty ladder and into the dinghy. As I push off from the accursed island the rain, eerily, stops.

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