Hola from Spain! I’m off to Catalonia on a BlogTrip courtesy of the Catalunya Tourism Board.

Over the week, I’ll be reporting my adventures on WEND blog and my personal blog. Follow my explorations closely as I meander through one of the most diverse provinces in the country.

Expect thrills and spills – there is so much to do: from busking in the capital city of Barcelona to snowboarding the steep slopes of the Pyrenees, I’ll be uncovering the adventurous side of Catalonia.

From the Catalunya Tourism Board:

Catalonia opens the doors to its scenic diversity. From the highest peaks in the Pyrenees, above 3,000 metres, to hidden coves on the Mediterranean, Catalonia offers a multitude of locations that are ideal for practicing active tourism.

Nature in abundance, a modern road network, a gentle climate and the quality of the complementary offerings, from accommodation and gastronomy to Romanesque art, this is what Catalonia and its active tourism can offer.

Follow @catexperience and the writer @WildJunket on Twitter for updates!

Where: Florida

Wender: David Miller

1. Body still recovering from Saturday. Drove from my folks’ place across flar-da to the east coast, Ft. Pierce, then Hutchinson Island.  Hurricane Bill swell in the water. Was going solo and missed my bros a lot when I first saw it. Damn.

2. First spot was just south of Ft. Pierce jetty. Not a named spot. Nobody out. 6-8 foot sets but pretty much closed out. Total groundswell with these long periods like you never see in Florida. Looked like almost like Oregon only with 86 degree water. A couple other kids checking, then heading back to their car. More spots to check. We were all moving fast.

3. Headed 5 miles south to another no-name spot and then paddled out solo and was kind of scared for some reason. Good conditions though. Super warm water. Hardly any current. Kids out on other peaks a quarter mile north and south but I’m out there solo. First big sets came through and I dropped in and it’s slightly overhead but real thick and fast and walling. I pull into a close out barrel and hear myself yell as everything just fills in.

4. The swell was forecast to increase throughout the day and as I stayed out there it seemed to keep getting bigger. The problem was there were no features. No point or reef to refract the swell. These big walls would form but then close out almost instantly. I dropped in on some more, but it was a bit out of control.

5. Went south about 10 more miles. Found this one beach that was like classic spring break Florida. Kids everywhere. Lots of ink. Really badass shorebreak and some skimboarders killing it. Waves here were like chest to head high, still kind of dumping, but whatever. Spent like 4 hours in the water till backs of legs were raw from sitting on board then turning and paddling for so many waves.

6. If there were waves like that here consistently I could probably live in Flar-da. I think it gets like this though maybe just a dozen times a year. We’ll see.

David is the Senior Editor at Matador.

[Photos: tedkerwin, Flickr]

The CHOP CHOP CHOP of a helicopter’s blades signal the end is near. After five days of running, mountain biking, kayaking and rock scrambling in the Persian Gulf, teams are finally approaching the finish line of the Abu Dhabi Adventure Challenge.

To add drama to this photo opp, event organizers positioned a giant inflatable finish line arch in front of the historic Al Jahili Fort. Photogs are jostling for the best spot, all wanting to frame the fort’s twin watchtowers within the race organization’s colorful arch. When a team runs through there, bam! You got your shot. It says adventure racing. It says Middle East. It tells the whole story.

We’re in the oasis city of Al Ain, a few hours south of Dubai and right on the Oman/United Arab Emirates border. Search “Al Ain” on Google Maps and it’ll come right up. Click on the satellite view to see the value of an oasis in the Arabian Desert.

Finishing here at the Al Jahili Fort in Al Ain is genius. It’s such a visual stunner, pulls you right back in time. I’ve seen this kind of mud-brick fortress before in news videos from Afghanistan.

That other fort was called Qala-i-Jangi, and it sat in the north of Afghanistan, near Mazar-i-Sharif. The TV images of Qala-i-Jangi showed U.S. special forces consulting with Northern Alliance leaders among the fort’s protective parapets. They appeared to be developing a strategy to quell an uprising inside by Taliban detainees. After many bullets, an array of bombs, and pumping a basement full of cold water, the battle was done, and little was left of Qala-i-Jangi.

But back to this fort, Al Jahili. It was built in 1898 as a summer home for a former ruler of Abu Dhabi. It is of mud-brick construction, complete with defensive parapets like those of Qala-i-Jangi.

Unlike Qala-i-Jangi, Al Jahili is about to be swarming with endurance athletes from all over the globe. We anticipate some chaos. Teams are expected to park their bikes in assigned locations they’ve not yet seen, sprint the final 50 yards to the finish line, and “punch in” to the timekeeping device with a small key. The noise of the helicopter grows louder.  And here comes the first team!

It is team Desert Islands of New Zealand, which includes Richard Ussher, his wife Elina Ussher, Jarad Kohlar and Jay Henry. The first three are Kiwis, but Henry is actually an American from Colorado.

As waves of teams begin to arrive, pandemonium ensues. There is near panic as athletes try to put their bikes in the right places, and a whole lot of multi-lingual shouting as teammates try to stay together for the final run to the finish line.

U.S. teams Nike, Salomon/Crested Butte, SOLE and DART-nuun finished fifth, eighth, ninth and 13th, respectively. Not a bad showing for us Yanks in a field of 36 of the best endurance teams in the world.

Want to know more? Surf on over to http://www.abudhabi-adventure.com/ for the official version of things.

Mike Bitton is a writer, photographer, adventurer and PR guy. He has a bachelor’s degree in photojournalism from Utah State University, and has worked at daily newspapers in Utah and California. He lives in Vancouver, WA, with his wife, Jana; their two daughters, Ashton and Aubrey; and the family cat, whose name is Velcro.

Where: Cape Breton Island, Novia Scotia

Wender: Hal Amen

I’m used to salt in my mouth. Sweat and road grit simmer into the unmistakable tang of adrenaline.

But this was different. The curtains of drizzle blowing up the steeps of French Mountain and into my face were five parts saline sea spray, lifted from the Gulf of St. Lawrence far below. They struck in salty blasts that, at this height, chilled.

There was only one way to go, to align my two knobby tires with the thin ribbon of pavement, point them and pray.

A film of salt crystals and fine mist coated me as I plunged forward, past the pull-offs littered with RVs, past the moose grazing just beyond the scalloped guardrail. As the gulf rushed up towards my handlebars, I imagined it was the tormented white foam of the sea itself that lashed my face. My ears filled with the slicing of tires on wet tarmac and the high whistle of a gale.

Minute upon minute of euphoric fall. Then at last the slope subsided.

Traffic didn’t. It picked up as I approached the town, and the wind only drove harder, provoked by the frenzied ocean waves, surging into my flank and tilting me diagonally as I pedaled, desperate and drenched, inches from passing cars, one shimmy from disaster.

***

But all that’s over now.

My wild descent into Chéticamp marked triumph, the final mountain challenge of Cape Breton Island’s Cabot Trail. The weather had shifted, stormed itself out as I slept in the province’s most comfortable bed, depositing the bright glare of a forgotten sun in its wake.

Now my pedals circle freely above the flat pavement, pulling me south over the road that rides the curves of coastal cliffs all the way to Margaree Harbour.

It’s here that I leave the trail.

I park the bike at a dirt pull-off, leaning its bulk against a pile of pink-gray stones. The slick pannier fabric glistens, still sticky from the salt spray but dry now. Ocean musk is heavy in the air, but only the familiar, savory zest of sweat spices my tongue today.

For the last time, I look back. The road strings itself out beyond my sight, back between the plump green hills and the sea. But maybe in the distance””maybe””I make out the black hump of French Mountain, a shadow still, soon a memory.

Freelance writer Hal Amen has been an avid traveler for as long as he can remember, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He is a contributor to Matador Travel, and his writings appear frequently across that network. Hal also maintains a personal travel blog, WayWorded.

Where: Grassy Key

Wender: Elizabeth Buelow

Grassy Key.  In the morning, the sky is as blue as the water, creating a seamless meeting of earth and sky.  The clouds are the only contrasting factor, and today they are white and billowy, with a small storm brewing on the horizon ““ normal for this time of year.  I am on the Gulf side of Grassy Key; if I swim out about 50 feet, I can see under the bridge that connects the islands and is a sort of a stomping ground for the meeting of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean.  The meeting of the seas is signified by fierce currents and an abundance of fish, evident from the number of simple boats, fishing lines cast about, dotting the shade under U.S. Highway 1.  The Florida Keys culture is dominated by ocean; residents are aptly called Conchs.  Tan and happy, their livelihood depends on what the ocean brings them, and they’re all smiling lately because of the storms.

Hurricane Ike rolled through here just two weeks ago, skirting past the towns in the Keys on its way to Texas, but raining hell upon its waters.  When a hurricane blows through, I am told, it affects the ocean for miles.  The scientists will tell you it’s because of surface water mixing with deeper water, freshwater runoff, and the suspension of bottom sediments.  The Conchs will tell a different story, though, one recounting how fields of sea grass are uprooted, old pipes filled with hunkering lobsters are displaced, and nothing is as it was.  The ocean churns for weeks after, gathering its bearings, remembering where it left off.  And this is when I arrive; when the water has finally calmed, and it is as glassy as it was after the last hurricane, as if storms have a way of settling things down.  The process reminds me of other ways that nature tends to right itself ““ wildfire, rain, winter.  Hurricanes never occurred to me until now, until I consider the shallow and deep water colliding, so different in the things they’ve seen and the creatures they’ve lodged; and the ocean re-tooling to be still.

It is early morning.  I am fishing and photographing off a jetty from which I can see all the ocean life that tends to hang around shallow waters and rocks:  lobster, wee fish, conchs, bottom feeders, jellyfish, and ““ today ““ a 3-foot long nurse shark makes an appearance.  I don’t cast a line for awhile because I like to watch the way these creatures communicate with each other; the symbiosis that takes place.  Today, the rocks are crawling with lobsters, all waving at an oblivious purple jellyfish drifting across the surface.  The lobsters are the reason my family is here; they come every year to catch them with nets and sticks.  We have been unlucky so far this season; the hurricane made all of my Uncle Joe’s GPS guarantees come up empty, and I smile because somehow that makes sense, like nature one-upping the technology, throwing a curve ball, reacting.  The lobsters we have caught so far have been too small.  The ones in the water now look big enough, but it seems unfair to catch them in these shallow waters.

A bird lands on the water and ripples make it easier to separate the sky from the sea.  It seems content to stay there for a bit, but as I reach for my camera, its wings are already flapping, it is already flying, and for a moment, the lobsters and the sharks and the fish and I all look up to see it off.

Elizabeth Buelow is an adventure superhero. She drinks beer, slings zingers, and drives stick with the best of vibes. She currently lives in Portland, OR.

Wender: Tim Patterson

Watanabe-san is 56 years old and can hike faster and farther on steep trails with a heavy pack than any college kid I know. He started studying English at age 50 in order to travel more easily, and loves to take the foreign teachers of Hokkaido on trips into the mountains he knows so well.

Not that we teach him any English ““ usually, he is teaching us – which berries are edible and which plant the Ainu used to poison their arrowheads, how to find a climbable stream-bed on a topographical map, which dirt roads lead to hidden hot-springs in the hills. His voice is deep and resonant, his speech considered, slow and clear, but his laugh comes easily, as if the whole point of focusing one’s energy with such care is to never miss a joke.

The far end of Shiretoko, where Watanabe-san was leading us on that chilly September afternoon, is remote to the point of inaccessibility. Paved roads plied by tour buses carve their way up the coast on each side of the peninsula, but both dead-end about ten kilometers short of the cape. Likewise, the traverse trail that connects the peaks of the Shiretoko Range loops back down to the coast at a point even with the end of the roads, leaving a valley choked with thickets of twisted scrub pine and impenetrable bamboo grass between Io-zan, the last peak on the traverse, and one lonely mountain standing at the very tip of the peninsula.

Even this year, when the park was designated as a World Heritage Site, only a very few travelers ventured beyond the paved roads and marked trails, leaving a triangle of wilderness from Io-zan to the cape for the bears to divide among themselves.

Knowing that their son is venturing into a trail-less, bear infested wilderness is the sort of thing that regularly ruins my parents’ weekends, but with Watanabe-san as our guide, pepper spray holstered to his waist, I felt comfortable leaving the car behind and setting off along the coast.

Better than comfortable in fact ““ the heather on the cliffs glowed burnt-orange in the long-shadow light of fading day, seagulls wheeled and cried overhead and those peaks across the strait – that was Russia ““ far Eastern Russia! My pack was just heavy enough, cinched tight, full of warm clothes, food and a mysterious bottle of green liquid Watanabe-san had asked me to carry. I felt fine.

For some time after leaving the road we passed weather-beaten shacks tucked in close to the base of the cliffs, some deserted, but others still in seasonal use by fishermen. At one of the last shacks a silver-bearded fisherman and his wife were laying out the days haul of seaweed to dry on the rocky beach of their front yard, faces and hands the same leathery brown color as the wooden building in which they slept. Their dog was nose-deep in a salmon carcass, bracing the fish with a front paw as he gnawed away ecstatically by a small stream that tumbled out of the mountains and into the sea.

We crossed the stream on a narrow wooden footbridge, casting our shadows over countless more salmon, hump-backed and hook-jawed, all in various stages of disintegration, all desperately struggling upstream through water so shallow their bellies dragged along the gravel.

Few activities focus the mind as well as traversing a field of boulders with a full pack. Eyes gauge the stability and texture of the next rock and the distance to cover while brain calculates, sending arms swinging and joints flexing; muscles anticipate, stretch and contract, stretch and contract. The mind, fully occupied, is free from the usual flotsam of nagging worries and stray bits of guilt, totally engaged with the simple, rhythmic purity of the task at hand (and foot). This rock, that rock. This rock, that rock. This rock, that rock and then another, each problem as unique and cleansing as the waves.

After an hour and a half of rock hopping Watanabe-san called a rest. The beach behind us curved away into the fading light and up ahead tall pillars of pitted black rock extended from the cliffs into the ocean, blocking the path. Watanabe-san waited while we threw off our packs and took long, throat-pumping swallows of water, a half smile playing in his cheeks. When our breathing slowed, he pointed at the rock face ahead.

“Buddha. Can you see?” And there he was, on top of the highest rock, a golden Buddha, palms up, serene over the crashing sea.

“Now we climb.”

Tim Patterson is a contributing editor at Matador and a rugged travel instructor for Where There Be Dragons.  He splits time between Southeast Asia and Craftsbury, Vermont and is currently traveling in Laos