tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76612183147592729512024-03-11T21:52:28.878-07:00Sky and LynneA Journey of Two WomenSky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-17497623253654466302023-01-09T22:12:00.000-08:002023-01-09T22:12:08.917-08:00The Ski Lift<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><st1:place style="text-align: left;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Luckily for us, the Feldburg ski lift (“Liftverbund Feldberg”) is repurposed after the spring snow melts. The cable cars lift off-season tourists (like Lynne and me) to the top of Feldberg Mountain, at 4,198 feet, in the Black Forest region of Germany. We expected to enjoy 360 degree views of the southern Black Forest and the Alps from this highest peak in the region. As part of a group of American hikers, mostly over the age of 65, Lynne and I were touring central Europe. Our itinerary promised us a ride to the top of Feldberg in a gondola.<br /><br />We had started out the day taking an electric train from the small village of </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Hinterzarten</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="text-align: left;">.
The train was fast, silent, clean, and on-time, giving me a very positive
impression of the German investment in infrastructure. A few stops north, our
group transferred to a similarly modern local bus. It was already filled with chattering
junior high age students, obviously on a field trip. Lynne and I latched on to
one of the few empty seats as the bus swooped up the curving forested road, soon
leaving the populated area behind. For that short ride, I was immersed in the
chatter and activity of this mostly homogeneously white group of German middle
school boys and girls. Some shyly peered out the windows, sitting awkwardly in silence.
Near me, a group of fashionable girls, one with blue hair, turned towards each
other to talk non stop. I sensed a similarity with their American counterparts.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">In twenty minutes, the bus
pulled up and discharged us all near the base of the gondola, the young students
trooping off towards an activity center. The green oblong cable car station was
on full view above us. The small cars were suspended in the air from heavy cables.
The cables snaked from one pole to another, 1000 feet up the mountain until
they reached the distant peak, a dot in our view from the bottom. For now, the
gondola area was motionless and silent.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdjcXt-_zvoAeP6rd9eKuQ5KIMDdbz19hrOb838lSkMDTSLGEaPbj7tj2pmRDy5jR_qUGNevH609JMMr2RH27kDA6FsCVjVMJHaVSLxVwUsqwPXZCe8L3fvPlTq34CyvGi7Kvs32tABbqzTSKdTvcwyEiXnLVoLrrBGdKGa_gtmQI5NsFbSD9QIpU/s4032/Feldberg%20hike%20with%20one%20hiker.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; font-family: Verdana; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdjcXt-_zvoAeP6rd9eKuQ5KIMDdbz19hrOb838lSkMDTSLGEaPbj7tj2pmRDy5jR_qUGNevH609JMMr2RH27kDA6FsCVjVMJHaVSLxVwUsqwPXZCe8L3fvPlTq34CyvGi7Kvs32tABbqzTSKdTvcwyEiXnLVoLrrBGdKGa_gtmQI5NsFbSD9QIpU/s320/Feldberg%20hike%20with%20one%20hiker.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">“The gondola is not working,” our cheerful guide, Christian, announced unexpectedly in his accented English. “The conversion from ski lift to gondola has not been completed,” he explained. Christian calmly announced that we would be walking up the mountain instead. Thus began our day’s trek on foot.</span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Kk15p5C9zjNnEbxrnURw9opptNE2JC-YQN-NSVFSYzkKPZywaPvwCIQCtBTaXlZ-7_Do6TJpmucnL5CQ6cBf9EVe0foQ7LBJNA2_j_W5TPkEWunI4siyXaAj2ctSllfj1cCxkCQs6D1H_qwueV8VVNED7bFNYEWSL8bqGZXuJPDDUqy2V9gpiBqe/s4032/Feldberg%20signs%20with%20no%20people.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Kk15p5C9zjNnEbxrnURw9opptNE2JC-YQN-NSVFSYzkKPZywaPvwCIQCtBTaXlZ-7_Do6TJpmucnL5CQ6cBf9EVe0foQ7LBJNA2_j_W5TPkEWunI4siyXaAj2ctSllfj1cCxkCQs6D1H_qwueV8VVNED7bFNYEWSL8bqGZXuJPDDUqy2V9gpiBqe/s320/Feldberg%20signs%20with%20no%20people.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We were a surprisingly
agreeable group, hearty enough to accept this challenge of extra miles of uphill
walking. Indulging in some humor, we cheerfully fell in behind our leader and
soon were heading uphill. This turn of events spawned a standing joke as our
two week trip evolved. “How much further before we get there?” we would ask,
mimicking little children with the “Are we there yet?” question. Sometimes,
Christian would scratch his head, and say “Half an hour,” then add with a sly
look, “or an hour or two.”</span></p><span style="font-family: Verdana;">
<p class="MsoNormal">It would be hard to
complain about the scenery. We were walking on a well packed gravel path that
twisted upward through open grassy meadows dotted with yellow buttercups, lacy
white flowers of cow parsley, and purple Penstemon, passing occasional stands
of beech, spruce and silver fir trees. We had the trail to ourselves, perhaps thanks
to the non-operational cable cars. The elevation gain soon tested our lungs.
Not only were we opposing gravity with every step, but we were breathing an
increasingly thin atmosphere. Soon settling into a steady pace, our group spread
out along the trail. I focused my energy on the physical task of hauling this
aging body uphill.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjoh07oKMhdzdd4S76Rv99SbmO1meHKvw5hHFaIx7lXEheeAJXnWMo3f_L57vUWIylbYGmuCNYjQbQgJa7lowqC4PhyI-rIKZ2SXx9A1jXF2Ql-EjDakrH0K6P9oI_Lo0ITZyI1JU4-vc9E5VDBhGAjFHlmcrPNV-CLU8a0ZX_FQGTXa-bH3qN7ha/s4032/IMG_4498.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjoh07oKMhdzdd4S76Rv99SbmO1meHKvw5hHFaIx7lXEheeAJXnWMo3f_L57vUWIylbYGmuCNYjQbQgJa7lowqC4PhyI-rIKZ2SXx9A1jXF2Ql-EjDakrH0K6P9oI_Lo0ITZyI1JU4-vc9E5VDBhGAjFHlmcrPNV-CLU8a0ZX_FQGTXa-bH3qN7ha/s320/IMG_4498.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We passed green signs displaying
a caricature of a chicken. From the symbols, it seemed that the signs were warning
skiers to stay out of the grove of spruce trees. The trees covered a sloping
hillside leading down to the valley. After some banter in German between our
guide and our local expert, Michael, they explained that the signs were about
grouse. Michael enthusiastically jumped in with a ready explanation. Ground
dwelling wood grouse are disappearing from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Germany</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s forest habitat as the
grouse are increasingly disturbed by human activity. Among the charming details
he shared was the fact that grouse eat small pebbles to help them digest their
rugged winter diet of pine needles. When the deep snow fills this area, the
skiers arrive, and the nesting grouse come face to face with human activity
during the difficult winter season. The human activity disturbs the grouse, which
are not elegant flyers. They fly down the hillsides, and have to use precious
energy to regain their perches.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYe0LIbbXuBwNffIfYVSYdQOiknNMRmTTr4drwDVpxbuJKa6wuV6x9FCknrOZFw24cq7hD-iOSG3QmQ9gukUNZM6xi96NKRTd4N0BCii1bKj0-Hp5vWuhJNqax6uitnTBkC0ey4clbpOcSqvnd2OUynjC3VVjuLAygu0LG1qyh4mEAi8YpOCapVYje/s4032/Feldberg%20chicken%20sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYe0LIbbXuBwNffIfYVSYdQOiknNMRmTTr4drwDVpxbuJKa6wuV6x9FCknrOZFw24cq7hD-iOSG3QmQ9gukUNZM6xi96NKRTd4N0BCii1bKj0-Hp5vWuhJNqax6uitnTBkC0ey4clbpOcSqvnd2OUynjC3VVjuLAygu0LG1qyh4mEAi8YpOCapVYje/w300-h400/Feldberg%20chicken%20sign.JPG" width="300" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">The skies had been optimistically
blue for the first hour or so of our hike. Soon the skies began to transition
to cloudiness. In the distance peaks across the valley, we could also see a threatening
dark horizon marked with occasional lightning. Michael warned that storms were
predicted for this area. Studying the situation, he estimated that we would
have 45 minutes before the bad weather reached us. I noted that we were on an
exposed trail with no shelter in sight. En masse, everyone stopped and extracted
clouds of green and yellow high tech rain gear from our packs. The clouds intensified
over head. Like my fellow hikers, I suited up, dismissed the light drizzle and
pressed onwards. The weather became more concerning. The precipitation turned into
solid rain, and we could hear thunder approaching. Only the leaders understood
that just around the corner was the mountain hut where we were expected for
lunch.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p> </o:p></span>The stone and wood two
story mountain hut, (Todtnauer Hütte) appeared just at the right time. The
noticeable precipitation turned into a downpour of rain and the breezes became
a blustery wind. We raced for the building, where the hostess held open the
front door and greeted us with a knowing smile. Motioning us to follow, she led
the now dripping group down the hallway to the covered porch. With its high
arched glass ceiling, it was a perfectly dry and welcoming place for us to be
while the storm blew, thundered and pounded down rain. I enjoyed having a close-up
experience of the storm while being protected from it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdWR6PjGriEDc-WX5z1ZoTbYfGpvoWezw-p1-HLV3D0okd9DEfAQfPqkNDlVG9cWh3dNccrOLm9MQjxpra5ikYUEI3ioVKuIo8DKosC76-IXNsPki0zix7PluE6gjQmMR3lx0C6pSRA8r0oXmRwwD9dL-CiTNHx1rgai5e1aUUZZr-MrVUEShvLbd/s4032/Feldberg%20lunch%20setting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdWR6PjGriEDc-WX5z1ZoTbYfGpvoWezw-p1-HLV3D0okd9DEfAQfPqkNDlVG9cWh3dNccrOLm9MQjxpra5ikYUEI3ioVKuIo8DKosC76-IXNsPki0zix7PluE6gjQmMR3lx0C6pSRA8r0oXmRwwD9dL-CiTNHx1rgai5e1aUUZZr-MrVUEShvLbd/s320/Feldberg%20lunch%20setting.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Long wooden tables had
been set in anticipation of our visit. After taking our seats, Lynne and I
peered somewhat helplessly at the menus. They were written in German. With the help
of a friend who spoke German, we managed to order: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Käsespätzle (cheese noodles with mountain
cheese), <o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Hausgemachte</span><strong><span style="color: white; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 7.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"> </span></strong><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Gulaschsuppe
(Homemade Goulash soup)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Gemischter Salat (vegetarisch) mit Gurken,
Karotten und Tomaten<o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">(Mixed
salad with cucumber, carrots and tomatoes.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p> </o:p></span>A feast of food soon
arrived at the tables. The host family at this mountain hut was from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Croatia</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and
obviously the cook had a way with food. As soon as my plate arrived, I took a
photo, in part to honor the lovely presentation, in part to research later what
we were eating. We followed up the main meal with universally appreciated Apfelstrudel
(apple strudel), which came on a platter framed with whipped cream. By the time
the storm let up, we were well sated.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p> </o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjmIXrzom5IiEz64GSHN7RfIPmMAHeplQ_A2M6XPhU0Nv_bO1jYH8bM3s7Qvsq7iYScmjk74s-2IQmFOt3674bhf2lM3mys0t59wpaX7SOWGbQ434ZyjOgEj2CHAeeua6Myo88X7GeJw2pVgPJf6xIuNOPPNVoyuMmJ_yHj2o0pznKP4Dc4w6ZVxj/s4032/Feldberg%20goulash.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjmIXrzom5IiEz64GSHN7RfIPmMAHeplQ_A2M6XPhU0Nv_bO1jYH8bM3s7Qvsq7iYScmjk74s-2IQmFOt3674bhf2lM3mys0t59wpaX7SOWGbQ434ZyjOgEj2CHAeeua6Myo88X7GeJw2pVgPJf6xIuNOPPNVoyuMmJ_yHj2o0pznKP4Dc4w6ZVxj/s320/Feldberg%20goulash.JPG" width="240" /></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The group chose to continue
to the top of <span style="background: white; color: #202122;">the main peak,
the <i>Höchste</i> or "Highest" of</span></span><span style="background: white; color: #202122; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 7.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Feldberg,
at 4,898 feet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could see it in the
distance from the hut. Picking up our packs and setting out on the increasingly
narrow dirt track, we made good use of our hiking poles as it got steeper. My
focus was on careful foot placement as the trail got rockier. Before long,
there we were, higher than everything else around us. Finally looking down from
above, the mountain hut appeared in miniature below us, and the gondola was
hidden by the trees at the base of the mountain. The trail we had just followed
was indistinguishable in the large sweep of meadow grasses. We could gaze at
distant mountains, but it wasn’t clear enough to see the <st1:place w:st="on">Alps</st1:place>.
The guides gave us time to linger, absorbing the expansive view. Other than
human banter, the only sounds were the voices of the wind. With the group, I
shared an experience of awe amidst the geologic grandeur of Feldberg, a feeling
I savored as we soon headed down the mountain, step by step.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyAIFycT1KOiIaO1MNG80AoDh1SXihWWVtvAEkdrW-1hv3P9_6P2hoNVjDC9LoNgFyMD0_BwLjrtsrUnsV51GjYWcD6zaIfC4rclVDc8Lcg5C5fsC7sSp0bNppksvrYpcIOND0qZdYxfSYd8uNBt4dZ4155XF78z2PrCy8qCtlFrfZT0kfGDCNmgLf/s1334/Feldberg%20altitude.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyAIFycT1KOiIaO1MNG80AoDh1SXihWWVtvAEkdrW-1hv3P9_6P2hoNVjDC9LoNgFyMD0_BwLjrtsrUnsV51GjYWcD6zaIfC4rclVDc8Lcg5C5fsC7sSp0bNppksvrYpcIOND0qZdYxfSYd8uNBt4dZ4155XF78z2PrCy8qCtlFrfZT0kfGDCNmgLf/s320/Feldberg%20altitude.PNG" width="180" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">Western <b>capercaillies</b>, also
called wood grouse, are </span><st1:place w:st="on"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;">Europe</span></st1:place><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">'s
largest chicken birds.</span><span style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;"> They are not elegant
fliers due to their body weight and short, rounded wings</span><span style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">.
While taking off they produce a sudden thundering noise that deters predators.
Because of their body size and wingspan they avoid young and dense forests when
flying. While flying they rest in short gliding phases.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">They are considered very shy, live only in untouched mountain
forest regions and are seriously threatened with extinction. They have long
been part of the classic </span><st1:place style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;" w:st="on">Black Forest</st1:place><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;"> myth of
largely idyllic and intact nature</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #202122; font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">If you want
to know more, here’s a good site: </span><a href="https://ec.europa.eu/environment/nature/natura2000/management/gp/forest/01case_grouse.html" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">Overview of capercaillies</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">This amazing
story reflects the reality of humans interfacing with grouse: “</span><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2019/08/12/world/europe/germany-police-rare-bird-vigilantes.html" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">The
last grouse” story from the NY Times</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">Here’s a
link to the </span><b style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">mountain hut</b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;"> where we
ate lunch: </span><a href="https://www.hochschwarzwald.de/gastronomie/todtnauer-huette-c5f1dbc0a5" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">Todtnauer-huette</a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">.
You can see the menu yourself and test your German!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">This
Wikipedia article explains “mountain huts.” </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mountain_hut" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8pt;">Mountain hut</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 8.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><br /></span><p></p>Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-46640293736198834432023-01-09T22:05:00.000-08:002023-01-09T22:05:55.338-08:00"When I Die" by Sky Hedman<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div>Being one who lies awake outlining
the various future catastrophes that my life might encounter, I decided today
to instead visualize some Hollywood moments where I would be filled with
everlasting joy.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdc7gF7FKpclp3MVksG058v7aEkgg8G0VHwMy0XsBr2U29mL4Octum_NQSAPP6W7O8er02vJFQxE5Jx7ZivTgRgIb-c7JEOmOEY5WjZNhih_hBra7k1vhDVNi0QLGKv9_8p7kAdSy0suULA1FgvxDxnAXIeqrYgZ5Vlm48vkCjimBN-mFJVNOGWjAK/s3088/Sky%20good%20cello.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdc7gF7FKpclp3MVksG058v7aEkgg8G0VHwMy0XsBr2U29mL4Octum_NQSAPP6W7O8er02vJFQxE5Jx7ZivTgRgIb-c7JEOmOEY5WjZNhih_hBra7k1vhDVNi0QLGKv9_8p7kAdSy0suULA1FgvxDxnAXIeqrYgZ5Vlm48vkCjimBN-mFJVNOGWjAK/s320/Sky%20good%20cello.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course, one universal specter
that I worry about is “How will I die?” Not actually my moment of death, but
the period leading up to it. To be fair, I also worry about the time after my
death: Will Lynne be ok? If she isn’t alive, would my pets be taken care of?
This follows my anxiety about being lonely as I age, being alone, or worse yet,
being in a facility with understaffed and overworked aides and nurses, and no
pets</span><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>OK, I am not going further with the
details of these fears, all of which could easily happen, and most likely will happen.
Instead, I am going to create a glowing vision of the future. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It will start
with me being in perfect health until the moment I die. I will be energetic, I
will be physically rigorous. I will hear perfectly and see better than I do now.
I will still drive and dress myself and feed myself. Of course, I will have
plenty of money to sustain my lifestyle, so no worries there. The economy will
be so strong that the city, the state, the country and the world will be
prosperous. The oceans will be free of plastics. OK, maybe this dream is
getting too big, but you know what I mean, the world will be in such a state
that I don’t have to worry about it, even if I end up in a long term care
facility.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But wait, I am the creator of this
future. I will not be in a long term care facility. I will live in a friendly
neighborhood where I know my neighbors and children and their dogs. I will look
at a pleasant view out my window, like the one I have now, where I see <st1:placename w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype>
and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Lummi</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place> and Orcas.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Right, so I don’t need to create
that for the future. I already have it! It’s just, can I stay here as I age?
Which of us will die first, Lynne or me? I know I am in fantasy mode, so I
could draw the future such that we both die at the same time! Neither of us
will live through broken hearted loneliness that would come with being the
surviving partner. I could include an option for being the widow, but I
wouldn’t have crying jags, tears down my cheeks, rocking back and forth in
grief, because I would have researched healthy<u> </u>ways to grieve and I will
be following the directions to a T. And I wouldn’t be afraid at night by
myself, because…I would be a different person<u>!</u> I’m the author here, I
remind you. I’ll be filled with gratitude for the great life Lynne and I lived
together, and I will be consoled by memories.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>This future would be positive for all
of us, and we would all let go of our fears of the future. “No worries” would
be the honest truth. I would continue to wake up every morning full of optimism.
All until the day I die. And that day would be typical of every day in our
world. Days of having enough: enough food, warmth, companionship, views, cute
dogs, music, aspirations and lived dreams.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>Oh yes. I forgot the detail of how
I would die. I would receive a vision that my final day was coming. I would pull
out my detailed plan about who should be notified, who would take my pets, who
would empty the house and all that. I would listen one more time to YoYo Ma. I would already have bequeathed my cello
to a deserving student. People would care that I’m gone but they would have a
warm feeling in their hearts and smile when they think of me and my magical
powers to bequeath an ending that is happy to everyone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p> </o:p>Full, well paid employment for
caregivers!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Supportive, compassionate homes for
all children and pets.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sunlit days alternating with needed
rain.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Healthy trees filled with an
abundance of birds.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Fresh air in all directions.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Hands to hold.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Songs to sing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Love to overflow in each heart.</span></p><br /><p></p>Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-62188143751267953872022-06-28T21:47:00.001-07:002022-06-28T21:47:59.101-07:00Brown Swiss<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2tFAuw6wSRnvbeR_3QRAyRtTDcjAwsusoUbxOFJT9xskh0M9ivDySi10W7D7YdFM6Eass_7AYu1tOLsPkES37prYlDRtW44bo-1ipT94hgOTuzfi0E1FvU_yv1ijA3cDWN-Y0LDFwQArs_rpuLRv_QGg15XVpc-5_eGLCwu15RvC5fShOnZQEe3H/s4032/Breg'd%20summer%20pasture%20vista.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo2tFAuw6wSRnvbeR_3QRAyRtTDcjAwsusoUbxOFJT9xskh0M9ivDySi10W7D7YdFM6Eass_7AYu1tOLsPkES37prYlDRtW44bo-1ipT94hgOTuzfi0E1FvU_yv1ijA3cDWN-Y0LDFwQArs_rpuLRv_QGg15XVpc-5_eGLCwu15RvC5fShOnZQEe3H/w480-h640/Breg'd%20summer%20pasture%20vista.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">May 18, 2022 </span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">What surprised me about the deep gong of the cow bells was that each one struck a different note. The effect was a heavenly chorus ringing in my ears as I walked along the gravel path next to the mountain pasture in the Bregenzerwald area of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Austria</st1:country-region>. The cows were intent on grazing, first grabbing mouthfuls of fresh green grass, before shifting their weight, one hoof, then another, to focus on a fresh patch. My spirit rose, each sound ringing out in the gentle breeze. It mixed with the raven’s calls in the wind, fading into the expansive backdrop of verdant pastureland, forests and distant mountain peaks.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This herd of cows was utterly unconcerned with our presence.
At first, we came upon ten or fifteen of them grazing. As we climbed higher, we
encountered more in the herd of fifty, dispersed in the forest and upper
pastures. Our group of eighteen tourists were not a distraction to these
massive beings, who appeared bigger and longer the closer we came to them. They
dwarfed me, reaching to my shoulder height and seemingly as long as a compact
car. Most were a mocha brown color, with an elegant silky hide, and each had overfilled
udders protruding like basketballs between their hind legs. With their heads
down, a bell harnessed by a leather strap around their neck, and a short length
of chain dangling under their chins, they pursued the daily groove of a dairy
cow sustaining herself. To me, it was a gift of beauty from another century, a
precious moment. There were no other sounds except our booted feet scuffing the gravel
as we followed the modest driveway a thousand feet up to the farmhouse.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsW6gpIlmdTNX0-EhfkKKC36iMhUjj_geWXlM3533Tha24P5wdym7prgRXFyzwdcPexkgpWJz-s5Ntjc9WiWIt0kebWoa9AiSu4yRniC4wan3YUisrBbYEI3hxMJitHi613u5EUUJtSZvXlmGBSazfjo35lr792i_s6LKivv5jH7SZy69bVRz4cY1/s4032/IMG_4121.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsW6gpIlmdTNX0-EhfkKKC36iMhUjj_geWXlM3533Tha24P5wdym7prgRXFyzwdcPexkgpWJz-s5Ntjc9WiWIt0kebWoa9AiSu4yRniC4wan3YUisrBbYEI3hxMJitHi613u5EUUJtSZvXlmGBSazfjo35lr792i_s6LKivv5jH7SZy69bVRz4cY1/s320/IMG_4121.JPG" width="240" /></a><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">T<span style="font-family: verdana;">he cows had recently migrated to the summer pasture, called
“alm” in this area of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Austria</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
Spring weather and the melting of the snow had signaled the move from the valley
below to this higher elevation, a historic practice called “transhumance”. This
higher altitude pastureland--at 4000 feet--was subalpine, with cultivated
pastureland among the mountain forest. Here we (and they) were removed from
human-generated wearying sounds: cars driving by, tractors in the distance, train
whistles or airplanes overhead.<br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Our group of American tourists, Lynne and I included, all
surpassed sixty five years old. We were following the French tour guide,
Christian Fuhrmann. The evening before, he had led us on paths and lanes through the lower farms in
the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">village</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename w:st="on">Lindenau.</st1:placename></st1:place> Each farm in
the valley was a bustle of activity, as the farmers (mostly men) were shearing
the foot tall grass with hand scythes and mowers. This labor-intensive process was the first step in harvesting the grass for storage in the barn until
winter. Raising cows on grass in this pristine area, with clear water and clean air, and
then harvesting their milk to make cheese, results in cheese valued in the
market place for its quality and distinctive taste.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5S-H2aWnown0pc0I5D-cs1Avn1c9IFa0gH9iCYThpPSTnScG0mrOeZHZHoWQ4iVIF-PQcij7EgCIrFgEHwYbecpnal6RcPCsJ8dh5k1BnGh1034LiK-YVx8sAN1qlQF3iVWUkl0Vz7f4b5fNkGGHRJt7X7X1mnTw50NVZkiREWthFZsuNe9UrQ9vu/s4032/IMG_4061.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5S-H2aWnown0pc0I5D-cs1Avn1c9IFa0gH9iCYThpPSTnScG0mrOeZHZHoWQ4iVIF-PQcij7EgCIrFgEHwYbecpnal6RcPCsJ8dh5k1BnGh1034LiK-YVx8sAN1qlQF3iVWUkl0Vz7f4b5fNkGGHRJt7X7X1mnTw50NVZkiREWthFZsuNe9UrQ9vu/s320/IMG_4061.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now in their summer pasture, the herd of gals slowly makes its way to the milking barn at the top of the pasture land, walking with
surprising grace for 1400 pound animals with udders full of milk. Before
entering the barn, a few at a time, they vie for a long drink at the wooden water
trough. There a simple pipe suspended over the trough supplies a continuous steam
of cold, clear water. Later, I filled my water bottle from the same pipe.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZB3WCXqED6U-uzA5rOieanPvUjVsY1LqbGXFOzJilzb8eril08HNHInqS_MR_GMI0np5tyT79nVeMAKwYuanDSNIPBEGW5XQT1MnqDLysstyyBFPRzlaSCRQqHLpDvi-14WfnPQuxV_hm5PLvZPwVus_JxugMOYx_R_ShuW-xIlTvg6hQg5FY8N5/s4032/Berg%20cows%20and%20calf%20at%20trough.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZB3WCXqED6U-uzA5rOieanPvUjVsY1LqbGXFOzJilzb8eril08HNHInqS_MR_GMI0np5tyT79nVeMAKwYuanDSNIPBEGW5XQT1MnqDLysstyyBFPRzlaSCRQqHLpDvi-14WfnPQuxV_hm5PLvZPwVus_JxugMOYx_R_ShuW-xIlTvg6hQg5FY8N5/s320/Berg%20cows%20and%20calf%20at%20trough.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The shady milking barn was fitted with individual stalls,
and each stall had mechanical equipment that I, a suburban person, supposed
were the milking machines. The pipes running around the periphery delivered the
milk to the adjacent cheese making room.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Each of the fifty cows had a name in addition to its distinctive
bell. Christian repeated a story about the ten year old son of the cheese
maker. One evening, he was sitting at a table doing his homework when the cows
were gathering at the barn to be milked. The flow of cows ended, but the boy
looked up and said, “One is missing,” and named the cow. The farmer went out to
find the cow, just as it crested the hill and wandered into the barn.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Milling around between the house and a rock wall graced with
various shades of purple phlox, our group met the female farmer. Between our
guides’ introductions, and answers to our questions, we learned more about her.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vjv0_SDS1N0mH14On3LmfZKMFfk-MkfUOkBRXsIjv-zqoNAQ1MmhbbQNqoIptcMCLh6rUwNvbTBTJdhhLTf9__7eqLMQbBVDF__xGEx86QauwWDczZbY41WdhRmbVfApj9vDtEuXCbiwT0w-rapcNiKAlMYCC2n93yAoACbFCFEqWEs0vbL-7QQS/s4032/Berg%20flox%20wall%20best.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9vjv0_SDS1N0mH14On3LmfZKMFfk-MkfUOkBRXsIjv-zqoNAQ1MmhbbQNqoIptcMCLh6rUwNvbTBTJdhhLTf9__7eqLMQbBVDF__xGEx86QauwWDczZbY41WdhRmbVfApj9vDtEuXCbiwT0w-rapcNiKAlMYCC2n93yAoACbFCFEqWEs0vbL-7QQS/s320/Berg%20flox%20wall%20best.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The farmer, Tina, was shy, but friendly, as curious about us
as we were about her. With short graying hair and a stretchy gray top over her
ample bosom, she wore simple black shorts and Birkenstock sandals. Her work was
milking cows twice a day, seven days a week and making the cheese daily. In
addition, each day she flipped every wheel of cheese that is aging in the expansive storage
room.</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRcS0UlK6-kq9od_oKI4zrxc4DCB4AsPpUkCy917zK18qJvxZdqAwBzkUwisVcn3saUy6jEbjqQ5R1KCT-S1YJpOt1lmFpqnI6qNtCLmBD9OdVZhshAR6LK4728eGkkFcpAiaZrjZWLcx91AHr6Ihl6pPK078OVqyBtGtSl7kooWJd_OK8KOZlJmBl/s4032/IMG_4066.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRcS0UlK6-kq9od_oKI4zrxc4DCB4AsPpUkCy917zK18qJvxZdqAwBzkUwisVcn3saUy6jEbjqQ5R1KCT-S1YJpOt1lmFpqnI6qNtCLmBD9OdVZhshAR6LK4728eGkkFcpAiaZrjZWLcx91AHr6Ihl6pPK078OVqyBtGtSl7kooWJd_OK8KOZlJmBl/w300-h400/IMG_4066.JPG" width="300" /></span></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">We struggled to learn the breed of these cows from the
German-speaking farmer. She answered our French-speaking guides, who then
translated into English. The first answer was that these were “brown” cows, a
seemingly obvious tag that could apply to many cows around the world. The hides
of these cows had a light brown sheen, almost a cashmere appearance, more
elegant and distinctive than the brown and white cows that I knew from my
childhood. Their horns had black tips. After further conversation in German to
French to English, a better answer surfaced. Many of these, but not all, were Brown Swiss
cows.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“How did you come to be a cheesemaker?” we asked her. She
looked straight at us when she answered in German. Then the guide translated.
“Her father told her that she had to take this job after her uncle died.” As
a female cheesemaker, she is in the minority. She has the help of two teenaged
relatives, a girl and a boy, who volunteered to move up here for the summer, with
the bonus that they are excused from school during the summer pasture season.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Do you have internet?” one of us asked. Tina responded
immediately, “Yes, the children wouldn’t come up here without it.” Tina also
speculated that she didn’t think that the next generation would take on this
work.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Tina has been tending cows and making cheese for 23 years,
in addition to mothering her children. Her husband works at a separate
occupation. She starts making cheese at five am every day, way too
early for American tourists tucked in their hotel rooms in the valley below to
witness. She agreed to tell us about the milking and cheese making process, so we
gathered inside the building. One end was the house, the other end was the barn, and the cheese
making kitchen and cheese storing room were in between. The cheese making room, adjacent to the
milking barn, was sunken to basement level and rose two stories tall, with a
balcony halfway up at the home level.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHL0i4qdTlyORkpdt_08A88Os9J6f7xRHUL6CMRmjlRzPvOCvPDTv5eHAbxfiQksdMgh-rREZ7hw90_ILJueZFbFvBls7odG1tguRsNzLUV0C8GgRTrAimka0_ZVk5NgEdfSGNUXGX5veE66B-hQ_7-udGQ5vneULADMJJyYLC7U9T-lrT7h9zuNK/s4032/Berg%20cheese%20making%20vats.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigHL0i4qdTlyORkpdt_08A88Os9J6f7xRHUL6CMRmjlRzPvOCvPDTv5eHAbxfiQksdMgh-rREZ7hw90_ILJueZFbFvBls7odG1tguRsNzLUV0C8GgRTrAimka0_ZVk5NgEdfSGNUXGX5veE66B-hQ_7-udGQ5vneULADMJJyYLC7U9T-lrT7h9zuNK/s320/Berg%20cheese%20making%20vats.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i>There I stood, leaning on the wooden railing, looking down
at two gleaming, over sized copper vats which received the milk from the cows
in the barn. Stainless steel countertops lined one wall lit by sun filled
windows. Earlier that day, like every day, she had turned the fresh milk into four
rounds of white cheese. The long paddles, sieves and scales hanging from the
wall gave a hint of what was required.</i></p></i></span></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcNn2RXGMPNkXj7wToQfmnV3UiHCIaS0bKRNxsYmfm6-lkkWxwtYYSUmKFZJRDfzxbyaqCQw_Pn25sZDwpCk7p_4_SAyY_bpWAn5Wqug4spGdC4AZXDT4laYf8KIqCOupV0B-tIE00DwqO8WpWyn1A2KTjM36ZSHWF7Mch5wc96IcNIu_L4vAaOOp/s4032/Berg%20Tina%20and%20turning%20cheese.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: verdana; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcNn2RXGMPNkXj7wToQfmnV3UiHCIaS0bKRNxsYmfm6-lkkWxwtYYSUmKFZJRDfzxbyaqCQw_Pn25sZDwpCk7p_4_SAyY_bpWAn5Wqug4spGdC4AZXDT4laYf8KIqCOupV0B-tIE00DwqO8WpWyn1A2KTjM36ZSHWF7Mch5wc96IcNIu_L4vAaOOp/w214-h320/Berg%20Tina%20and%20turning%20cheese.JPG" width="214" /></span></a></div><p></p></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Today’s cheese was already sitting in a cheese press, each round
covered in cheesecloth. A single wheel seemed about two feet in diameter and six inches
thick, weighing about 77 pounds. It was so heavy that when she raised up the
cheese cloth from one edge, and deftly flipped the wheel over on the stainless
steel counter, it landed with a loud THUMP which startled everyone in the large
room. She tightened the circular wood form shaping the wheel of cheese, before
returning it to the cheese press. By the end of the day, the new wheels of
cheese would be rolled to the adjacent cold storage room.</span></i></p></blockquote></div></blockquote></blockquote><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXeFKdNSVDE2rhBc7K7Gr8ZkoLzXx-vkx9Z2Oc9HftVEBJrfTPt8Cf58POYZA6MjA1JjJuzVTrbUIc9fTWbIYGEuGecd7Vfr5EvOAKNsxncmbLDBsOlHJJXSxHf0hNTt8N6pgd3BiQBF4MsG_o0kEPoFPA2OGRatvOJnpu3idNxQdWv-gLOJr6JHkn/s4032/Berg%20cheese%20wheel%20finished.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXeFKdNSVDE2rhBc7K7Gr8ZkoLzXx-vkx9Z2Oc9HftVEBJrfTPt8Cf58POYZA6MjA1JjJuzVTrbUIc9fTWbIYGEuGecd7Vfr5EvOAKNsxncmbLDBsOlHJJXSxHf0hNTt8N6pgd3BiQBF4MsG_o0kEPoFPA2OGRatvOJnpu3idNxQdWv-gLOJr6JHkn/s320/Berg%20cheese%20wheel%20finished.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Outside the house on a wood picnic table, Tina put out a
wheel of her aged cheese for us to sample. Now covered with a yellow rind, this
hard cheese was about six months old. My mouth filled with its full, rich,
tangy flavor, still lingering in my taste buds as we took our leave and started
walking back down the mountain.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I chatted briefly with Lynne, then I fell behind in order to
take more photos to add to the many pictures I had already taken. Eventually I
walked silently. I felt that I had glimpsed a truly different space, one free
from the cacophony of urban living noises and distractions that make up a
typical day for me. I could see the amount of arduous labor required to keep up
this regional tradition. I could sense the isolation that was also the beauty
of the summer pasture. I was grateful for this experience.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4Hltz5w_9sCRvGcRilrb_doRt2BVrfYNk8MJAu1SDJUkhdGYmlNL20JKYRnQ97pVraJqFiOl6y-x845yQul9-Wn-_-Sm4aV-0OrNSfaTXjnqyNp1lqMb192gFIOPCAPjC0yyQQcUhKKpxzUEskhLcc7kUGlVDNJAvFWxjO8pQ1QptEJmgeXQcqi9/s4032/Berg%20Sky%20&%20Lynne%20and%20vita.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4Hltz5w_9sCRvGcRilrb_doRt2BVrfYNk8MJAu1SDJUkhdGYmlNL20JKYRnQ97pVraJqFiOl6y-x845yQul9-Wn-_-Sm4aV-0OrNSfaTXjnqyNp1lqMb192gFIOPCAPjC0yyQQcUhKKpxzUEskhLcc7kUGlVDNJAvFWxjO8pQ1QptEJmgeXQcqi9/s320/Berg%20Sky%20&%20Lynne%20and%20vita.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><br />***********</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">Facts:</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Alpine transhumance</b>: seasonal migration to high mountain
pastures (Alp, Alm)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Braunvieh cow</b>, a breed of domestic cattle originating in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Switzerland</st1:country-region></st1:place>
and distributed throughout the Alpine region. It falls within the “<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Brown</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placetype></st1:place>”
group of cattle breeds. In modern times, it is primarily a dairy breed. Average
female with is 610 kg. Female 135 cm. The American Brown Swiss makes up 75% of
genetics of the Swiss Braunvieh. Brown or grey-brown in color. Nose is black
and encircled by a pale ring. The horns are pale with dark points. A female cow
produces between 7200 and 12,000 litres per year.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>Bregenzerwalder Kasekeller</b> opened in Lingenau in 2002. More
than 32,000 cheese wheels are stored for aging in this cheese cellar. It was an
initiative of the Kasestrase Bregenzerwald, to preserve small-scale agriculture
and the diversity of local products in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Bregenz</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Forest</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
and to support Vorarlberg’s cheese culture.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The cheese made from the summer pasture: <b>Alpkase,
Voralberger Bergkase</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Cheese made from winter pasture (beginning of October to end
of May): <b>Bergkase</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><o:p> </o:p><b>The Bregenzerwald Umgang</b> “Bregenzerwald Walking tour”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><o:p> </o:p>Lingenau, in southwest Austria</b>:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Population 1,466 in 2018</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Elevation </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">2,247 ft</span></span></p></div>Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-31042108336292672572021-10-03T17:30:00.000-07:002021-10-03T17:30:18.732-07:00Antidote<div style="text-align: left;">I experience a softening in my heart just from his head
resting on my foot. He’s an oaf now, walks on stiff legs like a Tennessee
Walker horse. When he trots, his ears bounce on either side of his enormous head. This young puppy
gallops when he reaches top speed—way too fast to keep up with on a leash. We make frequent use of the spacious off leash area of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Whatcom</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Falls</st1:placetype>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>, a special opportunity
for him to really stretch his legs and for us to enjoy the woods. Our front yard, with grass already
struggling to flourish under our big Douglas Firs, is beaten down daily. The
shrubs have been pruned by this guy, who is to be excused for his constant
chewing. He’s so young we count his age in months, eight of them. Our boy gives
an extra hop when he wants to play. A moment later, he studies the ant crawling
on the pavement.</div>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5AxlvFXVQ6qhPAvluhneCHWYwADFoWgu9PlFHmFgUR9r4XvYefMycd9g6cl3ESb_ZShSDUcq3YVdfnvEIZSaR-_TyGEPO4zbeadDb9G1vqNklpTrfCb03qdtI3Vnahj9sOII_wqQr7-Y/s2048/IMG_1258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5AxlvFXVQ6qhPAvluhneCHWYwADFoWgu9PlFHmFgUR9r4XvYefMycd9g6cl3ESb_ZShSDUcq3YVdfnvEIZSaR-_TyGEPO4zbeadDb9G1vqNklpTrfCb03qdtI3Vnahj9sOII_wqQr7-Y/s320/IMG_1258.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>“His name is Anders,” we say, then explain that a friend who
saw a photo of him soon after we got him from the shelter said, “He looks like
Anderson Cooper.” Its true Anders has a serious expression, brown eyes that
hold a steady gaze. His short cropped hair is marked with a stripe of white
like the famous newscaster. Mostly people laugh; some say “The silver fox!” We
joke that the name Anders also fits because my grandfather was Swedish. When people
pronounce his name “Ahnders”, we don’t correct them. After all, he has Scandinavian
heritage.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The paws of Mr. Puppy are so big that they are conversation starters—complete strangers cheerfully offer “Look how big his paws are!” or
“He’s going to grow into those paws!” Those feet are bigger than those of any dog we have had,
or might have seen, even though Lynne and I have had seven previous dogs in our
43 years together. At six months, Anders’ paws were bigger than mine (my human
hand), and the pads are as thick as rubber tires. Now at eight months, we consider
his ever increasing paws one of the wonders of the world. He curls them tight
to his chest when he lies down.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaKCfFkRPz3MRk_8uB6OGJYYaY9cxpXkExjJG4LKVySOG6zZB0BUZikz9sThpN8OEO_hlKWNArab1KPFZIRowXNDbia__DWHuavJAy0wMEDKLq_NWaWE0de-e0giEkTByGbZD364miM8/s2048/Anders+by+Cyndi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaKCfFkRPz3MRk_8uB6OGJYYaY9cxpXkExjJG4LKVySOG6zZB0BUZikz9sThpN8OEO_hlKWNArab1KPFZIRowXNDbia__DWHuavJAy0wMEDKLq_NWaWE0de-e0giEkTByGbZD364miM8/s2048/Anders+by+Cyndi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikc8Lsi9EkIj3ymawlBc2sbdfzTE6nHkTZ0IwGUY51RWlfbWlzRQ-8EFsXysSoQPSkBfC0ybzDEXv1MCWwywa4BpqSH_I5LTKMkkE9fv_ZKFlsDPpUdWaGR45d-nXCu4h6P71OfAZRR0w/s2048/sleeping+at+7+months.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikc8Lsi9EkIj3ymawlBc2sbdfzTE6nHkTZ0IwGUY51RWlfbWlzRQ-8EFsXysSoQPSkBfC0ybzDEXv1MCWwywa4BpqSH_I5LTKMkkE9fv_ZKFlsDPpUdWaGR45d-nXCu4h6P71OfAZRR0w/s320/sleeping+at+7+months.JPG" width="240" /></a></div></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The large, blue plaid and fleece dog bed from Costco that
our generous friends gave us when we got Anders is now too small. When Jerri
and Lynn first carried it ceremoniously up our front walk, I blurted out,
“That’s huge! He’s just a little puppy.” At the time, Anders was ten weeks old
and he weighed six pounds. Now, at eight months, he is 63 pounds and falls in
the category of “large breed." I used my spreadsheet skills to create a growth
chart for him—age on the x axis and weight on the y axis. For seven months his
numbers showed an unrelenting upward climb. We swear that he is bigger every morning than he was when we went to bed. Only recently has the line started
curving, suggesting that his growth rate slowed. This runt who had been turned
into the Humane Society near death grows steadily larger day by day, fueled, no
doubt, by the constant intake of premium puppy food.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Anders has a personality unique to himself. Our biggest worry with him is not running away, but lying down. If he lies down, in the
front yard after dark, for example, or in a neighbor’s front lawn during a
walk, he won’t budge. Neither coaxing, sweet talking nor issuing stern commands
have any effect. Luring him with treats is useless. We assume he trained in Gandhi’s
nonviolent resistance concepts before turning up at the Whatcom Humane Society.
Here’s our technique in response: I scoop under his belly and raise up his hind
quarters, a somewhat athletic challenge for me at age 70. Then he gathers up
his front legs, at which point I push from the rear and he starts moving
forward. Lynne and I prefer to resort to this maneuver when no one else is
looking, so we don’t end up going viral on YouTube.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>If Anders has one deficiency, it is his seriousness. He is
not affectionate in the way of spaniels or poodles or most other love bugs. Our
dog does not always greet us at the front door when we return home. “Anders,” Lynne
says when she finally locates him in the house, “a tail wag lets us know you
love us.” He looks up, raising his hard head from where he is sleeping, and
gives a few faint wags before resuming his slumber.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We might be too old for this,” Lynne and I agree. At ages
73 and 70, we are no match for his power when he spots a rabbit on one of our
daily walks. Falling flat on the pavement with one outstretched arm attached to
his leash is not the outcome that either of us would choose, so we have sought
advice from friends and YouTube videos, as well as dog trainers. We tried a
regular collar, a fancy martingale, a slip collar, a vest harness, a harness
that attaches to the leash on the top, and a harness that attaches to his
front, all with basically imperceptible improvement. Two things have worked to keep
him from pulling: bribing him with treats, and using a prong collar, which
seems to convince him to slow down.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaKCfFkRPz3MRk_8uB6OGJYYaY9cxpXkExjJG4LKVySOG6zZB0BUZikz9sThpN8OEO_hlKWNArab1KPFZIRowXNDbia__DWHuavJAy0wMEDKLq_NWaWE0de-e0giEkTByGbZD364miM8/s320/Anders+by+Cyndi.JPG" width="240" /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Lynne and I have had a much easier time with the chewing
issue, thanks to advice from others. From the day we brought him home, friends
have given us a motley and somewhat exotic array of chew toys: rubber kongs,
non-meat venison sticks, bully sticks (bull penises, very expensive), Himalayan
cheese sticks, soup bones, antlers, and the best of all: beef kneecaps. Little
did we know that an industry has blossomed around keeping our pets from chewing
our shoes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the way, Anders now has four dog beds, and we just
ordered a bigger one, size Extra Large. Also delivered to our door this week: the
dog swimming pool. His treats, an array of tasty morsels that sit in
non-recyclable plastic zip lock bags in one corner of our kitchen, include
Trader Joe’s Charley Bear Dog Treats with beef liver, miniature Milkbones,
heart shaped lamb treats, salmon bits and lamb flavored dry kibble, for the
cat, to keep her from eating the lamb flavored dog kibble.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>In this time of the COVID pandemic, economic turmoil, the
rise in homelessness, Black Lives Matter demonstrations, Me Too allegations and
rabid right wing challenges to democracy, why do I write about our new puppy? Raising
a puppy has its benefits as well as its challenges. He's a charmer, and Lynne and I keep each other apprised of his latest cute pose. Our social life has improved, as promised by one of the raising a puppy books we read. Taking him for daily long walks has vastly improved our connection with our neighbors, whose first names we are learning after living nearby for 12 years. We learn their dog's names also, and frequently set up play dates for Anders. We spend more time outdoors in all kinds of weather, and more time at the lake or nearby rivers where he loves to splash around in the water. I've taken to thinking of him as my personal fitness trainer. At home, we also have
a private kind of puppy fun in our old age, despite the odds. It is a primal joy to see him galumph around the yard squeaking with his toys, shaking a knotted
rope, or wrestling with dog pals. At the end of the day, we are content when he sits on our feet. Loving a puppy is a compelling
force, an antidote to all that isn’t working.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6alDj0D9fP_nzCKKKdl9uWZJON7H_w5UfjAcY6sTu1Iay0jsbox5F4ObUF9Hq7HX6-lJe7aCykASZnyhEYWlWeN6i6cGj_De1i0PNp9RAOkTfEjfP77IJM-7Vp8aIMdKhhID8z8u23ug/s4032/IMG_2692.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6alDj0D9fP_nzCKKKdl9uWZJON7H_w5UfjAcY6sTu1Iay0jsbox5F4ObUF9Hq7HX6-lJe7aCykASZnyhEYWlWeN6i6cGj_De1i0PNp9RAOkTfEjfP77IJM-7Vp8aIMdKhhID8z8u23ug/w519-h389/IMG_2692.JPG" width="519" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-49562295515661644882019-05-28T19:15:00.001-07:002019-06-05T18:30:34.630-07:00RemembranceA cloudless night with a full moon. The surprising white light, high above, outlines the trees and the buildings, reflects off the water, makes jazzy designs on the gentle waves. A night that makes you look up, and feel expansive, feel awed by natural beauty, feel peaceful, feel connected to people far away. A soldier in the south of England might think of his home on the opposite shore of the Atlantic Ocean, a home he left six months ago. A place with a family that he might never see again.<br />
<br />
Low tide at dawn. Waves landing and then sucking away from the shore, drawing pebbles and sand back into the English Channel with each cycle. The sandy beach widening, the cliffs moving further away from the water’s edge. In the early hour, few souls awake to witness this moment.<br />
<br />
Calm seas. Looking across the greenish blue expanse from England, the horizon disappearing into the sea, the coast of France too far away to see. The sight is soothing in good weather, sobering in a storm.<br />
<div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDser2iErf7bbBIS9j_7BmZdsLvf-xYqeTi1vQm11138ySWs5LHvnrZm2pRRNGLIjOOWgJyir1PrOZr1vkib8g0I9bB3nzWrDQxdH-0s1h9elmaT2KAxgOL4gxiy6bjwxUYfWZUPr00U/s1600/7+Pt+du+Hoc+looking+east+from+Pt+du+Hoc.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDser2iErf7bbBIS9j_7BmZdsLvf-xYqeTi1vQm11138ySWs5LHvnrZm2pRRNGLIjOOWgJyir1PrOZr1vkib8g0I9bB3nzWrDQxdH-0s1h9elmaT2KAxgOL4gxiy6bjwxUYfWZUPr00U/s320/7+Pt+du+Hoc+looking+east+from+Pt+du+Hoc.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coast of Normandy, France, looking east towards Omaha Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
A long day of sunlight.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the northern latitude, early morning light touched my eyelids at 5:20 am this morning. No darkness will signal day’s end until almost 9 pm. The coastline in Normandy, France, is almost the same latitude as our home in Bellingham, Washington.<br />
<br />
Seventy five years ago, General Dwight Eisenhower was in a trailer in southern England contemplating stormy weather and deciding when to invade France. The Allies had drawn up a 700 page plan that included split-second timing defined for every phase. Success depended a full moon, a low tide at dawn, calm seas, and a long summer day.<br />
<br />
June 6, 1944 has been called “The Longest Day.” The invasion ultimately succeeded, but the price was the loss of many human lives. When I try to put into words why this story is so compelling to me, I falter. I am not generally interested in military history. I picketed and marched against the Vietnam War. I am not in favor of solving differences by going to war. Any trauma that I have experienced has been personal, in shades of hurt or discrimination or loss. I think of death in terms of one person at a time: one brother, one friend, one mother. I have limited experience with physical violence. I have never been in an army and I have rarely been part of a team.<br />
<br />
Maybe because of this, the first hand accounts that I read touch my heart. I hear about paratroopers who are dropped from their planes after midnight many miles off course, sometimes into marshes or the English Channel. Although the moon was full, the clouds obscured landmarks and pilots lost their way. The storm in the English Channel resulted in rough seas. I read about young men who followed orders to step off their landing craft even though their buddy or their commander was just shot. I read about soldiers directed to ignore cries of help from their fellow soldiers in order to complete their missions. I read about amphibious tanks and their crews that sank in five foot waves. This is the story that has grabbed my attention and stirred my soul. Young men placing themselves in the line of gunfire and likely death. Inexperienced soldiers struggling to stay alive on both sides. Terror as the German defenses wiped out the first wave of American soldiers. Horrifying images of dead bodies on Omaha beach. Bodies left at sea. Many missing in action. Leaders lost, troops re-grouping.<br />
<br />
On our recent trip to France, I also heard personal stories of the toll that the Occupation and invasion had on the people of Normandy, and on the German soldiers. For four years, the French people who lived in Normandy had been controlled by the Germans occupying their towns and the coastline. Their sons were sent against their will to Germany for Obligatory work service. The German soldiers assigned to Normandy were often as young as fifteen. Many of the German soldiers were poorly motivated prisoners from the countries that Germany had invaded, given a choice between joining the German military or prison. All but three cities in Normandy were destroyed by the Allied bombing.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0vigeWV0i45eSyshfNyboE3h8y1HY45dIR-O-mh8norS5A4120RtM1IZzO7LFVtzpT6E4uYYNr9NLvWGx55TS3ZiSO-PO_bvVqZ6WhO03OSh4hLbknWjoQOaK9FbYxFyGk5VLtIkuCg/s1600/8+American+Cemetery+crosses+and+Jewish+marker.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0vigeWV0i45eSyshfNyboE3h8y1HY45dIR-O-mh8norS5A4120RtM1IZzO7LFVtzpT6E4uYYNr9NLvWGx55TS3ZiSO-PO_bvVqZ6WhO03OSh4hLbknWjoQOaK9FbYxFyGk5VLtIkuCg/s320/8+American+Cemetery+crosses+and+Jewish+marker.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Normandy American Cemetery, France</td></tr>
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<div>
When we went to the American Cemetery in Normandy, I found what I had expected and more. Nine thousand graves, each marked with a white stone cross or a star of David, and the name of the soldier, when known. The cemetery is above the English Channel. The experience was somber but also scripted, from the recording of Taps to the uplifting quotations on the walls. Visitors, old and young, meandered across the grassy expanse and back to the parking lot. On the spring day that we were there, the birds serenaded us, the breeze refreshed our skin, and we had to be back at the bus in an hour.<br />
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The La Cambe German cemetery was ten miles down the road and not far from Omaha Beach. Where the American Cemetery was populated with 9,000 white markers, the flat grave markers in German cemetery were in natural stone. 20,000 German soldiers were buried there. Each gravestone marked the body of two fallen German soldiers. Their birth and death dates were engraved below the names. We could easily calculate that many of the soldiers died before the age of twenty. It was here that our French guide spoke more personally about her family history than she had throughout the three days we had spent with her. “We must distinguish between Germans and Nazis,” she told us.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNUJ4lohqffEV-xqz22a43_o_8cdablenPlvEzOd7mO8UCU3HAf0hVCfh_CkYVysDSOrEnzhM2g8q-UV4vwpA1Dqiz0dAoIS2B5tKATf1MNCsLCJTcTLbwQgHolU8uLoY9mRzvjrv8xk/s1600/8+German+cemetery+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZNUJ4lohqffEV-xqz22a43_o_8cdablenPlvEzOd7mO8UCU3HAf0hVCfh_CkYVysDSOrEnzhM2g8q-UV4vwpA1Dqiz0dAoIS2B5tKATf1MNCsLCJTcTLbwQgHolU8uLoY9mRzvjrv8xk/s320/8+German+cemetery+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Cambe German Cemetery, France</td></tr>
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<div>
The story of D-Day has been told and re-told in countless books and movies, although not necessarily over the dinner table. The part of this long story I want to tell is of the great human tragedy that unfolded on D-Day. It was part of a massive human effort to stop the horrors that Adolph Hitler and his forces were inflicting on the people of Europe. The Allies did succeed with time.<br />
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This story was not told to us by our fathers. Their story is also one of silence and return to normalcy. “We did what we had to,” our fathers said, if they said anything at all.<br />
<br />
In this week between Memorial Day and June 6th, 75 years since D-Day, I reflect on loss and horror. My heart goes out to both those who were lost and those who survived D-Day. Your story is alive in me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EieciDqhLYUsNhpjqOzdPlU2UgBEqAeiguRaoZbq9weUoykpqlSfAzjSWDnWeqgECs4nGubrpC4Nl8E1-QS_pbXO6Z8tpIrNStp1alY_6OtpXqlr5Yj-dXyrA7k6CBTvrmbbV3d6G74/s1600/8+American+cemetery+Quote+American+cemetery.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EieciDqhLYUsNhpjqOzdPlU2UgBEqAeiguRaoZbq9weUoykpqlSfAzjSWDnWeqgECs4nGubrpC4Nl8E1-QS_pbXO6Z8tpIrNStp1alY_6OtpXqlr5Yj-dXyrA7k6CBTvrmbbV3d6G74/s320/8+American+cemetery+Quote+American+cemetery.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-13233140243582701252018-08-26T12:20:00.001-07:002018-08-26T12:28:49.322-07:00Ten Things About Iceland<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgGo2yjHYKpN-4zodYTEfawlmWM4Onl6mnCjxxgXzmkgn-92_c-itGVaA7O5UEwkco_ObZyXx6br524FH_c4pBgECl6hZzdwDzKgdvLyiMJRNRCCv8jXVqy239GU-1JqmGWNbtRrkfz8/s1600/gullfoss.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="1280" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgGo2yjHYKpN-4zodYTEfawlmWM4Onl6mnCjxxgXzmkgn-92_c-itGVaA7O5UEwkco_ObZyXx6br524FH_c4pBgECl6hZzdwDzKgdvLyiMJRNRCCv8jXVqy239GU-1JqmGWNbtRrkfz8/s640/gullfoss.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gullfoss</td></tr>
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It's a country where you can safely drink out of any stream. It has about 500 earthquakes per week. All the sheep are free range. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_Happiness_Report" target="_blank">It was #4 on the 2018 Happiness Index.</a></div>
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We went to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region>
on a Road Scholar hiking tour of southern <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region> for a
week this summer (2018.) I was not expecting it to be so different, so intriguing. I was wondering what it would be like to be so far north.</div>
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Here’s some of what I came
away with.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLt127Mr8rTKdpSQ3X_yBK_5tZ3gNxY5N8kyK0w-oVytZcHEsdd38G5F_MdPqRGNDXkfTUkNCrOyZYRPIxcAZi4_Bn2_Wzms4IqGWfNKe6GxSwgtriniRGER8U8NKxrEVYqpTqTRPta0/s1600/Asdis+at+cathral+floor.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVLt127Mr8rTKdpSQ3X_yBK_5tZ3gNxY5N8kyK0w-oVytZcHEsdd38G5F_MdPqRGNDXkfTUkNCrOyZYRPIxcAZi4_Bn2_Wzms4IqGWfNKe6GxSwgtriniRGER8U8NKxrEVYqpTqTRPta0/s400/Asdis+at+cathral+floor.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our guides, Ásdís Birgisdóttir </td></tr>
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1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Who Lives in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland?</st1:country-region>
</b>There are only 350,000 residents of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region>,
almost all of them living in or near the capital, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Reykjavik</st1:city></st1:place>. (The least populated US state, Wyoming has 573,000 people.)</div>
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There are 4.5 million visitors each year. Tourism is <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s
number one industry. </div>
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The entire country is smaller than the <st1:country-region w:st="on">US</st1:country-region> state of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kentucky</st1:place></st1:state>.</div>
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2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Geothermal heat </b>The North American
tectonic plate and the Eurasian tectonic plate meet, or actually, almost meet underneath <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region></st1:place>.
The two tectonic plates are drifting apart, causing a rift where magma from the
center of our earth flows closer to the surface of the earth. </div>
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Icelanders realized that access to the extreme heat of
the magma could be a resource. In the 1930s, they constructed an elementary
school which used heat from magma to warm the building. They installed a backup
heat source, a coal burning furnace, in the building. This elementary
school is still in use today, and is still heated from the geothermal system.
The coal burning furnace has never been turned on.</div>
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Today, <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
uses geothermal energy to heat 85% of houses, as well as some city streets. Geothermal heat also is used to create electricity.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttaTntSGd-tu1gLa1e8hbWHstOwGUlzq6wB7ej3fqQ4xsnaOcsAOvOADWrwMuR4y7vWAyhpTRLZTTaOU27rTGOBDQ6ir-jhOuAvRinxtZ4FdpvN2xZH3yxHTGKlrNOwZaV6Sna8CYXaA/s1600/mineral+spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="1118" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttaTntSGd-tu1gLa1e8hbWHstOwGUlzq6wB7ej3fqQ4xsnaOcsAOvOADWrwMuR4y7vWAyhpTRLZTTaOU27rTGOBDQ6ir-jhOuAvRinxtZ4FdpvN2xZH3yxHTGKlrNOwZaV6Sna8CYXaA/s640/mineral+spring.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the mineral springs at the Geysir area</td></tr>
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3. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Settlement:</b> <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region> remained uninhabited long after <st1:place w:st="on">Western Europe</st1:place> had been settled. There were no indigenous
inhabitants of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
before the Viking explorers and their slaves arrived. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Vikings came from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Norway</st1:country-region>, <span style="font-family: inherit;">and</span> Ingólfur Arnarson built the first sett<span style="font-family: inherit;">lement, in 873 AD, where <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Reykjavik</st1:place></st1:city>
exists today.</span></div>
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Of the early female settlers, DNA tests support that <a href="https://www.blogger.com/%C2%A0http://www.arnastofnun.is/page/the_origins_of_the_icelanders" target="_blank">63% of the early female settlers</a> were Celtic. They did not come from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Norway</st1:country-region>,
but the British Isles.</div>
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In 930 AD, twenty five chieftains developed a parliament <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 15px;">(</span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 15px;"><a href="http://www.althingi.is/" style="color: #772222; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Alþingi</a>) </i>and a set of laws by which to govern <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>. It was the first of that sort of government in the world.<span style="font-family: inherit;">The most sacred place to
Icelanders is the area where the first assembly took place</span> in a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rift_valley">rift valley</a> that marks the crest of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mid-Atlantic_Ridge">Mid-Atlantic Ridge</a> and the boundary between the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_American_Plate">North American</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurasian_Plate">Eurasian</a> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tectonic_plate">tectonic plates</a>.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWaaagRhoUOAJuPfEoO1KEj2FriPH4JZUwXUkg-hSSS4jOKT00HwuiGXVy9kQSHhmY8bTLiwfs8fq4tFTVDq-u1ohLWCByo3zwcO0oLarLvp1ujVQqtn4nMtcQIyxT_ul5sdfMW_L8nF8/s1600/historic+photo+of+couple.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="1118" height="479" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWaaagRhoUOAJuPfEoO1KEj2FriPH4JZUwXUkg-hSSS4jOKT00HwuiGXVy9kQSHhmY8bTLiwfs8fq4tFTVDq-u1ohLWCByo3zwcO0oLarLvp1ujVQqtn4nMtcQIyxT_ul5sdfMW_L8nF8/s640/historic+photo+of+couple.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo is on display in a restored sod house in Skogar.</td></tr>
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4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Hidden People?</b> Belief in elves? OK, I Googled this after our guide, Helgi, brought up the topic. Only
ten percent of Icelanders believe in elves or hidden people. However, a higher
number of Icelanders will not rule out their existence. </div>
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When <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region>
was controlled by <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Norway</st1:place></st1:country-region>,
the official religion was Catholicism. When the Danes took over <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland after 1523</st1:place></st1:country-region>, the
Catholic bishop was beheaded (the Christian way to resolve differences.) The
official religion is now Lutheranism, however, you wouldn’t know that from
speaking with the young Icelandic people. Our “Free Walking Tour of Reyjkavik” guide, a twenty
two year old woman, seemed not to know what the inside of a church looks like.</div>
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5. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Survival of the
Fittest!</b> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our guides were well versed
in the litany of volcanic eruptions in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>. Eighteen volcanic systems
have erupted and continue to erupt since settlement. Each eruption has had a
physical and economic impact on the inhabitants and/or has changed the
landscape of the island as well as the region as well as the world.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laki">Skaftáreldar</a> (fires of Skaftá) in 1783-84, Hekla (1970, 1980-1981), Eyjafjallajökull (2010), and Katla (2011) </span>were commonly mentioned as we peered through the bus
window at vast expanses of infertile landscape, still recovering from the
latest eruption, or at endless fields of lava covered with moss which is slowly
creating soil after older eruptions. As our guide Helgi put it, volcanoes, famine, plague
and foreign occupation of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
informed the phrase describing Icelanders that I heard several times: “Survival
of the fittest!”</div>
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6. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sheep</b>. Sheep
in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>
are all free range. We saw sheep in the most remote places. We saw small white
dots on a patch of grass up the steep mountainsides, a group of three sheep out
in the middle of a sparely vegetated lava field, and a mother and two babies walking
on the bridge of our highway. Our guide Asdis even demonstrated how to sweep the
sheep off the road by crouching in their path and spreading her arms wide,
trying to convince them to vacate the bridge. </div>
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Asdis said that Icelanders know how sheep will behave and
know to slow down and drive around them, but the tourists do not share this
finesse and sheep kills by tourists along the roadways have increased.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZnI5MSea8zC2zUYp5ZEZb14NwZ_8uHFy9-HBQVlbN94bV9Xeq9H3LnnJAzoSHcC4R5xOiJoYBMdxtkKDlbY1BqgHuGqrQELYGHTwot_BSwk7ZpsW52iI1PdzPXt47lRaVVkB2dTZYwg/s1600/three+sheep.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="665" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZnI5MSea8zC2zUYp5ZEZb14NwZ_8uHFy9-HBQVlbN94bV9Xeq9H3LnnJAzoSHcC4R5xOiJoYBMdxtkKDlbY1BqgHuGqrQELYGHTwot_BSwk7ZpsW52iI1PdzPXt47lRaVVkB2dTZYwg/s640/three+sheep.JPG" width="478" /></a></div>
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7. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Iceland</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> is expensive.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Icelandic sweaters, made in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region> with
Icelandic wool are at least $250 US. I didn’t buy one. One of the women in our
group found a used one at a Red Cross thrift store. It was in good shape, had a
zipper and a hood, had the traditional Icelandic pattern, and she bought it for
$100.</div>
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Dining out was expensive, often 5090 KR for each of us,
which translated to more than $50 US each.</div>
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8. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Icelandic language: </b>The Icelandic language seemed both charming and difficult to me. Icelandic
has two letters in its alphabet not found in the English alphabet. Also, it is
a tonal language, so that a word that is spelled one way can mean several
things, depending on how it is spoken. Our guide Helgi, told us that his name
meant "holiness". It also means “weekend.” Asdis said there are 34 words for “cat,” as
in my cat, your car, his cat, her cat, our cat…Here's how to pronounce<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:%C3%9Eingvellir_pronunciation.ogg#filelinks" target="_blank">Þingvellir</a>.</span><br />
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9. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Big Brother or your brother? </b>The
entire population of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region></st1:place>
has had its DNA collected, and anyone can access this database. So, say you
meet a cute person in a bar, things are going very well, and you wanted to know
if you were related (this is more relevant to heterosexuals), you could look
the two of you up in the national DNA database and in a few seconds, find out if you are related. It turns out our two guides, Asdis and Helgi, were related
through a common ancestor seven generations ago. I thought this was an amazing
amount of information to access while poking around on your cell phone driving
down the highway with a bus full of tourists.<br />
<br />
10. <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Iceland</b></st1:place></st1:country-region><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> is quirky but safe.</b> Every locale has a
well trained and well equipped volunteer Civil Patrol to rescue people from the
stupid things that people (read: tourists) do. Participating in the Civil
Patrol is a matter of civic pride. How are they funded? How do they get money
for the snow jeeps, bad weather clothing, rescue equipment and the training?
Why of course, they sell fireworks! From the day after Christmas to the day
after New Years, Reyjkavik is apparently crazy with fireworks (I assume the
Civil Patrol is standing by.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJfW8gB5cX89aD-lgBlJR0H7x7sVkX12yWf88Xb5gUfgLJ-wvxjc202FPc5g7efULKbIBrAqQ7srFQnLSYZi9HoZBcLr-Rk9fuRop3Xl-QQ81CRvPauZo5OuhEQ94B6yvghEzNZZa-VvQ/s1600/black+horse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="665" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJfW8gB5cX89aD-lgBlJR0H7x7sVkX12yWf88Xb5gUfgLJ-wvxjc202FPc5g7efULKbIBrAqQ7srFQnLSYZi9HoZBcLr-Rk9fuRop3Xl-QQ81CRvPauZo5OuhEQ94B6yvghEzNZZa-VvQ/s640/black+horse.JPG" width="478" /></a></div>
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In <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iceland</st1:country-region>,
we saw Atlantic Puffins, an North Atlantic Right Whale, Icelandic horses, random steam vents, historic <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">cairns</st1:place></st1:city>, and some preserved sod houses. We saw boiling mud pots and lots of waterfalls. (There are more than 10,000 waterfalls
in <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Iceland</st1:place></st1:country-region>.
The surveyors gave up after counting the first 10,000.) We heard about their
lesbian Prime Minister, who is the second lesbian Prime Minister of Iceland. We saw lots of graffiti and lots of murals on the sides of buildings in Reykjavik. We
learned that they form last names by appending their father’s (or mother’s)
first name with “…son” or “…dottir,” so a daughter and a son in a family will
have different last names. We heard about their system of immigration, where
guest workers come from <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place> to service the
tourists and manufacturing, since there are not enough Icelanders to staff all
the hotels and restaurants. </div>
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Phew, I could go on. I liked the few residents whom we met. Our guides and our six foot tall Nordic
female bus driver were great, and I’d recommend the experience to you.</div>
<br />Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-11265759666983443462017-11-03T16:21:00.002-07:002017-11-03T16:24:38.655-07:00Old Old and Really Old<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJmQ9CeAzXHzIgQZaZqj2FCqMCFBUY-mYI_RxIYnGs7qh5b0Mfl7yy5oNQsePcaV7m5RSARvutGm69RxoatyaTDN2dZYfYRa2UCq3freXOs1CgKBXSFxEQWZiwvYaTe8tS3ZNV1fJGt0/s1600/Lynne+smiling+at+Tower+of+London.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqJmQ9CeAzXHzIgQZaZqj2FCqMCFBUY-mYI_RxIYnGs7qh5b0Mfl7yy5oNQsePcaV7m5RSARvutGm69RxoatyaTDN2dZYfYRa2UCq3freXOs1CgKBXSFxEQWZiwvYaTe8tS3ZNV1fJGt0/s640/Lynne+smiling+at+Tower+of+London.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>The old and the new: Lynne, the Tower of London and the new London</em></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I was standing in the immense <a href="https://www.stjohnsrcbath.org.uk/index.php/history">St. John Catholic Church</a>, in Bath, England, swallowed up by its towering dimensions. I was looking skyward at the ornate floral ceiling. The church had been bombed during WWII. I was right by the regally red and gold altar where one of the two curates had died in the bombing. I reflected on the reconstruction of the magnificent windows. I had a “Wow!” feeling. Amazement that I was there where the bombing had taken place, bringing me closer to yet another moment of the WWII story, a story that speaks to my soul. That was Sunday, October 1, 2017. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9XFahdgHYkLI9W1xHhf2KcOKkgpicN4sEeQM-sdLIg_zycI305GxTZ2l8CBv2cX5n13RkcBduJhWpoX7o-RtRB92W_un9bNFcmI_vVgDJNkq1hOGS1fiMvurn7_iIXveTKoNbZgGjT8/s1600/IMG_1667.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9XFahdgHYkLI9W1xHhf2KcOKkgpicN4sEeQM-sdLIg_zycI305GxTZ2l8CBv2cX5n13RkcBduJhWpoX7o-RtRB92W_un9bNFcmI_vVgDJNkq1hOGS1fiMvurn7_iIXveTKoNbZgGjT8/s320/IMG_1667.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2pfhLBGhzAJ2u3hADjFazkZi0UNZoPR1QtPjBPfED3ivNJ3vNZizCxBScuabhI5mACV5phXKrE2dtp2zTyAGyY9Ty-z_-CrysXya2cARqPgrTHQKxVYL01pJnAT4KpRmCBHask3aXVYo/s1600/IMG_1666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2pfhLBGhzAJ2u3hADjFazkZi0UNZoPR1QtPjBPfED3ivNJ3vNZizCxBScuabhI5mACV5phXKrE2dtp2zTyAGyY9Ty-z_-CrysXya2cARqPgrTHQKxVYL01pJnAT4KpRmCBHask3aXVYo/s320/IMG_1666.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>The display depicting Churchill </em><br />
<em>in his War Room office</em></td></tr>
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I found pieces of the WWII story all over England, especially in London. We had descended from street level to tour the underground maze of Churchill’s War Rooms, the underground offices and living quarters from which crusty Winston Churchill directed England’s military response to Germany’s aggression. <br />
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We attended Evensong at the landmark <a href="https://www.stpauls.co.uk/">St. Paul’s Cathedral</a>, also bombed earlier in WWII, now fully restored as well.<br />
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But in the timeline of English history, WWII is “just yesterday.” My perspective on "old" stretched considerably. The Tower of London, where Lynne and I spent several hours, was built after William conquered England in 1066. The Tower had various uses, including as a royal residence, but its infamy comes from having been a state prison from 1066 until 1956. I came home with many photos from the seemingly endless display of shiny, bestudded military armor worn by British soldiers and horses, dating back to 1535. Outside on the green, the Yeoman Warder pointed out the probable spot where Henry VIII had Ann Boleyn beheaded in 1536.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_lSyQs8apKGfAj3yLXSn7JBUAZe5Q2A7Yp6UDzdwdkMkZjOXFr14heztfpE6CfNCAbdGzJ_FFZELnpaVcG3dC-0cv5eLX7y2hixPcAPNhzOP5i-2cNV36HiTQwSQZpVViiNwPP5nxYw/s1600/armor+on+horseback.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-_lSyQs8apKGfAj3yLXSn7JBUAZe5Q2A7Yp6UDzdwdkMkZjOXFr14heztfpE6CfNCAbdGzJ_FFZELnpaVcG3dC-0cv5eLX7y2hixPcAPNhzOP5i-2cNV36HiTQwSQZpVViiNwPP5nxYw/s400/armor+on+horseback.JPG" /></a> </div>
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<em>Just one of many examples of armor at the Tower of London</em> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uhfGlyKUwDXdndad1-GwenMFDsqeJf89c1Yrc5hSS0JKvtTSh4Y6yjf2BIfwhnSnau1U_oF1_Kdwqt5Brp_rHZwNx9lgXZnqvPH-YfPrVQ-N2ZjNeP8y4WtU-uWuDXaBCRxpL_4tCXY/s1600/Christ+Church+Great+Dining+Hall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7uhfGlyKUwDXdndad1-GwenMFDsqeJf89c1Yrc5hSS0JKvtTSh4Y6yjf2BIfwhnSnau1U_oF1_Kdwqt5Brp_rHZwNx9lgXZnqvPH-YfPrVQ-N2ZjNeP8y4WtU-uWuDXaBCRxpL_4tCXY/s400/Christ+Church+Great+Dining+Hall.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em>Recognize this from Harry Potter?</em><br />
<em> It is the actual dining hall at Christ Church College in Oxford</em> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Speaking of Henry VIII, we also spent a day in Oxford, visiting <a href="http://www.chch.ox.ac.uk/">Christ Church College</a>, founded by Henry VIII’s <i>alter rex</i> (other king), Thomas Wolsey, in 1525. Walking through the dining room with walls crowded with oil portraits of former headmasters, our guide pointed out the image of red-hatted Cardinal Wolsey. Cardinal Wolsey was the first headmaster. Reportedly, he required his boys to speak Latin during meals.<br />
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Yet we were still in modern times, compared to the <a href="https://www.romanbaths.co.uk/">Roman Baths</a>, in Bath, constructed during the Roman occupation of Britain beginning in 60 AD. Lynne and I walked on the worn stone pathways, around the green-yellow pools of hot mineral water, still bubbling up after thousands of years. We saw the plumbing and drainage system on the lower level, following the stream from its intake to the soaking pools to its final exit. Remnants of the temple of the goddess Sulis-Minerva were on display. The display cases included <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bath_curse_tablets" target="_blank">curse tablets</a>, small pieces of lead inscribed with messages imploring the goddess to curse those who had wronged the author. We also had an upclose view of Roman artifacts a few days earlier in Cirencester. built over the Roman town of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corinium_Dobunnorum">Corinium</a>. Extensive and elaborate mosaics have been recovered and put on display in their excellent museum. Ironically, a local regimen of British soldiers marched through the streets of Cirencester as part of the town’s 900th birthday celebration on the day we visited the town.</div>
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But none of that is really old. OK, now go back another 2000 years, to 2000 BC. We went to the <a href="https://www.cornishtin.com/">Blue Hills Tin Streams</a> in Cornwall, where tin had been mined for 4000 years. Yes, think Poldark. We hiked down (and later back up!) a long steep hill to stand next to the stream which flows through the last remaining tin operation. The owner no longer employs female manual laborers (“<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bal_maiden" target="_blank">Bal Maidens</a>”) to” bust” rocks, but the midden of discarded rocks that rose from the hillside beside us gave witness to their work. He no longer mined the seam underground, but I could see the smudged and begrudging faces of the miners who did in a display of old photographs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJZAj5gjB6zgXGrwE0l8n2ZZQMyQONxsZvMKuqBD9dC5xLyxvirL1B12PgI3QH5QQvqBterSfEhK1b3WFRXy1_uPMZXFk_ghRppjyiGtBRtO06UjIzK8trzKKeTQ53Ht26yqazdoxpBA/s1600/Blue+Hills+best.JPG"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtJZAj5gjB6zgXGrwE0l8n2ZZQMyQONxsZvMKuqBD9dC5xLyxvirL1B12PgI3QH5QQvqBterSfEhK1b3WFRXy1_uPMZXFk_ghRppjyiGtBRtO06UjIzK8trzKKeTQ53Ht26yqazdoxpBA/s640/Blue+Hills+best.JPG" /></a> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Abandoned buildings at tin mine in Cornwall</em> </div>
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And then I thought about Stonehenge, whose construction started in 3100 BC.<br />
<br />
The human English history that I witnessed spans 5000 years, a greater defnition of the word "old" than I, living in North America, am used to seeing. England, a country the same size as Oregon, bears witness to its history at every turn, and I had only taken a few of those turns.<br />
<br />
I'm still not done with "How old is old?" Lynne and I are younger than Stonehenge but feel OLD (69 and 66 years in these bodies).<br />
<br />
Before our trip, we had consoled ourselves that the other hikers on our Road Scholar trip would not put us to shame, since they would likely be our age or or even older. We were correct in that we were among the youngest members on the trip. As far as we could tell, the oldest was in his eighties.<br />
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But these oldsters were consistently passing us on the trails in the Cotswolds and Cornwall. I would hear a polite “On your left!” or I would sense someone breathing down my neck as I cautiously slowed to a crawl on a slippery down hill.<br />
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I would never have picked out my fellow Road Scholars as athletes. They looked like a typical group of well nourished, underfashioned American tourists, with their REI daypacks, nature colored rainsuits and collapsible hiking poles. They were not wearing spandex nor did they have Olympic medals around their necks, yet they inspired us to greater adventures.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Cbq45_tOWxW8pLgKlmAB1BJmvHZtW5Nf3wz64N_NVvAmVFlD5L06ehV5SBXgS8-yYnFnl2EdkbZ6XaKLBx4mTt6W_bFQM6gUCdQSDmqWcx3XSfC0rDmXWwUyLWbRIDwiNQIPoHHBGhg/s1600/King+arthur+at+Tintagel.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Cbq45_tOWxW8pLgKlmAB1BJmvHZtW5Nf3wz64N_NVvAmVFlD5L06ehV5SBXgS8-yYnFnl2EdkbZ6XaKLBx4mTt6W_bFQM6gUCdQSDmqWcx3XSfC0rDmXWwUyLWbRIDwiNQIPoHHBGhg/s400/King+arthur+at+Tintagel.jpg" /></a></div>
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<em>This sculpture representing the legendary King Arthur sits high on the Cornish bluffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean at Tintagel. I like the juxtaposition of the stone bluff, the Atlantic Ocean, and the semi-substantial figure of King Arthur.</em></div>
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<br />Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-75255582073665022872017-10-17T13:16:00.002-07:002017-10-17T13:16:40.364-07:00Mud and a Folly<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoNc4OoRlI7ync9BplNqC-P_07hrN_LMQ2y_AJrk9fMi0G5nUN5aw2GU71Yyn6jeeS7NflMQT05sAFy2QtGvvTrhycUcAycc17rofprl080ws2X7msMEEIw6Cg7gCtzmql1UeIIynNdA0/s1600/20170913_111228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoNc4OoRlI7ync9BplNqC-P_07hrN_LMQ2y_AJrk9fMi0G5nUN5aw2GU71Yyn6jeeS7NflMQT05sAFy2QtGvvTrhycUcAycc17rofprl080ws2X7msMEEIw6Cg7gCtzmql1UeIIynNdA0/s200/20170913_111228.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was standing at our utility sink, washing the mud off my waterproof hiking boots. I had finally extracted them from the bottom of my suitcase. I was home again in the US and picking up where I left off after our three week trip to England.<br /><br />The stream of brown water trickling down the drain transported me back to our first day of hiking in the Cotswolds of England. At the end of that day, there we stood, outside the entrance of our hotel in stocking feet, using sticks and stones to try to clean off the mud and sheep dung from our shoes before dinner.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">The day had started off in the quaint market town of Chipping Camden with a tour led by a National Trust volunteer. Chipping Camden is a typical Cotswold village, where every building lining the narrow streets is constructed with honey-colored limestone. The narrow roads hardly seem wide enough for two way traffic, especially when the bus we are riding in takes up most of the road. I guess that explains why all the cars are small. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6ExxESvVXO5AmBfxrNIhGgk0VPC-RJvjpIY8S3KziIaNriOIoQLakgPWZkgUEIIJQ2YurCywcax6OpaUuxzztrwY_B2aKgO6rOHstEucJIl9ZgDvAWRekft1T_BTRVDUmwSAw1vH64I/s1600/20170913_105637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6ExxESvVXO5AmBfxrNIhGgk0VPC-RJvjpIY8S3KziIaNriOIoQLakgPWZkgUEIIJQ2YurCywcax6OpaUuxzztrwY_B2aKgO6rOHstEucJIl9ZgDvAWRekft1T_BTRVDUmwSAw1vH64I/s200/20170913_105637.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The stone buildings are all attached to each other, giving a visual impression that we were in the 18th century, a feeling that was also underscored by the the lack of any traffic lights or electric signs or strip malls or high rises or urban noise. No sirens, helicopters or airplanes overhead interrupted the quiet that we had stepped into. </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">I had not expected the English countryside to feel so different from the US, but this area of south central England, in particular, felt remarkably removed from the ugliness of the 21st century. The biggest danger I perceived was looking the wrong way for oncoming cars when I stepped off the curb. That was a real and present hazard throughout the trip!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7Wa_cvNW0Ep-6ZEUPtaLbh22VmHQr9DvTFxFjxCvExx50zpwQ0Bn5TbXxhu-204J7ZT_RiLIPV1G6X_a_th0b4HLBxHVAU24_CCfjx9PECGT4p90k3O5veAIPXN7jsLcG0NXaYoy3OU/s1600/20170913_105658.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7Wa_cvNW0Ep-6ZEUPtaLbh22VmHQr9DvTFxFjxCvExx50zpwQ0Bn5TbXxhu-204J7ZT_RiLIPV1G6X_a_th0b4HLBxHVAU24_CCfjx9PECGT4p90k3O5veAIPXN7jsLcG0NXaYoy3OU/s320/20170913_105658.jpg" width="240" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Our group of 23 highly functional North American tourists, most of them older than we are, began our first "walk" together. Our agenda was to follow a seven mile trail up to the Cotswold Escarpment and on to the Broadway Tower, and then down to the town of Broadway. “Escarpment” describes the steep slope that divides this region. We walked on Public Footpaths, some hundreds of years old. A Public Footpath gives the public right of way to walk from town to town, across royal land, pastures, fields, along streams and down alley ways. The Cotswold Way, 102 miles long, goes from Bath to Chipping Camden, and our trip took us on different segments of it each day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />One of our English guides, Alan Gent was a fit, silver haired outdoors-man who skis the Alps in the winter. Everything that he said was particularly charming to my ear because of his English accent. We each wore listening devices which allowed him to narrate our experience with his microphone and be heard without having to shout. The first day that we all showed up on time to board the bus in the morning, his voice in my ear said quietly, “Brilliant! Americans are always on time.” Throughout our two weeks together, he and Pam, the co-leader, used “Brilliant” to describe lots of positive things, along with “Lovely!” and “Well done!” His strong commitment to conservation and a deep understanding of the region became clear as the days progressed.<br /><br />Alan led us now up a lane that took us out of the valley, leaving behind the village’s narrow streets and clustered houses. As we walked, he reminded us to shut the gates behind us and explained the gently undulating geology of the region. We emerged at a quiet vantage point above town, looking down on the stone tiled roofs and the fields of peacefully grazing sheep that edged the village. Ahead we had more altitude to gain before we reached the top of the Cotswold Escarpment.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsvOSBs3IPJTz7x5Pc7TndoBY6dzyau01X_bQnxOl75CnTTu0fblD7BaTnVlrccas3WAfv3Jjhm2VszxWcelXgsvudqATXM2TcGJLi3dESUF-FilBZjaz7mch3hnoj5rOf7sGwsu7RMg/s1600/view+from+above+ch+cam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="954" data-original-width="1600" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsvOSBs3IPJTz7x5Pc7TndoBY6dzyau01X_bQnxOl75CnTTu0fblD7BaTnVlrccas3WAfv3Jjhm2VszxWcelXgsvudqATXM2TcGJLi3dESUF-FilBZjaz7mch3hnoj5rOf7sGwsu7RMg/s640/view+from+above+ch+cam.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chipping Camden from above</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My throat swelled. I have a strong sentimental streak, which manifests at funny times like when seeing a marching band. “I can’t believe I’m here,” was going through my mind, but I was afraid if I whispered it to Lynne, I would start crying. I hadn’t expected England to feel so moving, but at that moment I felt awe and gratitude. (Lynne regularly asks me “Are you crying?” when she can’t tell if my nose is dripping from the cold or if I am feeling sentimental.)<br /><br />Lynne and I had been planning this trip for six months, a special vacation to commemorate our amazing 40th anniversary. Our preparations included big projects like my hip replacement surgery, important details like finding a house sitter for our pets, and just a lot of other decisions like air travel and shuttle service. With all that accomplished, we boarded our Virgin Atlantic 787 to head to England. Between the many meals, the excitement of watching our flight path and the discomfort of sitting upright, neither of us had slept on the all night eight hour flight across the north Atlantic. When we arrived it was mid-morning in England. Once we disembarked and navigated Immigration and Heathrow Airport, we found our transport driver and chatted with the him through an 80 mile ride on increasingly narrow, twisting roads to our first hotel. It took so much energy just to get to Day One, that I fell asleep that evening during the first educational talk about the Cotswolds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRNpozzPbLtRAJBXef2Jvsgpo06UglqRXWRzwIVIDngRwKy4heEg8NpjEwZC1C6Htmv3K0l3DwvHalumMke5NA-NJU8QFQXlaaBkLeicTyLAFCQ0rNUcoiOtC2Ojjlxf2RqR1u8TZJdA/s1600/20170913_160937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlRNpozzPbLtRAJBXef2Jvsgpo06UglqRXWRzwIVIDngRwKy4heEg8NpjEwZC1C6Htmv3K0l3DwvHalumMke5NA-NJU8QFQXlaaBkLeicTyLAFCQ0rNUcoiOtC2Ojjlxf2RqR1u8TZJdA/s320/20170913_160937.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That day of our first long hike had a happy ending. Our leader led us up to the Saxon era Broadway Tower, a “folly” built in 1799 which stood on Fish Hill, a grassy high point between Chipping Camden and Broadway. Along the way, I was occupied with the usual business of hiking. The skies threatened rain (I put my rain pants on), then cleared and warmed up (I took my rain pants off). I stopped to take pictures even as Alan kept us steadily moving. The group was fast disappearing through a gate ahead of me. I scampered to catch up.<br /><br />At the back of the line, I had the chance to get to know Pam, the other leader, whose role was “sweep.” She kept an eye on us, chatting and being friendly, and attending to the various woes that impeded the progress of the stragglers. Her friendly, encouraging and funny manner put me at ease. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I did have one remaining worry: Would I be able to do this seven mile hike? The brochure had promised walks up to six miles. Seven miles would be my longest hike since my surgery 3 ½ months earlier. My new hip was feeling strong but this was its maiden voyage. I was on uncharted waters.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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I spent a lot of time ogling the pastoral scenery and then navigating the hazardous road crossings as we got closer to <a href="https://broadwaytower.co.uk/">Broadway Tower</a>. Pedestrians do not have the right of way in England, and I had a primal impression that English drivers were trying to kill us. I headed up the Tower (not to be outdone by everyone else) as I tackled three flights of narrow spiral steps, took in the exhibits inside and made it to the viewpoint at the very top. As I took in the spread of pastures and rolling hills around me, I suddenly noticed that the front half of our group was already heading downhill on the steep side of the escarpment for the second half of the hike. I made a quick descent and caught up with the group. Traversing sheep pasture, I unsuccessfully tried to avoid stepping in sheep dung, while carefully choosing the least hazardous way on the rocky downhill path. Behind me, one of our group slipped on the slope, with no lasting injury.</div>
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<br />I was tired but happy by late afternoon when we appeared on the small lanes leading into <a href="http://www.broadway-cotswolds.co.uk/">Broadway village</a>, built on a site that had been occupied for over 5,000 years. Broadway had benefited from the wealth of the wool and cloth trade starting in the 1600s, and later as the home of the Arts and Crafts movement. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZvqugFUQXFKG07c0Oa2zxlpx-RjuhtCzUJbLHhhAxXIqr037l48n-0KePL67Isu-WMY5SpgkxO4zoev-BhpCbbu4Is3WZkLHtBGeJ94ADQuIgomEQq9hvaTCg1Ip5e64u-OdSOk9OyA/s1600/broadway+with+horses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZvqugFUQXFKG07c0Oa2zxlpx-RjuhtCzUJbLHhhAxXIqr037l48n-0KePL67Isu-WMY5SpgkxO4zoev-BhpCbbu4Is3WZkLHtBGeJ94ADQuIgomEQq9hvaTCg1Ip5e64u-OdSOk9OyA/s320/broadway+with+horses.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ax5Cnd589lSMbJv5Gu5lLNQAVmTyHNsl3tU5a-tq9fowJ-ZcvyZIrYA88aWL7Q_ReMS5pO3QofSrhRBoKirA00kwDUxAk5EQ801db0HKdf4boNdrQn3E2FHisj7fU1IkPEnof1ExBa8/s1600/drainpipe+and+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1187" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ax5Cnd589lSMbJv5Gu5lLNQAVmTyHNsl3tU5a-tq9fowJ-ZcvyZIrYA88aWL7Q_ReMS5pO3QofSrhRBoKirA00kwDUxAk5EQ801db0HKdf4boNdrQn3E2FHisj7fU1IkPEnof1ExBa8/s320/drainpipe+and+flowers.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
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Our group straggled along and gathered loosely on a sidewalk like a pack of tired dogs with our tongues hanging out, waiting to be fed.<br /><br />On this, our first day out, I was relieved to find our bus pulling up to take us back to the hotel. Using this day as a measure, I was going to not only survive this trip, but thrive in this peaceful hike through charming countryside.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">
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Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-76525365771399234252017-08-18T10:04:00.001-07:002017-08-18T18:45:21.666-07:00Wind Turbines<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Woosh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">First blade chasing second,
third<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The fox chasing its tail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Etching an invisible circle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">High above the horizon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The pedestal tethers it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Impassive, the blades absorb
the wind’s whims.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Ferociously twirling<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Or falling to a snail’s pace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Wind turbines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Turning wind into electricity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“Industrial looking,” I
think as I peer through the windshield. We are driving east, leaving behind the
charmed greenery of the forested Cascade mountains and encountering the dry
vistas of eastern <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Washington</st1:place></st1:state>,
officially called shrub-steppe habitat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">I am surprised by their
numbers. After I see one wind turbine, a lone metal structure on the ridge
ahead, I notice ten, then many, each lone soldier joining an army of wind
turbines, now humbling the desert with their looming presence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">My mind protests their interruption
of the sweeping vista, their dominance over the scrubby hills. The wind
turbines contradict my experience of the emptiness of this region, most
commonly used as open range for livestock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Lynne and I are driving
through barren land. Few signs of human habitation rise from the arid soil, spotted
with parched green sagebrush, native grasses and occasional yellow wild flowers
bobbing on the end of long stems. The land is punctuated by random rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">We turn off Highway 90 and twist up a series of hills to
reach the ridge tops of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Whiskey</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Dick</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Mountain</st1:placename></st1:place>.
This is the location of the Puget Sound Energy’s Wild Horse Wind Farm and Solar
Facility (<a href="https://pse.com/aboutpse/Facilities/Pages/Wild-Horse.aspx">https://pse.com/aboutpse/Facilities/Pages/Wild-Horse.aspx</a>).
We’re hoping to be in time for the Sunday afternoon 2 o’clock tour. When we finally arrive, and I eagerly step
out of the car, the wind whips my hair and flaps my sweater. I hurry up to the shelter
of the Visitor’s Center. We sign up for the tour and pick up our required protective
helmets and glasses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Our young guide, Bilal, is
slightly bearded with a friendly face, framed by the hard hat that he wore at a
jaunty angle. His uniform jacket is buttoned casually to show off the kerchief
around his neck. I tag him as a Millennial, following the rules but
interpreting them with a fashionable flare. He wears steel toe boots that add seriousness
to his casual stance. I like listening to all the facts he tells us, absorbing
some and letting some pass me by. Bilal is willing and able to answer the many technical
questions brought up by the group of twenty earnest tourists, who, amazingly, have
chosen to come to the Wind Farm on Mother’s Day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">We are touring a wind farm
strategically placed to take advantage of the weather conditions at this location
on the east side of the <st1:place w:st="on">Cascade mountains</st1:place>. The wind blows hard here when the sun warms
the land and the air hot air rises. Cool air rushing over through Stampede Pass from
the west side of the mountains contributes a steady supply of wind in the
spring and summer months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">As our guide speaks, I
recognize the necessary ingredients that are here: an area with sparse human
population, unproductive land, lots of predictable wind, and demand for
electricity within a viable distance, in this case, Ellensburg. He shares the
technical details of the 10,800 acre wind farm, using terms like turbine
(converts wind energy to rotary motion), “nacelle” (the part that the blades
attach to), and “yaw” (the blades turn to face the wind at the best angle).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“How long does each wind
turbine last?” a middle aged man asks, his wife attentive to the answer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“Twenty to thirty years,”
Bilal says. “They take about ten to eleven years to pay themselves off.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">One blade is on display on
the ground outside the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Visitor</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The opening at
the biggest end is more than twice as high as I am. The blade twists and tapers
down to less than 2 feet across 129 feet later. It weighs seven tons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Each blade is carefully
matched to the two other blades for the turbine, he explains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“When one blade is
compromised they must set aside the other two and wait for a replacement
to be made that matches the others. They must all be within 8 pounds of
each other.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Each turbine costs close to
three million dollars. The entire project at Wild Horse Wind Farm costs $478
million. It produces energy to supply electricity for up to 70,000 homes per
year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">He leads us down the path
towards the base of one of the 149 wind turbines manufactured by Vestas. From
the highway, they seemed quiet, but up close, away from the obscuring sound of
cars on pavement, I can hear the blades passing by in a regular rhythm, close
to where I stand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">I don’t mind the sound—it is
more pleasing than other sounds in my urban life: the sound of our neighbors’
air conditioning, vehicle traffic on I-5, train whistles in the middle of the
night, or border patrol helicopters flying over my house. Each passing blade
evokes an awareness of the energy flying by in the wind. Still, the guide tells
us that people don’t like to live closer than 1000 feet to a wind turbine
because of the constant noise. The flickering shadow cast by the turning blades
are also incompatible with human comfort. They might drive you crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The group follows our guide down
a gravel path through carefully transplanted native plants, including
hedgehog cactus and balsamroot, to the door at the base of one of the wind
turbines. Bilal unlocks it and invites
us inside, where all twenty of us stand in a circle, dwarfed by the open space
that disappears 220 feet up at the top of the pedestal. He points out the
electrical properties of the smooth inside walls, and we peer down at the base
anchored 30 feet into the soil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPoPHTphhxvWclBqb8Bled0pqgGbuwBFyD5fAlvgVXSLfGRnhW5-Wvh5098Mj2i5kokHunbPdPQT1lsTgqkydVp54YEc98kAfXTOZDFl4zUCRuISV6HCUiY93z96yFcJNnsKXbnvxqG-8/s1600/IMG_0420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPoPHTphhxvWclBqb8Bled0pqgGbuwBFyD5fAlvgVXSLfGRnhW5-Wvh5098Mj2i5kokHunbPdPQT1lsTgqkydVp54YEc98kAfXTOZDFl4zUCRuISV6HCUiY93z96yFcJNnsKXbnvxqG-8/s320/IMG_0420.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The adaptability of each
turbine, he explains, comes from a computer that measures the wind direction
and swivels the blades to face the direction of the wind. It also twists the
blades to increase or mollify the power of the wind. Under some conditions, the
blades must be held back from turning.
They consume energy when they are not turning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">When we are done inside, we
step out to stand amidst the field of turbines. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">I bring up the subject of
bird deaths. Bilal deftly defends wind turbines. “Wind turbines kill 2.5 birds
per year. Newer turbines have been re-engineered to make them more obvious and
avoidable to birds,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">He quotes us these
statistics:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Number one killer of birds
in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is buildings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Number two killer of birds in
the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region>
is domestic cats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">A distant third: Wind
turbines.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Hmmm. Lynne and I find two
or three dead birds on our patio each year. The glass panels on our patio plus
our picture windows kill about the same number of birds each year as one wind turbine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7PEixht_6a-M44ELVgkSDylrPiFTq7V8YjdokqR4QGwrQ7Tg8qe2kaddl_dkGpa2TuQt8Z43Kgd6zJj40C0wcf6RVihI3RlvnNEYw6mDB50FTiqOhzzbRIQb950X5GPkUGk8ALOwqxw/s1600/Windmill+from+video+%25288-17-2017+4-03+PM%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="458" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs7PEixht_6a-M44ELVgkSDylrPiFTq7V8YjdokqR4QGwrQ7Tg8qe2kaddl_dkGpa2TuQt8Z43Kgd6zJj40C0wcf6RVihI3RlvnNEYw6mDB50FTiqOhzzbRIQb950X5GPkUGk8ALOwqxw/s320/Windmill+from+video+%25288-17-2017+4-03+PM%2529.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">I steal a moment alone, lingering
on the return path, letting everyone else pass me, hoping to record the sound
of a wind turbine alone, up close. I am near one tower, resting my eyes on the spread
of wind turbines on this ridge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">They seem different now. I
feel a fondness for this tribe of tireless towering giants, the beauty of the
sweeping blades, the changing pattern made by the different speeds of turning blades and each one’s fastidious
orientation. I feel respect for the investment of engineering talent and hard
work that brought this wind farm to production.
I see the challenges of this design, a response to human’s demand for
energy, yet I also feel its beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white;">Thanks for Bilal M. <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Abubakar at PSE’s Wild Horse Wind and Solar Facility for providing
expertise for this article.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-82781163838294282016-12-22T15:25:00.001-08:002017-08-03T14:42:24.033-07:00Our Own Polar Express<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the first time in three days, my bed didn’t move
underneath me last night. No constant
jostle, sway, bump, no shift, no lurch.
We just got back from a train trip east, first to visit our family of
friends in <st1:state w:st="on">Kentucky</st1:state>,
then to visit my brother in Clifton Forge, Virginia. Two eastbound nights, <st1:city w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:city>
to <st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city>, of
train whistles, a perpetual drive, racing across the continent in the dark at
79 mph then slowing to a stop waiting for a freight train to pass. Three westbound nights on the train coming
back.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Vip1YbBrXWVc7erhgLx_hVd6dRiM666OR9r3NgzCk7GwSEgpCV3MrIwby7N-PTvoLQtOc80I0oP5ZqA1VVNUTpQe5JR42IDNYbsNkONKoLSzJhy6WqoYrPASwfD4JvHnuv83lbdQo5E/s1600/amtrak+tickets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Vip1YbBrXWVc7erhgLx_hVd6dRiM666OR9r3NgzCk7GwSEgpCV3MrIwby7N-PTvoLQtOc80I0oP5ZqA1VVNUTpQe5JR42IDNYbsNkONKoLSzJhy6WqoYrPASwfD4JvHnuv83lbdQo5E/s320/amtrak+tickets.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Waiting for the train in Bellingham</b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">We ate dinner on a table set with
white table cloths, ordered steak and cod from amiable waiters standing legs
astride to keep their balance as they took our orders. Our first dinner mates
were a fit looking orthodontist and his silent 18 year old daughter, who were heading from Camano
Island to Whitefish, </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Montana</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
for a weekend of skiing. At each meal throughout the trip, we were seated
across from two new travelers, exchanging travel stories and destinations.
We learned that the treasure of Amtrak’s all American menu was found in their
desserts, like their signature w</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">arm date-pudding cake with toffee pecan sauce. Mmmmmmm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">So near winter solstice, darkness descended early. We missed the views as our train climbed over the Cascades, our descent into the frozen orchards of eastern </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Washington</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">, the flattening landscape as we crossed </span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Idaho</st1:place><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. It all whizzed
unseen as we passed our first long winter night on Amtrak.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Still, the beds.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">We had chosen luxury over necessity when we
made our reservations for a “roomette” on the train.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The roomette promised us a private space with
two facing seats by the window, bathroom down the hall. The car attendant came
by in the evening and turned the seats into a set of bunk beds for the night,
each made up with crisp white sheets and standard blue blankets. Perhaps
“luxury” is an overreaching term here.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The top bunk was 20” wide, the bottom was 24”.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The top bunk included webbing clipped between
the bed and the ceiling to grab onto if you roll out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The first night I crawled into the
upper bunk, so close to the ceiling that I couldn’t sit up, a space so small
and windowless that I only lasted about ten minutes. “This isn’t going to
work,” I called to Lynne, as motion sickness and claustrophobia immediately
kicked up in my body. She generously agreed to switch.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">She has proven to be the more stalwart
traveler many times when we have been on trips, able to read while the car or
the boat is moving, able to sit backwards and able to eat while I am struggling
not to throw up.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Once again, Lynne saved
the day, or this time, the night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Traveling by Amtrak is considered
“slow” travel, but only in comparison to flying. We had ruled out driving this
distance. It would have taken us a week to get from </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Washington</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
to </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Kentucky</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> and </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Virginia</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. Lynne ruled out the abuses of
flying: being wedged into seats where you are not able to cross your legs,
having to deal with hordes of people going through security, racing between
gate changes from one terminal to another. Many of our friends travel east by
train, so we thought we’d give it a try.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBj0-UYPptWcFujj56FviLpiMLcsh2X1jJ1Crec8BocwD3LazeN9Z0Xb7aKG5SUpycabPaS7coND8xjAYQkBmaa5G8XP6qWFQi5KCv32eOfFnb3a5C9_axtVfGH7eGjyJhatYXb1bUJu8/s1600/snowy+landscape+from+train+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBj0-UYPptWcFujj56FviLpiMLcsh2X1jJ1Crec8BocwD3LazeN9Z0Xb7aKG5SUpycabPaS7coND8xjAYQkBmaa5G8XP6qWFQi5KCv32eOfFnb3a5C9_axtVfGH7eGjyJhatYXb1bUJu8/s640/snowy+landscape+from+train+window.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Looking towards Glacier National Park from the train</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The first morning I looked out at
the still beauty of </span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Glacier</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">National Park</st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> from the
comfort of the observation car, spotting elk tracks in the snow.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The landscape flattened in eastern </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Montana</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">, which extended so far that we didn’t get into </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">North Dakota</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> until after
dark.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The train stopped at lots of
places, mostly small towns, letting off or picking up just a few passengers who were waiting on the platform with their luggage as we pulled up. Within minutes
the train was easing away, slowly gaining speed and then notching it up
again as we returned to open country.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuMCe9FW3GKzTOf9S28_kAXqlZru7yLL0j7eG8y8fwyCdZ8maGtoo6QbRtXvvldv-WhL43piuD0_DiN7xVbosfizIO1wiUtNvUgHz14e3sV9pQRX1QF_7uIaoNliwp8vVWFhjWM68Wgg/s1600/pale+sun+on+the+great+plains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuMCe9FW3GKzTOf9S28_kAXqlZru7yLL0j7eG8y8fwyCdZ8maGtoo6QbRtXvvldv-WhL43piuD0_DiN7xVbosfizIO1wiUtNvUgHz14e3sV9pQRX1QF_7uIaoNliwp8vVWFhjWM68Wgg/s640/pale+sun+on+the+great+plains.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>The Great Plains viewed through the observation car window</b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">We happened to choose the coldest
days of 2016 to cross the </span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Great Plains</st1:place><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. At our
stop in </span><st1:place style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Minot</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">North Dakota</st1:state></st1:place><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">, the temperature was -13
degrees F at 10 pm.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The crew that
met us there, bundled in heavy parkas and boots, tried to thaw out the waste
pipe of the downstairs lavoratory that had frozen. During the night, the
mercury dipped to -17 degrees F. That lavoratory remained frozen for the
duration of our trip to </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">.
Still, the train keeps going in the dark, the cold, the snow, the wind.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> The attendant told us that i</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">f the temperature reaches -20 degrees F, the
train has to slow down because the rails are too brittle to provide traction to
stop. We were in a snowstorm by the time we arrived in Chicago. All airline travel into and out of Chicago had been cancelled, but the train got us there.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwpq8gL5uZUQK7eY3lFFQqrDvUEWZIQGwgCM8wDGjY8Ix8QGlA8aiusgNNwNW-7yA-IUr7rRg3xzoZr5tO20IXvIdSB9_idmLGEo2yrzMczk8wWkLcTGsc-J6qA5hOOUzsEMlfSO_C-Y/s1600/Lynne+in+observation+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOwpq8gL5uZUQK7eY3lFFQqrDvUEWZIQGwgCM8wDGjY8Ix8QGlA8aiusgNNwNW-7yA-IUr7rRg3xzoZr5tO20IXvIdSB9_idmLGEo2yrzMczk8wWkLcTGsc-J6qA5hOOUzsEMlfSO_C-Y/s640/Lynne+in+observation+car.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Our stalwart traveler</b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Seven days later, we stepped aboard a different train, the Cardinal, in </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Virginia, heading back to Chicago. I</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 48px;">n the middle of the night, t</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">he train
thudded to a stop when it hit a tree.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The engineer cut the power to our cars, so
suddenly we were in silence and semi-darkness.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">We could hear muffled voices and saw flashlights outside in the dark as the crew
cleared the tree and inspected the train for damage. After about 45 minutes,
power was restored and we lurched forward again. Towards morning, the train
stopped once more. This time, the track switch ahead was frozen, so again, the crew was out in
the dark clearing our path north.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">When we
left </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">,
we saw flames rising from a section of tracks, an alarming sight to see out the window.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">When we
asked the waiter that night, he explained that when the track switches freeze,
the crew thaws them by pouring kerosene on the tracks and lighting them with a match.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">I had mentioned the word “luxury”
earlier. The luxury of the Amtrak is old world. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">We traveled the double decker Empire Builder to </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. The newest cars
on that train are 25 years old, and some are 40 years old, making them older
than the cheerful and informative waiter who served us on the way west</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">. The equipment
showed its age: the bathroom down the hall had an ornery door that didn’t latch
easily, the lock on our room didn’t operate smoothly, the walls had scrapes
from previous occupants.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">We upgraded from a “roomette” to a
“bedroom” for the final leg home, and were delighted to have a full length sofa on which to stretch out, as well as a private bath and shower in our room. Splurging
on this upgrade rewarded us with larger bunks as well, so for the last two
nights, I ascended the ladder to the top bunk and experienced train travel as I
had hoped it would be.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">I was lulled by
the constant motion, like a gentle massage to which I yielded.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">The bottom bunk was large enough that we
nestled together in the morning, only to scramble up when we heard the dining
car announce “Last call for breakfast!”</span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8O0OqxwumKdrHRQI8gIC1McB44EyzwtAILdxahyneIpvG6OaCNvzBKdWmE-abNFE_mTKWfDMvIwh4TrH0OhNjYl8Y8ph48BgQ_CBB4tNv5SJ_9zoWZnrP94KS4nyQ6snd3hRvoCtxmM/s1600/amtrak+feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV8O0OqxwumKdrHRQI8gIC1McB44EyzwtAILdxahyneIpvG6OaCNvzBKdWmE-abNFE_mTKWfDMvIwh4TrH0OhNjYl8Y8ph48BgQ_CBB4tNv5SJ_9zoWZnrP94KS4nyQ6snd3hRvoCtxmM/s640/amtrak+feet.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The hard life</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-80071126400356272342016-08-30T22:36:00.000-07:002017-10-24T12:34:51.745-07:00Floating home from Alaska<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: light green; color: #222222; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Our trip home on the Alaska ferry started in Skagway; Alaska, which punctuates the </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">top of the picturesque north-south Lynne Canal</span><st1:state style="font-family: arial;" w:st="on">. Standing on the deck of the </st1:state><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">MV Leconte (one of the original </span><st1:state style="font-family: arial;" w:st="on"><a href="http://www.dot.state.ak.us/amhs/pubs/">Alaska</a></st1:state><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial";"><a href="http://www.dot.state.ak.us/amhs/pubs/"> ferries</a>), m</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">ountains towered over us </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">to both the east and west sides. A</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial";">s we moved</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> away from land on our way south through the Inside Passage, even the four cruise ships we left behind were dwarfed by the setting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial";"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKYWDoLmAwFaOewnMbtD44XeghgnxJ6mH0odkZ5flUT0rRcLkrJEkiSkRzppHCuJmQmfBUaSkM383wAvn2wvO9JNiST76vCfdvLrbxHJDLhoj4tgBc8bUPwRRN2JobkWxRrD2faNXEnM/s1600/DSCN2627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNKYWDoLmAwFaOewnMbtD44XeghgnxJ6mH0odkZ5flUT0rRcLkrJEkiSkRzppHCuJmQmfBUaSkM383wAvn2wvO9JNiST76vCfdvLrbxHJDLhoj4tgBc8bUPwRRN2JobkWxRrD2faNXEnM/s640/DSCN2627.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Leconte is overshadowed by the cruise ship<br />
and the mountains. Notice Harding Glacier<br />
at the upper left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial";">I was excited to be moving out onto the water. I left Lynne in the comfortable observation lounge and ventured out on the
deck. The wind picked up my
hair and billowed my jacket. As the land receded, the sky revealed
itself, filling the space above and beyond the islands and mountains. In the coming days, from the
ferry, I saw endless vistas of mountains receding into clouds, shorelines
overlaid with early morning fog, and trees blurred through mist, the atmospheric
conditions softening the steady, slow passage south. In that way, all four legs of our trip on the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place></st1:state> ferry were similar, although each offered a view of a lighthouse, a glacier, or a narrow channel to define where we were. Then, </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">the
appearance of houses, piers, cruise ships, and marinas signaled that we were approaching our destinations.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpHmqiWBmTHdKMfnwYRJ8J0zufpBbf_6YJk2quPHqExKWeAbXf16YoYJnHeQ9WDrp9QYm7y87gWPOR4t8ATwjoIvigO2PdmYAkNltegu-QtNCczF-UjHq_cTb7q7Dk80u9rAXeB_KgCc/s1600/back+deck+fairweather+%25232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpHmqiWBmTHdKMfnwYRJ8J0zufpBbf_6YJk2quPHqExKWeAbXf16YoYJnHeQ9WDrp9QYm7y87gWPOR4t8ATwjoIvigO2PdmYAkNltegu-QtNCczF-UjHq_cTb7q7Dk80u9rAXeB_KgCc/s640/back+deck+fairweather+%25232.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The back deck of the MV Fairweather</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Lynne and I took three different </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial";"> ferries, embarking first from </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Skagway</st1:city><span style="font-family: "arial";">, stopping for a couple of days in Haines, one night in </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city><span style="font-family: "arial";"> and two nights in </span><st1:city style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Sitka</st1:city><span style="font-family: "arial";">. I loved watching the coast diminish quickly each time we pulled away from the dock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">I felt safe and also connected with my ship community, the passengers and the crew. Occasionally, the ferry sailed past cruise
ships or fishing boats, but mostly, we were alone on the rolling water. I got
used to the feeling of the deck moving slightly under my feet. I had to pay
attention as I walked the halls. I held onto the railings as I went up
the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Travelling on the ferry through southeast </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial";"> gave me a visual context for how sparsely populated this part of the world is, how much of the land is uninhabited or uninhabitable. Mountains and water separate the human holdings. Each town operates in its own sphere, claims its own part of the shoreline, apart from its nearest neighbors. “Near” is a relative word when the towns are separated by icefields or steep impassable mountains rising sharply from the sea. What ties these southeast </span><st1:state style="font-family: Arial;" w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state><span style="font-family: "arial";"> communities together is the water, the water which provides vital transportation and livelihood to the residents.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPyvBgak99toW-FLNssBbP9GeDCrzcdf7i5zTyBvzLmIAWI0adPyPVHrBEPhda2HzuwBSqr0iAt5Xh5J19JtHGv-JeSdQSblSvt3XgYWNtwZYDYVSca-CjD0Gzoi3uOdqnUtR4oVfIbUc/s1600/haines+alaska+from+water+better.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPyvBgak99toW-FLNssBbP9GeDCrzcdf7i5zTyBvzLmIAWI0adPyPVHrBEPhda2HzuwBSqr0iAt5Xh5J19JtHGv-JeSdQSblSvt3XgYWNtwZYDYVSca-CjD0Gzoi3uOdqnUtR4oVfIbUc/s640/haines+alaska+from+water+better.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Haines, Alaska as we head south on the ferry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Each of the three ferries (the
<a href="http://www.dot.state.ak.us/amhs/fleet/leconte.shtml">Leconte</a>, <a href="http://www.dot.state.ak.us/amhs/fleet/fairweather.shtml">Fairweather</a> and the <a href="http://www.dot.state.ak.us/amhs/fleet/matanuska.shtml">Matanuska</a>, all named after glaciers) had
comfortable indoor observation lounges with ample windows for those absorbed in
the passing beauty. I brought a book to read, but hardly got a page read.
I saw some people doing jigsaw puzzles, or knitting, but most were gazing out
the windows or just leaning on the railing and scanning for wildlife. With no
Wi-Fi on the ship, people passed much of the time talking to each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Lynne and I had fun meeting
new people, like Donna and her husband Joe from <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Georgia</st1:place></st1:country-region>. They are as old as we are
(depends on your perspective how old you think late sixties is), so we were
surprised to learn that they were sleeping in their VW Golf as they traveled
across the lower 48 and up to Alaska. Their claim to fame: bragging rights for
getting 50 mpg with their diesel engine. We made friends with Lexie and
her husband from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Oregon</st1:place></st1:state>.
They trek up to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Juneau</st1:place></st1:city>
to fish in Excursion Inlet each summer. This year they were returning with 1300
lbs of halibut that they caught. Lexie is originally from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Juneau</st1:place></st1:city>, and has memories of smoking fish with
her Tlingit grandmother at the family’s fish camp. Her husband gave me
good directions for gathering huckleberries on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Adams</st1:placename></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">At night, I experienced sleeping on the boat, the bed gently rocking. I had the feeling of
motion and simultaneously the feeling of deep relaxation that came with
leaving the navigation and driving to the crew, covering distance in the dark
as we slept. In the middle of one night, extra turbulence in the
water awakened me, swaying me back and forward in my bed, but I soon fell back to sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBemfKrdpor9XfflY0IS64997wphbC1sbbznrczc7ZFspMollZowIf9LYWtdSGvAzEBCkrTxD99wCrnoC3QVv7unkE8nbHVWBjzgiN9bKKA061DSngie4dPyNkkhIvOQ1nqpUfP7g8ZU/s1600/DSCN2748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMBemfKrdpor9XfflY0IS64997wphbC1sbbznrczc7ZFspMollZowIf9LYWtdSGvAzEBCkrTxD99wCrnoC3QVv7unkE8nbHVWBjzgiN9bKKA061DSngie4dPyNkkhIvOQ1nqpUfP7g8ZU/s640/DSCN2748.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A deck hand prepares the ropes for landing</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">At breakfast, the purser
made a quick announcement over the loudspeaker, alerting us to look out the
window. Standing up to see better out the wrap-around dining room
windows, we watched about eight humpback whales fishing near the ship, their
breath spewing up water, their fins slicing through the surface, their broad
dark flukes (tails) flipping up as they dove. Before our food could get cold,
they were gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The food was fun. The ship’s
white jacketed cooks offered up their food cheerfully. The kitchen was open most of the day.
It was a classic cafeteria line with trays that you slid down stainless steel
rails, the heat rising from steam tables with oatmeal, soup or chili. S</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">pecials were listed on a white board for every meal. </span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> After ten days of eating
our own (very healthy, well planned) cooking while we were camping, both Lynne
and I indulged in the kitchen's cooking. The last morning, I
had enough huevos rancheros to feed a ranch hand, and I enjoyed every bite.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Throughout our trip in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place></st1:state> in early August,
we wore long pants and long sleeves, occasionally pulling on raincoats. <st1:place w:st="on">Southeast Alaska</st1:place> is in a rainforest, so we had expected
the foggy weather, the showers, the cool air. We had prepared for this
weather and actually welcomed it after some hot days driving through southern BC. We heard occasional reports that the rest of the country was having a heat wave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZP_9rzLwquHoJrOnw-ETIH0P0UWbEUqC7d25A8pulJKMh53mmVaiWics5l-KBBUmmy8VUfYluEIqIrgHbpAoKOXdPpZxNBdI5fp-ax-uSqx9c9-eAg05gkA2UpSZfr2LItxEfvoYhnI/s1600/peril+straits+on+way+to+sitka.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZP_9rzLwquHoJrOnw-ETIH0P0UWbEUqC7d25A8pulJKMh53mmVaiWics5l-KBBUmmy8VUfYluEIqIrgHbpAoKOXdPpZxNBdI5fp-ax-uSqx9c9-eAg05gkA2UpSZfr2LItxEfvoYhnI/s640/peril+straits+on+way+to+sitka.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Navigating the Peril Strait on the way to Sitka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The large boat that we were
on for 36 hours was the MV Matanuska. It moves at approximately 19 mph (16.5
knots), day and night, carrying about 200 passengers and their RVs, cars, motorcycles, kayaks and bicycles. We traveled on it for 36 hours, from <st1:city w:st="on">Sitka</st1:city>
to <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>, <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>
to <st1:city w:st="on">Petersburg</st1:city>, then on to Wrangell, <st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city>
and finally our destination, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Prince
Rupert</st1:place></st1:city>. For us, distances were measured in time, not
miles. <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city> to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sitka</st1:place></st1:city> is about 110 miles as a plane flies,
but took 4 ½ hours by the fast ferry MV Fairweather), or eight hours by
the larger Matanuska. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfat4xYpxJXLXysuKe9Ejn6Qq-hoosEMpQWotOimdbpA2lSBoQZjE0a3H2RofnXhrx4dX7Aq0ikd1ElKVcQJg868J5dgIgvb-sYHgmVwUvEOP9UK416J9SyKPVv15-u2_G6DoBjUKCww/s1600/DSCN2609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfat4xYpxJXLXysuKe9Ejn6Qq-hoosEMpQWotOimdbpA2lSBoQZjE0a3H2RofnXhrx4dX7Aq0ikd1ElKVcQJg868J5dgIgvb-sYHgmVwUvEOP9UK416J9SyKPVv15-u2_G6DoBjUKCww/s640/DSCN2609.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One lane of RVs being loaded on the ferry in Skagway. Notice the smallest RV. That's ours!<br />
Lynne and Winnie are standing in front.<br />
Two cruise ships block the mountains behind the scene.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">Tracing our route on the map, the ship went south from
Juneau on the Chatham Strait, then east, slowing down to negotiate the Peril
Strait and ending up south again on the Neva Strait to Sitka. You could skip
all this cruising and instead get there in 40 minutes by plane. Instead, we returned to Juneau on the Matanuska. Our ultimate
destination was <st1:city w:st="on">Prince Rupert</st1:city>, 318 miles from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Juneau</st1:place></st1:city>. We left
Juneau at 5:15 am on Monday and traveled 29 hours south on the Stephens Passage to
Frederick Sound and Petersburg, through the Wrangell Narrows to Wrangell, through the Clarence
Strait to Ketchikan, through the Dixon Entrance to Prince Rupert. We
arrived at 10:45 am on Tuesday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-u2DqB7tReSWgr4pGDjf7JEzUGKbUVd1wUWB2Ol1TrDt8N8zkm4EqqzKosN3wroDo22YZFMJ5ldbCYaAac3-MAwJemzVb9qVP6zWpFKSEydiJ7MmSFzc3j3xRLUOdJDlE8WZ2kXU4TUU/s1600/juneau+and+the+mendenhall+glacier+from+water.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-u2DqB7tReSWgr4pGDjf7JEzUGKbUVd1wUWB2Ol1TrDt8N8zkm4EqqzKosN3wroDo22YZFMJ5ldbCYaAac3-MAwJemzVb9qVP6zWpFKSEydiJ7MmSFzc3j3xRLUOdJDlE8WZ2kXU4TUU/s640/juneau+and+the+mendenhall+glacier+from+water.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Juneau on the ferry, with a view of the Mendenhall Glacier.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I am an insider of the <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state> ferry system, because my job is to provide
shoreside support to the ships which dock in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:place></st1:city>. Each week, I get to help the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place></st1:state> bound passengers
through the boarding process. I chat with retirees who are taking their
RVs to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>
for their once in a lifetime trip. I answer questions for young military
families who are relocating to <st1:city w:st="on">Sitka</st1:city> or Kodiak
or <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Anchorage</st1:place></st1:city>. I
help young people who are going up to Petersburg to process seafood for the
season, men sending their new boats up on the ferry, homeless people who are
pinning their hopes on Alaska, and Alaskan residents who came down to shop, to
visit relatives, to buy a new car, or have a medical issue addressed. I
have coached young people who are pitching their tents on the top deck. I have
relayed messages to the ship from distraught drivers who are caught in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seattle</st1:place></st1:city> traffic or behind
an accident and are late for the ferry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">In the process of helping
passengers, I have gotten to know some of the crew, from the watchman to the stewards to the pursers to the
captains and the able bodied seamen and seawomen. It was fun to see them again in Alaska, and to meet more people who work on the ferry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">When I was first hired, in
2010, an immediate bonus was that my training included a trip up to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:place></st1:city>
on the ferry for training. I wrote a blog about it at the time, telling
the story of going up to the bridge to see how the ship is steered, and in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:place></st1:city>, donning a
lifejacket and walking the scaffolding to learn to tie up a ship. I was
on an adventure then, although not exactly a relaxed one, as a new employee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I am no longer new to the <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state> ferry system, yet the experience of being on the ferry as a
passenger during our recent trip was still an memorable adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I came across these words
from “The Blue Boat Home” by Peter Mayer this week, and they express how I felt
about our sea journey:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> I give thanks to the waves upholding me,</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> hail the great winds urging me on</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial";">Greet the infinite sea
before me<br />
Sing the sky my sailor's song </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-21346351914787729022016-08-22T20:56:00.001-07:002016-08-22T20:56:33.069-07:00Vacation mind, Sitka, Alaska<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3OMFbfVUe7INsMYZwLprKdzGb1J8njYuP5pl2Mebu23yx_S1jn2gX4NrXlDPxgq-XteeXTr55tDGzsF4DNxBdOkC4uLNjeTiP_2zhihNhoFbzFcDJ1lvBdbY88HZrEHsqcKamS-PXBI/s1600/grizzly+in+the+water+at+fotb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju3OMFbfVUe7INsMYZwLprKdzGb1J8njYuP5pl2Mebu23yx_S1jn2gX4NrXlDPxgq-XteeXTr55tDGzsF4DNxBdOkC4uLNjeTiP_2zhihNhoFbzFcDJ1lvBdbY88HZrEHsqcKamS-PXBI/s640/grizzly+in+the+water+at+fotb.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Brown bear at Fortress of the Bear</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">I like vacation. You
wake up in a beautiful place, you sort of know what direction you are headed
but you have time to be distracted by anything else that presents itself. You can stop to see the view, or you can keep
going. You can go out to the bear rehab
center, or you can go to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sitka</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">National</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Historic</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>, or you can see the
Russian Orthodox Church. Those are the kind of choices we ha</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">d in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Sitka</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state></st1:place>. We did all three.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTUfVsXsxjU1nm7wSRzZ1Dn7J_jDGMmK_RqJBs_oOSdziVQ-Wqt3RIVvP3vhwGT9gkzB-XcsiNoso5zVpn2iI89Zd7seOIEucahH3WZy37Bmc5qv_vsDjRywXsCYKnMvgB8SARgbqKo0/s1600/welcome+to+sitka+sky.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwTUfVsXsxjU1nm7wSRzZ1Dn7J_jDGMmK_RqJBs_oOSdziVQ-Wqt3RIVvP3vhwGT9gkzB-XcsiNoso5zVpn2iI89Zd7seOIEucahH3WZy37Bmc5qv_vsDjRywXsCYKnMvgB8SARgbqKo0/s640/welcome+to+sitka+sky.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sky and Winnie in Sitka</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">We got there from Juneau by way of a four and a half hour trip on the Alaska Ferry. An hour after we got off the
ferry, we walked along the ocean front from downtown <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sitka, trying to figure out why we kept seeing fish leaping out of the ocean. A local man explained that these pink salmon were trying to loosen up their eggs in preparation for spawning at the fish hatchery. Plop, splash, went another pink salmon throwing itself up in the air.</st1:place></st1:city></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The trail led to a path through
the woods. The quiet closed-canopy forest with large Sitka spruce and Western hemlock trees w</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: "arial";">as soothing. Eighteen Tlingit and Haida totem poles and
house posts were spaced along our walk. During the ferry ride, Winnie had been
cooped up in the RV (not exactly cooped since the RV is spacious), so we all
enjoyed stretching our legs. Lynne and I learned about the Tlingit and Haida cultures
while we were at it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">We did a bit more wandering
that afternoon. We actually went to part of a Russian Orthodox vesper service
on Saturday night. <a href="http://stmichaelcathedral.org/">The Russian Orthodox church</a> was
resplendent with gold, lots of precious chandeliers, iconic paintings and an
aging bearded priest in a long flowing gold robe. The service was intoned (chanted), in a style
that I had heard before in the Episcopal church, and highly stylized. The words
being chanted were read out of a printed liturgy. I enjoyed the visual richness, and I was
interested to see threads of commonality with Episcopalian ritual. We didn’t
stay for the whole service, but I was glad to get a glimpse of this remnant
from the time when Russian people occupied <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sitka</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_wluaY9lbXanIxXKtN_hNMojJNVZVcm-Ragp_ZYXe3A43K04E8hwvVyR-5pCgZcpnFOb_sCpV3bvKsHmezSdQHwo7_fwAdlneorftD9z6cU0XP4kSOkuTEKeFYgONRkAtEEXreBch-A/s1600/grizzlies+playing+a+Fortress+of+the+bear.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_wluaY9lbXanIxXKtN_hNMojJNVZVcm-Ragp_ZYXe3A43K04E8hwvVyR-5pCgZcpnFOb_sCpV3bvKsHmezSdQHwo7_fwAdlneorftD9z6cU0XP4kSOkuTEKeFYgONRkAtEEXreBch-A/s640/grizzlies+playing+a+Fortress+of+the+bear.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Two brown (grizzly) bears playing at Fortress of the Bear</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">More to my taste was <a href="http://www.fortressofthebear.org/">Fortress of the Bear</a>, a cleverly
named facility at the east end of the fourteen miles of paved road in Sitka. Fortress of the Bear re-purposes
several huge old waste water treatment cisterns to provide sheltered spaces for
orphaned bears: six brown bears (aka grizzlies) and three black bears from three different
sibling groups. They all have been given human names, so you have this feeling
of being close to wild animals while simultaneously feeling like you are watching your
pets play. The bears have ponds, toys to
float around with, multiple spaces to go into and camaraderie. The black bears (in a separate enclosure from
the brown bears) have the stump of a tree to climb up. People have constructed
platforms above the bears, so we of the two legged species can safely observe
examples of four legged creatures that are bigger than we are. Like you, I am sure, I would prefer to
spontaneously see bears in their natural habitat, but since bears, and most
wildlife, run away from people when they can, the chances of seeing bears
playing, eating, swimming, and relaxing in broad daylight like this are
slim-- except at Fortress of the Bear. The above pictures are brown bears, which is
what they call grizzly bears on the coast.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">This next picture shows the
black bears. Watching the black bears
gracefully climb up the stump and stand on their two hind feet made a big
impression on us. Don’t try to get away
from a black bear by climbing up a tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLy7OVk9MP0E7OIpIWOTTinc2Rj3sETEkv0TaH7-sXUCUDadayXyeVaGjZHBG5sNLrkbsgl8TlXI_nFS1EOhsnLUWPf7Q7EcmZBfp2hxaOEksetvTFCsg9uy_bXNur5oRtoCPZvsbbdoo/s1600/three+black+bears+at+fotb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLy7OVk9MP0E7OIpIWOTTinc2Rj3sETEkv0TaH7-sXUCUDadayXyeVaGjZHBG5sNLrkbsgl8TlXI_nFS1EOhsnLUWPf7Q7EcmZBfp2hxaOEksetvTFCsg9uy_bXNur5oRtoCPZvsbbdoo/s640/three+black+bears+at+fotb.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three brother black bears at Fortress of the Bear</td></tr>
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<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Sitka</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: "arial";"> is a nature oriented place, and so our next stop was
the <a href="http://www.alaskaraptor.org/">Alaska Raptor Center</a>, which was yet another chance to see eagles and other raptors up close. They had an impressive rehab aviary for those
eagles who are expected to recover and could be returned to the wild. They also had many long term residents who
are well cared for and, when possible, used for educational presentations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">One of the other choices we
had in Sitka was where to camp, and even though we had reserved a site in the
wooded <a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/recarea/tongass/recreation/recarea/?recid=79135&actid=29">Starragavin
campground</a>, we ended up staying at the <a href="http://cityofsitka.com/government/departments/harbor/RVParking.html">Sitka
municipal RV park</a>, right on the waterfront, with this lovely view out the
window. I enjoyed watching the boats
leaving the marina and returning from the day on open water. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_ImbapNHb9cxdTc15yPVlaxOU9pqs7vzWZHzsjxchSDmq4gGhk57FMmVpReYBw2Gc3DZykxNoJPXsTSs3B6_ykFWT_AfGzgPMiMjwMz817ogCvNr-SuLkpDvP4YAKAJqAtxraPE7lcg/s1600/looking+out+from+sitka.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_ImbapNHb9cxdTc15yPVlaxOU9pqs7vzWZHzsjxchSDmq4gGhk57FMmVpReYBw2Gc3DZykxNoJPXsTSs3B6_ykFWT_AfGzgPMiMjwMz817ogCvNr-SuLkpDvP4YAKAJqAtxraPE7lcg/s640/looking+out+from+sitka.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our RV</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">And here are some houses
built on small rocky bases out in the water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidc0MuNLEgu4CdOte39gzkM7lE2GdWJQPsnqfngWnl_6lS7Fsi4hf-J-3RbZnXSQeWnYqR98oQBOkVkn2RBNfWlPPtwqtejFr1PJGF3uVB22pmdoe9qn52ZhuoLNmxPop2U2uBYUoX36M/s1600/housing+in+sitka.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidc0MuNLEgu4CdOte39gzkM7lE2GdWJQPsnqfngWnl_6lS7Fsi4hf-J-3RbZnXSQeWnYqR98oQBOkVkn2RBNfWlPPtwqtejFr1PJGF3uVB22pmdoe9qn52ZhuoLNmxPop2U2uBYUoX36M/s640/housing+in+sitka.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks like a boat is the only option for leaving this house</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">My biggest impression of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sitka</st1:place></st1:city>—gosh, it is way
away from everywhere. It faces the
Pacific Ocean from the west side of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Baranoff</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Island</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The only way to
get there is a four to eight hour ferry ride from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Juneau</st1:place></st1:city>, or a plane ride. Of course, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sitka</st1:place></st1:city> is a haven for fishing. It is filled with marinas, and fishing conversations
include terms that I had to look up: long-lining and leasing halibut percentages of catch (which I still don't understand). Only 14 miles of road are paved in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sitka</st1:place></st1:city>. We drove it from end to end, enjoying the <a href="http://www.sitka.org/listings/index.cfm?action=display&listingID=25">Whale
Park</a> at one end and <st1:placename w:st="on">Starragavin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype> at the other, the museum at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Sitka</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">National</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Historic</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
in the middle, a good restaurant (<a href="http://www.flyinfishinn.com/">Fly Inn Fish Inn</a>) but then what? <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Sitka</st1:place></st1:city> is a long way from stores, theatre,
medical expertise, …but then again, that’s why I went there. I wanted to see what it is like to live in a
naturally beautiful place, without the traffic congestion and noise of our more
populous home, and I did.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Up next: 36 hours on the Alaska Ferry from Sitka to Prince Rupert, BC.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHaOoHtZTNNT16SezqzSkwblRR2MsEUkkKI1Zy4kHfbmDqVUCeFo3dPJ6UM7i7hWW9o4eZXeEYTwf5bqVC5qhNhUGWY-QU0j4Ws8tDGR4Sw_DKl7ic0RxnEcM5Sht-dHHc_MDpm6UW00/s1600/approaching+sitka.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHaOoHtZTNNT16SezqzSkwblRR2MsEUkkKI1Zy4kHfbmDqVUCeFo3dPJ6UM7i7hWW9o4eZXeEYTwf5bqVC5qhNhUGWY-QU0j4Ws8tDGR4Sw_DKl7ic0RxnEcM5Sht-dHHc_MDpm6UW00/s640/approaching+sitka.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the ferry as we approached Sitka </td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p>Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-9224043792311744672016-08-17T21:14:00.000-07:002016-08-31T17:52:26.116-07:00Stop #1 in the Yukon<div class="MsoNormal">
A glimpse of the hard side of living and working in
Rancheria, <st1:state w:st="on">Yukon</st1:state>, came from our waitress, Lois. She had black shoulder length hair with bangs. </div>
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“It takes me six hours to get hair
dye,” she said, referring to the drive between Rancheria and the next closest
store, three hours west. We all laughed,
“we” being the four tired and hungry female RVers from <st1:place w:st="on">Washington</st1:place> state.
A ball of fire, Lois tried to keep us focused through our dinner orders,
switching between dodging our touristy questions, running up to the cash
register, showing new arrivals their motel rooms, bringing out food from the
kitchen and answering our bear questions.
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“I am not afraid of bears,” she
said. “At my age, they know I’m not
going to hurt them and they can just sense it.”
Her age, in my mind, was a question.
She had the energy of a younger woman, like when she mentioned being
bucked off a horse and breaking her ankle last year. She also had the war
stories of someone who had wrangled tourists for many years. </div>
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“If you want to see bears, just go
down to the bridge,” she said, nodding in the direction from which we had just
driven. “You could come with me after I get off work. The old bridge washed out and it is full of
berries. Time and place,” she said, looking directly at us, “if you want to see
bears.” </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DkVKc-Jv7kAks6IxnYlyvnT_gbEKKOcT5e8yAfoK3Iw7gTYg9kbivT-4vsGhvoeVfUvYIesSXr9Lx3bz8AmE7t0dHwARk8U1TF6U_eClz0bcF-v0rgxJ0D_-1a1MI7WBhPyVpsQB3Fs/s1600/friends+at+Rancheria+falls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DkVKc-Jv7kAks6IxnYlyvnT_gbEKKOcT5e8yAfoK3Iw7gTYg9kbivT-4vsGhvoeVfUvYIesSXr9Lx3bz8AmE7t0dHwARk8U1TF6U_eClz0bcF-v0rgxJ0D_-1a1MI7WBhPyVpsQB3Fs/s320/friends+at+Rancheria+falls.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jerri, Lynn, Lynne and Sky with Torrie and Winnie in Yukon</td></tr>
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<br />
I pictured the end of her work day.
It would still be daylight. On this day, the end of July, the sun set at 10:30
pm. We had driven four hours today, day six of our trip north. This afternoon we had emerged from the
northern end of the <st1:street w:st="on">Cassiar
Highway</st1:street>, after bouncing along gravelly roads through
<st1:state w:st="on">British Columbia</st1:state>’s
coastal mountains for 450 miles. Under
clear blue skies and temperatures in the 60’s, we were now heading on the Al-Can
(Alaska highway) towards <st1:place w:st="on">Whitehorse</st1:place>.
This conversation with our waitress was our first chance to talk with someone
who lived here, not counting the friendly African man with the British accent
who attended the first gas station that we stopped at in <st1:state w:st="on">Yukon</st1:state>. I didn’t sense that he was local, and
I wondered how he had ended up in this makeshift business, a single pump and a
simple one room wooden building with the cash box resting on a table. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_DXJdz02fF4pio9EjYGuCxR-r6HlbGWuoVVrCd6NPRRmJkD9_M0OSfdkxQkniiOWBdL5FWtVxNX5p4YDEd8fwlO5p-uEy-lGXhTIZS_trgHuVoLWEBdalkIBEewlXR4Ox72H5OZk_oI/s1600/fireweed+at+Rancheria+better.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_DXJdz02fF4pio9EjYGuCxR-r6HlbGWuoVVrCd6NPRRmJkD9_M0OSfdkxQkniiOWBdL5FWtVxNX5p4YDEd8fwlO5p-uEy-lGXhTIZS_trgHuVoLWEBdalkIBEewlXR4Ox72H5OZk_oI/s320/fireweed+at+Rancheria+better.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fireweed</td></tr>
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The restaurant, 100 km (an hour) up
the road, was the next sign of human habitation we encountered. It was part of
a roadside lodge whose earlier glory (touted in the <i>Milepost </i>guidebook) had
faded. The broad dusty gravel lot edged
a sprawling restaurant and motel building, fuel pumps, a tangle of trucks and
rusted equipment, and a small unmanned visitor center which I later found to
have a dirt floor. At the far end of the
parking lot, a log gateway with yellow flags heralded the entrance to the
campground. We followed the signs and
drove down a dirt road into a camp setting in a peaceful lodge pole pine forest
back from the road.<br />
<br />
Only one other site of the many available was occupied. We
settled in adjacent sites. When three more RVs rolled in, they clustered near
us, as if they also shared a bit of unease about the junkyard that edged one
side of the campground, the unlabeled sites, and the isolation of it all. Each
site had electricity--$20 a night for that and the use of the restroom. The
TripAdvisor review had promised a nice walk along Rancheria River, but where was
the river? In front of the small restroom building, four re-cycled toilets had
been planted with cheerful purple petunias. The front door had been clawed by a bear. The recently swabbed down interior was a mirage of orderliness. The door dividing
the women’s side from the men’s didn’t close. Neither warped stall door latched,
leaving me with a sense of imminent exposure, had there been more people around.
Each of the two dark shower stalls was equipped with a peeling chair resting on a wooden pallet. Still, we
were looking for respite for the night, and this was it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCbOp9k-zhREM8uuhCIbCL6wl3K7eAN_ada8Qhj6Q-zwPSQWPUfhyS3QeSVZmWp2xukQCCOraLOHZxTFDPUjdnJi_MsXWphb_1IVyyDIQisJ8mGe92mrDLo1eyNgts2SfBDi02X8vVwk/s1600/wild+barley+at+Rancheria.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCbOp9k-zhREM8uuhCIbCL6wl3K7eAN_ada8Qhj6Q-zwPSQWPUfhyS3QeSVZmWp2xukQCCOraLOHZxTFDPUjdnJi_MsXWphb_1IVyyDIQisJ8mGe92mrDLo1eyNgts2SfBDi02X8vVwk/s320/wild+barley+at+Rancheria.JPG" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wild Barley and Fireweed</td></tr>
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The promises of eating out after
camping for three days had lured us back to the restaurant, a simple room with five tables and an open door to the kitchen. At first, Lois didn’t take time to answer our
questions with much flourish. I asked
her where she was from and she pointed out the window and said, “The bush.” I
presumed that she meant a home down a track somewhere in the thousands of acres
that extended around us in all directions, yet I hadn’t seen any sign of human
habitation for hours along the highway that we drove. The tannin colored Rancheria River stood out from the boreal forests, stretching on endlessly. No turnoffs,
no homesteads, no telephone poles, no power lines. </div>
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According to the guidebook, <st1:state w:st="on">Yukon</st1:state>’s total population: around 35,000. Two thirds of them live in the capital,<st1:place style="text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Whitehorse</st1:place><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">.
I guessed that ten of the residents of </span><st1:state style="text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Yukon</st1:state><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
lived and made their living at Rancheria, perhaps fewer in the winter. The flannel
shirted young guy who pumped the propane was helpful and friendly, jiggling an
electrical circuit mounted to a telephone pole to get the pump working and
carrying the filled propane tank back to our campsite. Our friends had liked the skinny blond man
who ran the campground, although he seemed to disappear after we arrived. </span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I finally found the creek, after first heading
down a likely looking path and encountering a big sign nailed to a tree:
“Danger. Keep Out.” I made a second attempt in the company of two other
travelers, Alaskans who had sold all their possessions and were heading to the
lower 48 states to find their Shangri La, possibly in </span><st1:state style="text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">South Carolina</st1:state><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">. Just a few minutes walk past
purple fireweed, blue monkshood and pink flowering wild barley, the path opened
to a bend in Swift Creek with a broad flat rocky shore. My companions' dog raced to
fetch a ball while Winnie (our dog) waded into the creek and lapped up its cold
water. I reveled in the quiet, the sound
of rippling water, wind stirring the trees, and the undisturbed emptiness of
the forest across the creek from us.</span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Mobile users, here's a link: <a href="https://youtu.be/Vyenr8giur0">https://youtu.be/Vyenr8giur0</a></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx6Sl_RjoYwwYFkGB5Fcu0jmZJZUqGJ7dSew19uI5TGdn3aOgN3zaESHNT63kgo8rNDAyEyVnQW7X8rlSOYew' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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<span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">Many more miles have passed since
we spent the night at Rancheria.</span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">We had
a glimpse of life in the north, where average January low temperatures are -20
degrees Fahrenheit.</span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">I left with more
questions than answers, but at least I now had an image of </span><st1:state style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;" w:st="on">Yukon</st1:state><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">.</span>Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-50104821419213603852016-08-17T20:37:00.000-07:002016-08-18T18:25:24.693-07:00Grizzly at Fish CreekI did not take this video. We had gone to Hyder, Alaska, one evening, specifically hoping to see bears from the observation platform at<a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/detail/r10/specialplaces/?cid=fsbdev2_038787"> </a><a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/detail/r10/specialplaces/?cid=fsbdev2_038787">Fish Creek Wildlife Observation Site</a>. You have to want to be in Hyder, Alaska, because it is darn hard to get to. We had driven north and west from Bellingham for four days and camped at Meziadin Junction, BC, on the Cassiar Highway. Then we drove west 40 minutes more, stopping at Bear Glacier along the way, to Stewart, BC. We drove a few miles across the border, into the US to get to Hyder. That's the only way in. After stopping for amazing seafood at the Seafood Express food truck, we got out to Fish Creek about 7 pm.<br />
<br />
We wanted to see what every other tourist hopes to see: wildlife, especially bears. Fish Creek was overwhelmed with chum salmon spawning, which attracts bears. The water was churning with salmon going through their end of life ritual. The eagles were all around us. We had been watching the chum salmon spawning in Fish Creek for so long that I had gone back to the car to relax, when this grizzly bear showed up. Lynne shot this video. <br />
<br />
Turn up your sound when you play this video. At 11 seconds, you can hear the bear whimper when it misses a fish it was after. Also hear the eagles screaming overhead, and notice the water churn as the salmon frantically swim away from the grizzly. The bear finally catches a salmon about 59 seconds into the video. Watch as it eats only the salmon's eggs, then tosses the fish, still alive, back into the stream, and goes in search of its next delicacy. What a sight!<br />
<a href="https://youtu.be/pZ4VQdQfWwU">Mobile users: try this link</a><br />
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Here's Bear Glacier:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3M0wi5U6NAAGqxVtxQ6l2ynxzIDNawqH1shwgOOzhPHeG7fiTQA_x_kIubChjN-3HiHXVYx079NS8JedM1bK0nmBX_nKhz4aLFWrzkZO_lEGA2grXoW8m3haFwxNr2266KRXqzxjMacs/s1600/Bear+glacier+near+Stewart+BC.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3M0wi5U6NAAGqxVtxQ6l2ynxzIDNawqH1shwgOOzhPHeG7fiTQA_x_kIubChjN-3HiHXVYx079NS8JedM1bK0nmBX_nKhz4aLFWrzkZO_lEGA2grXoW8m3haFwxNr2266KRXqzxjMacs/s400/Bear+glacier+near+Stewart+BC.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;"><br /></span>Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-37376873140053210582016-07-23T21:01:00.002-07:002016-08-17T20:43:11.899-07:00On Going North<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8bpZXWJlnX5WNn4nrf_CleJjo1AHH4HnAeG6cvvHsjR03tb653-R1cMpz-VKPBSzHqQF7ilLloQ7DRU-vvqjT17q6RHC3fy4yfX9dJRWu89zTsiyUBK7Eg8u-7jQSqVQe_E_AabSvAI/s1600/sky+and+dolphin+at+ft+casey.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8bpZXWJlnX5WNn4nrf_CleJjo1AHH4HnAeG6cvvHsjR03tb653-R1cMpz-VKPBSzHqQF7ilLloQ7DRU-vvqjT17q6RHC3fy4yfX9dJRWu89zTsiyUBK7Eg8u-7jQSqVQe_E_AabSvAI/s320/sky+and+dolphin+at+ft+casey.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18.4px;">We are leaving in the morning, driving north, in the direction of longer days, just east of the coastal mountains through the interior of </span><st1:state style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18.4px;" w:st="on">British Columbia</st1:state><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18.4px;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Our shopping
list included mosquito nets and bear spray.
We will be traveling through <st1:place w:st="on">Hells Canyon</st1:place>
and Kitwango. We have to be sure to fuel
up before long stretches with no gas stations.
We won’t have cell service for much of the drive. It takes two AAA maps
to trace our route.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We will brush with glaciers, look for bears, and explore this new direction. We
are traveling in our 1993 Toyota Dolphin camper. Maximum speed: 55 mph. Gas mileage: 14 mpg average.</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am looking
forward to waking up each morning in our nesty camper, sliding open the
curtains and looking out on 10 Mile lake or a meadow in the shadow of a
mountain. I look forward to having nothing more pressing to do than make
breakfast, go for a walk, and drive to our next campground. I look forward to being a minority among the
mammals around us and a spectator to nature’s symphony.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We’ll make it to southeast <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>,
and then float our way home, slowly, on the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place></st1:state> ferry.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> I look forward to this sail: the passing islands, the
possibility of seeing humpback whales or white sided dolphins, of watching the
shorelines and the distant peaks. I look forward to the meditative experience
of not being in charge, of letting the captain do the driving and absorbing the
energy of the </span><st1:place style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;" w:st="on">Inside Passage</st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">, immersion in a
vast place where my presence is insignificant.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I can generalize that this is what I am looking forward to that
motivates all the effort required to get us on the road. I want to wake up in peaceful places, hearing
birds, wind, and not much more. No background
of traffic on I-5, no piercing distant train whistles, no sirens, no neighbors
starting up their engines. I want to
walk along nature rich paths with close up encounters with northern trees and
vegetation, clear lakes, awesome geological formations and vistas of mountain
peaks. I want to be outnumbered by
animals and birds, I want to be an inconsequential presence in ecosystems that
are not overrun with humans. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">T minus 18
hours, and counting.</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-36335203304882773912016-06-29T11:37:00.000-07:002016-06-29T11:38:18.173-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"><i>I wrote this poem last October on one of our last camping trips for the year. Now as we prepare for this year's summer camping, the sentiments speak to me, and I hope, to you.</i></st1:placename></st1:place></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"></st1:placename></st1:place></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on"><br /></st1:placename></st1:place></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Banks</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been looking for you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
driving many miles</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
across a mountain range</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNv0_usaqnhGUa3p1XyXbYVZIoTrES2Wl0X-PDsdeigDPzixePbQBTTvxz7rtY6dl9iMwQA2jwEQiLqD-f_oVt43ORUelDzwyTZhtcWsaKkDzDizHuNaLZ-N9mUhq4kxrKs3MpoPPAS6o/s1600/Cliffs+come+down+to+canyon+floor.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNv0_usaqnhGUa3p1XyXbYVZIoTrES2Wl0X-PDsdeigDPzixePbQBTTvxz7rtY6dl9iMwQA2jwEQiLqD-f_oVt43ORUelDzwyTZhtcWsaKkDzDizHuNaLZ-N9mUhq4kxrKs3MpoPPAS6o/s320/Cliffs+come+down+to+canyon+floor.JPG" title="Northrop Canyon" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northrop Canyon, near Steamboat Springs State Park</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
searching for</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
this treasure:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a place where wildlife outnumbers humans.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stop at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Banks</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a rare body of water in the <st1:place w:st="on">Grand Coulee</st1:place></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of eastern <st1:place w:st="on">Washington</st1:place>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Towering walls of basalt </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
guard broad scrubby flatlands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trough was washed out </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
by the <st1:city w:st="on">Missoula</st1:city>
floods of the high desert plateau. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were welcomed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As soon as we turned off the truck</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The greeting committee was there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Treefrogs, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
un-self-consciously croaking </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
loud multi-syllabic hellos</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from hidden perches.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The alders surrounding us</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Golden leaves on display</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the dusk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The flock of American coots </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spread across the lake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Black bodies floating </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on the calm silver surface,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
clucking as they</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
propelled smoothly, effortlessly,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
upending to search out food underwater</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
popping back upright to glide some more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mallards </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
floating closer to shore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Iridescent green heads punctuate the gathering. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard the beating of their wings as</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
simultaneously they rose into the air</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
responding to a signal </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
known only to them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Boisterous <st1:country-region w:st="on">Canada</st1:country-region>
geese honking</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as they flew overhead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The white tailed deer and her fawn</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
grazing on the green lawn</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
irrigated for human comfort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The flock of prosperous wild turkeys</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
proceeding safely in numbers</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
heads down </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
industriously pecking</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
steadily</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
moving on to greener grass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two white pelicans</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
teasing us with brief appearances</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
across the lake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We paddled down the lake</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in red and green kayaks</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
failing to convey our peaceful intent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The coots flew off from our intrusion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mallards re-positioned by the far shore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stopped paddling</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
floated aimlessly on the quiet water.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The locals chose a cautious distance</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to settle back down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We urban humans were eager to be with the wildlife,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
their presence a gift to us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were not a gift to them,</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
but for once, we were outnumbered.</div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-9691623040804696802016-02-07T19:12:00.000-08:002016-02-16T14:37:10.083-08:00Digging for Gold<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNUbi305aWf_4J8TIXs4kvCn4sadHyrjSQl3yd7QgMWzyIHEQig9izF2A5TzwaFNl1IKKbRDhS8_fVVtwCwCwPPClxmdqo5QFHswIUL1Xo2c_LEkPSbq8szieUXgnCTOBX5YrOg94BJs/s1600/terminal+in+rain+at+night.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNUbi305aWf_4J8TIXs4kvCn4sadHyrjSQl3yd7QgMWzyIHEQig9izF2A5TzwaFNl1IKKbRDhS8_fVVtwCwCwPPClxmdqo5QFHswIUL1Xo2c_LEkPSbq8szieUXgnCTOBX5YrOg94BJs/s400/terminal+in+rain+at+night.JPG" style="line-height: 150%;" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">As
I crossed the empty parking lot in the dark, the streetlights reflecting off
the wet pavement, I felt the weight of the long winter season: short days,
rainy weather, gray skies. No eager passengers were waiting for me to open the
ferry terminal.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">The Alaska Ferry was in
the doldrums of our winter season, past the boost of the winter holidays and
not yet into the awakening of spring. The number of people interested in
traveling up to </span><st1:state style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state><span style="line-height: 150%;">
in the dead of winter was typically low: fewer than 100 passengers today, a
third of the load during the summer season. At a few minutes before seven a.m.,
I unlocked the side door of the spacious brick terminal building and let myself
in.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 150%;">Usually pulling
up to the waterfront early in the morning, the fleet of boats rocking in the
water, the wind stirring, the openness across the bay uplifted me, stirred my
soul. This morning, the world just seemed dark and rugged. What was the point?</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <span style="line-height: 150%;">The
day stayed dark and rainy,</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"> one more in the string of dark January days here in </span><st1:city style="line-height: 150%;" w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:city><span style="line-height: 150%;">. Even with mild temperatures, the rain drove
everyone who had a place to go indoors.
The passengers who came to my window dripped rain off their hats. Their winter jackets were soaked from the dash
between their cars and the terminal. They unpeeled their layers and parked
their rolling luggage in a pool of water as they negotiated the process of
checking in.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The
morning had passed slowly. When we
opened our ticket windows at 8, I checked in a few veteran employees and
retirees of the <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>
ferry system who were traveling on pass.
I helped a woman who had been told incorrectly that she had to check in
by 8 a.m., instead of 3 p.m., for the 6 p.m. departure. Luckily the ample two story terminal offered
plenty of space for the waiting passengers to spread out during the intervening
hours. To fill the time until the rush of passengers later in the day, I turned
to updating the fare sheet for the summer sailings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The
smell of unwashed clothes and body registered across the counter at my ticket
window before a word was spoken. He was
gray haired, not recently shorn, and bearded. He was wearing a nondescript army
jacket. His body tilted forward to counter the weight of an enormous green duffel
bag he carried on his back. His face was
pock marked and ashen, other than his red nose. In one hand was a cardboard sign.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “How
can I help you?” I said, intentionally disguising my gut reaction to the acrid
smell. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I
finally have enough money,” he said, as he smacked a worn white envelope thick
with cash on the counter. “Or at least I
hope I do. I want a ticket to <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>. Two hundred and
sixty dollars.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
looked at the envelope, at least an inch thick with bills.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Keeping
my voice casual and friendly, I told him the price to <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>, $363.
My approach was designed not to ignite angry spirits.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He
looked confused, then said “I panhandled all week to get this. I should have enough.” He stuffed the
cardboard sign under the duffel on his back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Let’s
see,” I said as I turned my attention to my reservations screen, leaving the
white envelope on the counter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I’ll
need to see your ID.” Checking ID was
required, but also helped me clarify the situation. Did he have one? Where was he from? How old was he?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He
pulled his license out of his wallet and handed it to me. It was surprisingly clean. His name was Paul
Martin. I noted his home address: Chico<st1:place w:st="on">,
<st1:state w:st="on">CA</st1:state></st1:place>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “You’re
a ways from home,” I said, to be conversational as I began creating a new
passenger profile in the system. He didn’t reply. “Have you been on the <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state> ferry before?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “No
ma’am,” he said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> His
license was up to date. His picture showed a younger, more prosperous version
of himself: fewer gray hairs, clean shaven, smiling. I checked off the box marked “New Passenger,”
on the computer and began filling out the form: his name, birth date, and
driver’s license number. I mentally calculated his age: 55. He has lasted this
far, I mused, and still has some miles left to go.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrlk6YAbuMKYNBbt0I2HXKncr8ZnnMqAIL3LK0xIcx_bwfhyyjQ_ktA20quw2-yVurl9uvt2dA5-tY6zm8sFzrJdiiHwDhBmHhtb3ITeu1sEXcVcxgmPEstYmLt2Yp5ULpTAQ15myqUg/s1600/routes_regions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVrlk6YAbuMKYNBbt0I2HXKncr8ZnnMqAIL3LK0xIcx_bwfhyyjQ_ktA20quw2-yVurl9uvt2dA5-tY6zm8sFzrJdiiHwDhBmHhtb3ITeu1sEXcVcxgmPEstYmLt2Yp5ULpTAQ15myqUg/s320/routes_regions.jpg" width="267" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
asked if he had an email address or phone number, even though I correctly
predicted the answer: “No.” I finished filling out the form, putting in his <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state> address, even
though it was apparently not current. “You’ll need $363 to get to <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>,” I told him. “Let’s
count your money.” Taking the stack of money out of his envelope, I started slowly
counting it out loud. He watched me as I
concentrated on the pile of money. I sorted out some twenties, then a few tens,
and totaled 55 dollars in large bills.
The rest of the bills, all ones, were crinkled and bent. I straightened them as I counted, starting
over several times. I reached $100 and I
was half way through the stack. I didn’t
think we were going to end up with $363.
I was right. At $201, we ran out
of bills. I hated to disappoint him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “We
could get you as far as <st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city>
for $263,” I offered. He looked at
me. “You would need 62 more dollars.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “How
much?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “62
more dollars.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I
thought I had enough,” he said. He
lowered his voice and leaned forward a bit, “Would you let me pay the rest
later?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “No. Sorry.” I inwardly wished I could have
granted his request. Turning down people
who are trying to get on the boat with their last dime was hard on me. People on their last dime are hard on me. The
idea of going to <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>
seems to give hope to people who have burned all their bridges in the lower 48
states. Everything is going to be different in <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>.
<st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>
is the answer to their problems. In the six years that I had worked as a
terminal agent, I saw this pageant play out more than I wanted to. I didn’t ever want to be in their position. I
didn’t want anyone to be in my position. With a swipe of a credit card, I could
have paid his way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He
considered. “How much more do I need?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “62
dollars to get to Ketchikan.” Then I asked casually, “What’re you going to do
in <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Dig
for gold,” he answered right away. This man was hoping to strike it rich. This business plan proved to be the death of
many travelers since 1897 . It was a
rugged and risky prospect then. It was
just ignorance now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “The
gold might be covered with snow,” I said in a low voice. I tried to be
respectful and casual, stifling the many other opinions that were screaming
across my mind. He looked down and didn’t reply.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Is
<st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city> a
city?” he asked. I was glad he asked. I
wanted to help him. He could have been
my brother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Yes,
it is a city.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Which
is bigger, <st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city> or <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
thought about it. “I’d guess <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>
is bigger,” I said. “It is the capital.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “But
<st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city> is a
city?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Yes.”
I had been there only once, but I knew there were at least several thousand
residents.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Are
the people friendly?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
wasn’t sure how to answer. “Yes, there are friendly people.” I could have just
as easily said no, but I hesitated to burden him with too much reality.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He
debated for a few minutes. I showed him
a map of <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state> and pointed out <st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city>, the first stop on the ferry; and <st1:place w:st="on">Juneau</st1:place>, several hundred
miles north. He noted that he couldn’t
really see the map without his glasses. When he persisted about going to <st1:city w:st="on">Juneau</st1:city>, I told him that
another ferry runs every few days between the two cities. When he asked the
cost of that ferry, I looked it up under Tariffs on my computer and told him
the figure. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “How much more do I need to get to <st1:place w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:place>?” Third time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “62 more dollars,” I repeated. I put the money we had just counted back in his
envelope and handed it to him. As far as I was concerned, we were at a dead
end.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> His
mood seemed to shift. “I’ll have to get some more money,” he said in a
determined tone. He pulled his cardboard sign from between his duffel bag and
his coat. Somehow, he had kept the sign
completely dry. “Could you reach my pen?”
He turned sideways and moved closer to the counter so I could reach into his duffel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
didn’t want to touch his duffel, let alone search around in it. “Here, use this,” I said as I handed him a black
magic marker from my desk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He
leaned his sign on the counter, still holding the huge pack on his back. I watched as he carefully wrote “I need $62”
in large, perfect lettering, then outlined the numbers several times to make them
stand out. I glimpsed the words “Help” and “<st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place>” under his arm as he wrote. When he
finished updating the sign, he handed me back the marker. I was impressed by the care he took with his
sign, and that he had kept his cardboard sign in such good condition in this
weather.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Where
did you have the best luck getting money?” I asked out of conviviality and
curiosity. I pass panhandlers frequently but I never speak to them. Yet I
always feel bad for them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “The
grocery store.” He glanced at me as he answered quickly. He hiked up his duffel and turned to go. He seemed to have an afterthought. “Do you
know a church or anybody that helps people?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “The
only place I know is the <st1:city w:st="on">Mission</st1:city>.” If he had more time, I might have offered him
other options: the local Episcopal Church, or the Opportunity Council. But we only had four hours before the ship
started boarding passengers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “The
<st1:city w:st="on">Mission</st1:city>!” I felt the strength of anger as his face
turned sour. “They don’t help anybody. I
told them what I needed and they said ‘We don’t do that here.’” He mimicked a
tense face and a callous voice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “That’s
all I know,” I said quietly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I
hope I get that money.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Me
too. Good luck,” I called after him as he started to walk away. I wasn’t sure I’d see him again, but I might.
He had $201 in his pocket. He might not
be back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQ186gzGFtruHLY_AFsnynkpRW7E5qr2fmr2z4nJxDUIU21Nm5sIl9THadVis0E8jdOoccFc4fTJ_TxvW1maCwlro07XX5A-W2hKbcDIZdRG16cZVJGr2U2O3utDcjmkQehkpkqLZWoM/s1600/DSCN1884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQ186gzGFtruHLY_AFsnynkpRW7E5qr2fmr2z4nJxDUIU21Nm5sIl9THadVis0E8jdOoccFc4fTJ_TxvW1maCwlro07XX5A-W2hKbcDIZdRG16cZVJGr2U2O3utDcjmkQehkpkqLZWoM/s320/DSCN1884.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I jotted down his reservation
number on my desk calendar before I cleared the screen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Passengers
kept turning up as the morning stretched into mid-day, the rain let up and the
sun made a welcome appearance. I took my
lunch break upstairs in the terminal to get out of the crowded office. It was both quieter and warmer up there, and
I could stretch my legs out on the red seats and look out the window as I ate
leftovers. I heard people calling to each other about the rainbow that you
could see to the north. I thought about this passenger. He could be one of many
men in my generation. The streets of <st1:city w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:city> were full of
people living outdoors, on sidewalks, under bridges, in the woods. I wish I had
a magic wand to fix this one problem. My friends tell me I have a tender heart.
Maybe so, but I can picture myself with no place to live. The anguish of insecurity would drive me
crazy. I don’t like danger. I don’t like
hunger. I am grateful that I have a lovely, secure home with my life partner,
but am I one earthquake or one financial catastrophe away from being on the
streets myself? I don’t feel that
different. All housing is temporary. All
bank accounts can be emptied.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> After
lunch, I went back to work on the new handout listing the upcoming summer
fares. A rush of passengers turned up, and I stayed busy checking IDs and
processing their tickets. For those
taking their cars, I instructed them on where to park, and what to expect, and
I directed the walk-on passengers to the white booth out front. After most of the passengers had checked in,
I looked up from my work and there he was at my ticket window, his duffel still
hoisted on his back and his cardboard sign in one hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Hey,”
I smiled at him. He dropped the white
envelope on the counter, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a
handful of cash. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I
should have enough now,” he said breathlessly, putting the rest of the money on
the counter for me to count.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “OK,
great,” I said, masking my surprise at his success. I straightened out the new
pile of money and counted the stacks of crinkled bills. The total: $64. Added
to the money in his envelope, he had enough to go to <st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “You
have enough and one dollar left over.” I looked at his face. He smiled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
pulled up his reservation on the computer and entered $263 in the payment field.
I clicked on the icon to print his ticket, then took his entire stack of cash,
dropping his oversized pile of bills inside to organize later. I gave him back
a lone dollar bill and then locked the cash drawer. I felt uneasy and sad. He
was going to <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>
in January to dig gold with one dollar bill and his belongings on his back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “I’ve
never panhandled that much money before,” he confided with pride as I handed
him his ticket. “Maybe $20 or $30, but
not that much. It took me all week.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Well,
you got it. Good job.” I smiled at him.
He had shown persistence. He had stayed
organized and accomplished his goal. He
was also alone and naïve. I decided to let the motherly part of my brain speak.
“Do you have food with you?” I asked quietly, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. I
was thinking how I would feel.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He
hesitated before replying. “Yes,” he said, looking down at the counter.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
still wasn’t sure he understood what he had just signed up for. “You aren’t
going to get there until Sunday morning.
Today is Friday.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “That’s
all right.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The
ship had a cafeteria. I had heard that sometimes the Purser will hand out a cafeteria
voucher to indigent passengers. I silently hoped that he would win that
lottery. Meanwhile, I explained where he needed to go to board the ship. “When you get on the ship, take the elevator
up to the top deck. There’s a place for
you to stay there.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> He
turned to go, then stopped and asked, “Will it be dark when we get there? I was
hoping it wouldn’t be dark.” My heart sank. Both at his fear and his naïveté. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “It
will be 7 am, so yes, since they are further north than we are, yes, it will be
dark,” I said carefully. I wished I could have told him it would be daylight. I
wished it were <st1:place w:st="on">Disneyland</st1:place>. I wished he hadn’t
revealed his concern to me. What I really wanted was for him to change his mind
and walk back out our front door with his cash.
<st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place>,
January, alone, $1. I felt stressed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “There
you go! You are all set.” I smiled at him.
“Good luck!” I called as he walked away, actually hoping that my wishes
would improve his chance of success. Or at least protect him from the worst.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Heading
past the other ticket windows, he held the ticket up in the air. “I got it!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Have
a good trip,” my colleague called to him. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The
sun was down and darkness reigned again when the ship was finally ready to
leave. All the vehicles had been loaded and the passengers were on board. The car ramp was lifted, and the line
handlers turned the ship loose from the pier. I heard the horn sound,
indicating the ferry’s departure at 6 p.m. We closed our ticket windows and my
colleague went out to lock up the gates as they pulled out. When he came back he said, “Someone’s
standing on the back deck waving his ticket saying ‘I’m going to <st1:state w:st="on">Alaska</st1:state>! I’m going to <st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place>!’ I think it was
your passenger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> “Must
be him,” I said, swamped by the image of his childlike optimism and his heartbreaking
plan to make money digging gold. I was glad he had this window of good cheer
before being tested by the reality when he walked off the boat in <st1:city w:st="on">Ketchikan</st1:city>. I could only
imagine his confusion in a strange, cold, dark place. Where would he stay? How would he eat? He didn’t have enough money
to come back. Who would help him?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> With
the boat heading across the bay on its way north, I prepared my financial
report of the day’s transactions. I opened my cash drawer and pulled out his
wad of money and counted it once more. I
got to $263, and found that I had two extra dollar bills. This couldn’t be right, I said to
myself. I couldn’t have taken two extra
dollars from him. I recounted the money.
Same result. The boat was already
heading north. He didn’t have a valid
mailing address, a telephone or email address.
There was no way to get him the extra two dollars that I had taken from
him. Of all the times to make a cash mistake, I couldn’t believe I had shorted
him $2.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Within
a few minutes, we had locked up the terminal and turned out the lights. I
walked back out into rain, back across the dark parking lot, and drove home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Lynne
greeted me and asked about my day. I
told her about Paul, the money, the panhandling, the gold digging. I choked up
as I described our interaction, especially the part about the dark and money
for food. I was used to indigent passengers, but his flash appearance in my
life on a day when life’s challenges were already weighing on me was too much.
I helped him get on the boat. Should I have stopped him? Lynne said I should have given him more
money. As it was, I pictured his elation turning to disappointment when reality
came crashing in on him. I sobbed when I got to the end of my story and told
Lynne I found that I had taken two dollars from him. She comforted me. “You have a tender heart.” Sometimes it feels too tender for this world.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> <span style="line-height: 150%;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-51591022614031277462015-12-19T21:43:00.001-08:002015-12-19T23:12:08.423-08:00Passages<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;">One year.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
One year ago</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My mother died.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Online, I was silent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Lynne posted the news on Facebook,
in my absence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Absence of public spirit, of
articulated voice, of defining words. I
did write. Mostly poetry. I cried, still cry, complicated tears. Of missing a presence, her presence, of loss
of her place in my life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I also cried the
tears of one whose trial is over. I
cried the tears that I couldn’t let myself cry when I had no choice but to keep
going. I cried the private tears that
aren’t explained, don’t have to be explained, to anyone. I didn’t articulate the reasons. The grief
that I felt was from a universal well.
That her life ended, that her difficult life ended, that I called her
life difficult but she did not. I didn’t
want debate, or defense. But I still
envy those whose grief is pure, who wish their mother (father, sister, partner,
lover) were still here. I don’t wish
that. For her or for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
For her, I wish
total fulfillment of love, the one thing that meant the most to her, as to any
of us. Love is the one thing I tried to
give her, to interweave with the harsher realities of her final years. She was confused, disabled, dependent. She was
dependent on care doled out in a for-profit institution, by strangers who are
assigned to care for her. Some did, some
did come to care for her. You live
through this process. The days when
caring wasn’t there, or when care givers reached the limit of caring, don’t
have enough time to care for themselves, lose steam and yet can’t stop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I witnessed that
the life of a care giver is a life of erosion, of wearing down your resources,
your best intentions and your open heart.
I saw this in them, the aides who earn their living giving care under
difficult circumstances. I witnessed
this in me.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vfiv87dvfKKpXidWcUIGtmyI8-pbA7SGt67eEK4pFlakem__Yzmkkrszt_OlQOdrjcGY2qZs8wqqsemu-rrTD4ZEvtLLjiKbvSBCYY7UplFgjSZibcofZqdMRuB_cHbEF9OInwsYbLc/s1600/Christmas+eve+2013+009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8vfiv87dvfKKpXidWcUIGtmyI8-pbA7SGt67eEK4pFlakem__Yzmkkrszt_OlQOdrjcGY2qZs8wqqsemu-rrTD4ZEvtLLjiKbvSBCYY7UplFgjSZibcofZqdMRuB_cHbEF9OInwsYbLc/s320/Christmas+eve+2013+009.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sara (my mother's care giver), Cooie Hedman, and Sky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
My mother smiled
at me when I arrived, usually, and that would be the best gift. There were times when she did not, and I
would try to root out the cause. It
could be simple—the wrong skirt on, or a wrinkle in her socks, or being left
too long in one position. It could be
that the bird feeder was empty, or that she was confused about the day. Sometimes she said it hurt, but I didn’t know
what hurt. I tried all the remedies that
I could think of. I asked the nurses to give her more Tylenol. The aides promised to get her into bed
early. We tried shifting her in her
chair. I ordered her some ice
cream. I played with her animals, making
them all sing. Later, I realized that
none of these remedies addressed the pain that she was experiencing. She said, at the end of her life, “It really
hurts.” I couldn’t help her except to
call in the nurse, and eventually, to sign up with Hospice. I encouraged her and told her how proud I was
of her, because I was. She did not
complain much. When we finally realized
that she was eaten up with cancer, I was humbled by how brave she had been.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Who she was to me…</i> Someone I cared for, loved, but whose needs I
juggled with my own, until the end. Then
it was too late. There wasn’t enough
time left. I was there with her, Mari
and Kit were there, Lynne was there. The
ones who wanted to be there, were there.
She was someone different to each of us.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I admire the women
who say of their mothers, “I wish she was still here,” and “I keep her always
in my heart.” I do keep her in my heart,
partly because her story is my story.
Her path was as uneven as mine. I
see myself in her. I yearn for love the
way she did. I was not granted physical
beauty anymore than she was. I struggle
to find my place in the world as she did.
She counted the badges she earned, she kept her awards and her
certificates of thanks. She took her
volunteer jobs seriously, just like I do.
I define myself by my work, and without it I am lost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
On the Friday before
she died, she was alone in her room when Sara came. Sara let the silence remain as they sat
looking out the window. My mother said,
“I hate not having anything to do.” So
they colored, until it was time to eat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
At her burial, my
brother Thom brought a piece of embroidery that my mother had started, but
never finished. It was a Girl Scout
insignia on white cloth. The length of green
thread that she had started to sew with was still there. “This gives her something to work on,” he
said, as he placed the embroidery hoop in the hole in the ground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The unfinished
embroidery is in the ground with her ashes.
The need to define your self with work lives on in me.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I have her ceramic
Christmas tree on a table in our living room.
It is lit by fiber optics delivering colors from the color wheel out to
the tip of each branch. It fades from
the glow of green to the glow of red to the glow of blue, then yellow,
noiselessly. I gave her that decoration
when she moved to her first “independent living” apartment in <st1:state w:st="on">Florida</st1:state>.
She put it on the pass-through between her kitchen and her living
room. In time, she moved it to her
assisted living studio, and then to her second assisted living apartment. I went to that apartment when she was in the
rehab unit. There was the ceramic
Christmas tree, alone is her empty apartment.
I mentioned it to my sister who helped pack up her belongings to send to
<st1:city w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:city>. It made the trip, and displayed its rainbow
of colors each of the three years that she was here. She loved the tree. The last year, in her room at the end of the
hall in the long term care facility, it stayed on 24 hours a day. She was past
the point of noticing it. As Christmas
approached, I think it was on more for my spirit than for hers. I had bought a Christmas outfit for her baby
doll, but by the time I brought the gift to her room, she was fading away,
hardly able to acknowledge the doll which had been her darling since we gave it
to her for her 98<sup>th</sup> birthday in July. We propped the festively dressed doll up in
bed next to her head, but she was already drifting into her final sleep. I had hoped for one more expression of
delight for her, but I was too late for that.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
In early December,
I had decorated her door in hopes that she would like it, covering the door
with red Christmas wrap and hanging up a red wreath and some gold ribbon. I had
asked my friends to come to her room to sing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve,
and they had kindly agreed. The day
before, I sent a short email of cancellation.
The moment was passed. She had
died on December 23<sup>rd</sup>, 2014. We
spent Christmas Eve dismantling her room, taking down her decorations for the
last time, and dispersing her belongings.
She didn’t need them anymore.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We are decorating
this year. My youngest sister Mari sent
me three electric deer which I have planted on the front lawn. I hung the white
icicle lights on the front of the house and the colored string of lights across
the front fence. I hung up the crystal
reindeer that Viv, Lynne’s sister-in-law, had given us many years ago, when
Lynne’s mother was alive and we celebrated with Lynne’s brother and
sister-in-law visiting from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Canada</st1:country-region>. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sm2iLpY3N-ejiRyOV01nlgGgUlitFYSIcrp9v4xVZQEoxCX4fb9YJXMHC3UjMQDwmx9Gl7gK5hT8ieUgTueEGoIj6Lw3hBKimCdKzEnYimpx88L7AyJ4UToi5flAC6z0FZGuLnam4F0/s1600/Christmas+2004+015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3sm2iLpY3N-ejiRyOV01nlgGgUlitFYSIcrp9v4xVZQEoxCX4fb9YJXMHC3UjMQDwmx9Gl7gK5hT8ieUgTueEGoIj6Lw3hBKimCdKzEnYimpx88L7AyJ4UToi5flAC6z0FZGuLnam4F0/s320/Christmas+2004+015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Totsie Pharis, Lynne's mother, Christmas 2003</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
We lived in a big
stone house in <st1:state w:st="on">Kentucky</st1:state>,
put up a tall Fraser fir tree in the living room, and had so many presents that
they couldn’t all fit under the tree. We
spend Christmas morning playing Santa.
Viv had a particular knack for giving creative and thoughtful gifts,
including to the dogs of both households.
Lynne’s mother would enjoy spending the entire day with us, keeping up a
stream of conversation from her mid-morning arrival until after Christmas
dinner in the evening. The first few
years, Richard brought venison, deer steaks and duck that they had hunted in <st1:country-region w:st="on">Canada</st1:country-region>, and the
house would fill with the smells of game for Christmas dinner. Lynne misses those years. Her mother is gone, Richard and Viv leave for
<st1:country-region w:st="on">New Zealand</st1:country-region>
before Christmas. We have a new
tradition of celebrating with newer friends here, but we have wistful memories
of those traditional celebrations.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lynne misses her
mother, in the classic way. She wishes
she were still here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I am painting a
portrait of our experience of this Christmas.
It is a mixture of memories of earlier Christmases, some treasured and
some hard. I am eager for this holiday
because I notice in particular the messages of love and peace, of good cheer
and delight. I hear more music, and I
sing along. I delight at the Christmas
lights, especially in contrast to the long hours of darkness that wrap around
our short days here in the Northwest.
Today was the first day of sun for a week. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Baker</st1:placename></st1:place> has a record
snowpack. Lynne is playing the piano,
and Winnie is asleep on the floor at my feet.
Life is complex, and beautiful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="line-height: 200%;">Merry Christmas!</span></div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-57143658101974827932015-12-09T22:28:00.000-08:002015-12-13T20:13:24.153-08:00The Eagle Dimension<div class="MsoNormal">
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; tab-stops: 1.75in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMFhc1pU18DHqhprE9W-nbmrTbqL3LUd1ormjeFcrrJoO6K1Bx94OV06YqBIDzPZO0nIr5LSj-H3OQ-fRy3Q5YtQakE390sUgA39X3PO7wv3tr2GlokQxKXeIW617LPOJnOPwn6Hpsao/s1600/group+of+eagles+on+ground.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMFhc1pU18DHqhprE9W-nbmrTbqL3LUd1ormjeFcrrJoO6K1Bx94OV06YqBIDzPZO0nIr5LSj-H3OQ-fRy3Q5YtQakE390sUgA39X3PO7wv3tr2GlokQxKXeIW617LPOJnOPwn6Hpsao/s400/group+of+eagles+on+ground.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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My
heart leapt when we stepped out on the viewing platform and I heard multiple
eagle calls filling the open valley. Before me, dozens of bald eagles were
standing on the mudflats, some perched on rocks in the river, their dark yellow
feet visible above the river; some standing in shallow water up to their
feathers, some on the gravel edges of the mudflats. On the far side of the river,
the field seemed to be scattered with dark rocks. Peering through binoculars, I saw the rocks were
actually more bald eagles, resting on stumps or logs. They also occupied the branches of leafless
trees along the river banks, where the giant birds posed quietly, seemingly
biding their time, as if they were extras waiting to act in a movie. Now I estimated a hundred eagles, just from
where we stood. By the end of the day,
we saw more than we could count.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZE8bVBVKTHKvuXIYbK-S-aVE65ncYZJUykNFDDLPRtSwvMVO6_nHwKbS8AaRdpqvq4jDYWoDqZHpXAcegXQ_VMO0oiqU58XtvhSJGL6-wGHduXUUh8kmP3tZBjf9kXNzrpNj1A-sqPuU/s1600/15+in+trees+closeup.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZE8bVBVKTHKvuXIYbK-S-aVE65ncYZJUykNFDDLPRtSwvMVO6_nHwKbS8AaRdpqvq4jDYWoDqZHpXAcegXQ_VMO0oiqU58XtvhSJGL6-wGHduXUUh8kmP3tZBjf9kXNzrpNj1A-sqPuU/s400/15+in+trees+closeup.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Occasionally
an eagle would rise up from a tree, spread its wings and fly along the river
through the valley, then settle down to a new, still serious, stance. The lush,
golden lowland valley is bounded by dark green forested mountains to the east
and to the west. Not far downstream from our perch, the <st1:placename w:st="on">Harrison</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">River</st1:placetype> flows into the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Fraser</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">River</st1:placename></st1:place>.
This is the conduit for the salmon returning from the ocean to this place to
spawn, and die. </div>
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During
other seasons, the eagles that I see around lakes or at the coast are so far
away, soaring high above or perched at the top of the tallest tree. Even at a distance, they are easy to identify
because of their size and their white head and tail feathers. Having lived much
of my life in a part of <st1:place w:st="on">Kentucky</st1:place>
where turkey vultures were the biggest raptors around, I am eager to see bald
eagles, in part because their numbers have rebounded after facing the threat of
extinction. I stop to look whenever I see one, or whenever I hear one. Now living in <st1:state w:st="on">Washington</st1:state>, I heard that I could witness a
gathering of hundreds of bald eagles in early winter. Bald eagles migrate from
all around to feast on dead salmon. A particularly
large gathering is on the mudflats at the confluence of the Chehalis and <st1:placename w:st="on">Harrison</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Rivers</st1:placetype>
in <st1:state w:st="on">British Columbia</st1:state>,
less than 60 miles north of where we live. There, these carrion eaters scavenge
the carcasses of salmon which have “expired” (as the scientists say) after
spawning. </div>
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At first, seeing so many eagles on the ground was like
seeing a flock of oversized, white headed, well-dressed turkeys. Yet the resemblance ends there. The eagles exude
casual dominance as they stood very deliberately facing upstream. They never
ceased their visual surveillance, turning their necks every few seconds to
assess the activity in all directions with their keen stare. Yet at the same time, they seemed unconcerned
by us, the humans peering back at them from the sidelines, where we were restrained
by the simple rope or by the signs warning us to stay off the mudflats.
Meanwhile, gulls wandered around them, picking at scraps. The wriggling salmon fins cut the surface of the
turbulent water nearby, as the salmon went about laying roe for the next
generation before they died. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQecksP1eN7FrEh80Qxnyn339hspFm34vd0sGLIiX-72-yKd_fDwCd8lhXvRdaqYD63DXRyHyDiQq1e_NbdePggd4iu_KbDutnlzX3DOawk1DB8-djolHm11nqwNKgdnSqfm9PgZx3mmo/s1600/3+on+gnd+good+eating.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQecksP1eN7FrEh80Qxnyn339hspFm34vd0sGLIiX-72-yKd_fDwCd8lhXvRdaqYD63DXRyHyDiQq1e_NbdePggd4iu_KbDutnlzX3DOawk1DB8-djolHm11nqwNKgdnSqfm9PgZx3mmo/s320/3+on+gnd+good+eating.JPG" width="320" /></a>An eagle on the edge of the water about 30 feet from me was
standing with a dead salmon gripped in its talons. Every few minutes it would bend
its neck to tear off a chunk of the carefully guarded carcass. The eagles near it were nonchalant. Have they
already been sated? Were they digesting while they hung out before plucking
their next meal out of the water?</div>
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Occasionally an eagle would open its massive hooked beak
and stretch out its neck to let loose a loud assertive call: a musical warble
of short descending notes that carried across the valley. The effect of having
so many eagles gathered was to hear <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>an ongoing chorus of captivating
eagle calls coming from all directions.
I felt like I had stepped into a new dimension, the eagle dimension. I
felt honored to be there. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTgmOxNilQ84Q5nKWJMB6GAvYSyRdDsdn17oWmTI4hFWuaqSEyjcYuETUsi8eDJ4Z-30FLzEFjfudzGb7vAHdFiziac5tzknsxCw56TEppdrgkEtf_CSU6k1ZX192oymBwT_nk3L7rms/s1600/15+in+trees+scenic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZTgmOxNilQ84Q5nKWJMB6GAvYSyRdDsdn17oWmTI4hFWuaqSEyjcYuETUsi8eDJ4Z-30FLzEFjfudzGb7vAHdFiziac5tzknsxCw56TEppdrgkEtf_CSU6k1ZX192oymBwT_nk3L7rms/s640/15+in+trees+scenic.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Postscript: To get to this special place, Lynne and I headed north from
Bellingham and crossed into British Columbia, following the two lane highways to
a neighborhood near the eagle preserve, and then taking a short walk down a
path to the edge of the mudflats. Humans
have a contradictory relationship with the eagles. Local authorities have drawn boundaries
around these mud flats to create Chehalis Flats Bald Eagle and Salmon Preserve (for
the wildlife) and Eagle Point Park (for the humans), and have made a good
effort to educate the public on respectful ways to see the eagles without
tramping on the mudflats and tearing up the spawning habitat. At the same time, a subdivision called Eagle
Point Estates is being built right up to the edge of the preserve, a process
which involves knocking down trees that stand in the way of the new upscale
homes. I hope that the human intrusion will not keep the keen eyed impassive eagles
from returning here each winter, allowing us future up close visits to the
eagle dimension. Here is a link to a discussion of this very issue: <a href="http://fraservalleybaldeaglefestival.ca/preserve/">http://fraservalleybaldeaglefestival.ca/preserve/</a><br />
If you want to see the eagles, here is a link to a map with suggested viewing sites: <a href="http://fraservalleybaldeaglefestival.ca/maps/CFBESP-MAP.pdf">http://fraservalleybaldeaglefestival.ca/maps/CFBESP-MAP.pdf</a></div>
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Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-78874881345553682582015-07-23T11:40:00.000-07:002015-07-29T08:01:09.371-07:00Camping in greatness<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fluid songs of the Swainson’s thrushes rain down on me as I sit at a picnic table in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Ft.</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Stevens</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">State Park</st1:placename></st1:place>. The tops of the dominant <st1:city w:st="on">Sitka</st1:city> spruce and the prosperous Western Hemlocks generously provide shade for our shiny black truck and trailer. Lynne and I are camping in these coastal headlands of <st1:state w:st="on">Oregon</st1:state>, where the mighty Columbia River drains into the <st1:place w:st="on">Pacific Ocean</st1:place>.<br />
<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinjGoM2r8bcN2Tk0CYciXR52wOwtnYbunQ8VC5Dv-bB4yVvCG7V6L084qKO2MSjZKcXY_Vt7gyzbXKXYnnQJbk00WZXoJsgY-FHLUWhd40kcc9HzZlB6mN3NgqqNwBjgnP9zWqwXnjV6I/s1600/camper+at+ft+stevens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinjGoM2r8bcN2Tk0CYciXR52wOwtnYbunQ8VC5Dv-bB4yVvCG7V6L084qKO2MSjZKcXY_Vt7gyzbXKXYnnQJbk00WZXoJsgY-FHLUWhd40kcc9HzZlB6mN3NgqqNwBjgnP9zWqwXnjV6I/s320/camper+at+ft+stevens.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our home among the Sitka Spruce</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We follow other humans, invading the space of this often fog shrouded maritime forest, trampling its seedlings with our feet, pulverizing the small flowers until we leave behind a bare sandy path. Yet with the size of these master trees and the expansiveness of the preserve, this maritime forest withstands the impact of our human encroachment.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flocks of sparrows, chickadees and bushtits flutter above us and perch in the low shrubs around us. Green and grey lichen fall from the branches to refresh the carpet of needles under our feet. A few mosquitoes buzz me as I walk alone in this cathedral of trees, so much bigger than I yet benign. I feel neither noticed nor rejected.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Lynne and I saddle up our bicycles and pedal through the park on narrow paved trails, we pass teals, mallards and herons in the wetlands and a roost of ravens at the shallow end of freshwater <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Coffenbury</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Lake</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Following the out-of-date map, we end up surprised on an abandoned back road bringing us towards the dunes. We turn around and soundlessly retrace our path through the woods, air on our faces and legs pedaling easily back to camp.<br />
<br /></div>
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Later, we drive the truck on the paved roads which allow us easy access to the beaches as well as the 127 year old south jetty stretching into the mouth of the Columbia River. Climbing on the rubble mounded jetty is difficult, so we observe the engineering feat from the windy lookout. To the north lies the mouth of the Columbia made treacherous by shifting sandbars. To the west, the unceasing cresting of the waves marks the edge of the Pacific ocean spread out before us. We quickly retreat to a lower, balmier setting to the south. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDdAgcgFWBrePNphEBUQU0F2koaysdY5JOCe-4hVswE4_9jkV_A1X-SM74HQwQI-PwWwAlSqqQMuoQqBDEKnE2urEmkOQvbE-N6LDgxNCFiDmIGXBXK8n0FW3bE2Y-nx9ow2f7K3tyFU/s1600/DSCN0894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDdAgcgFWBrePNphEBUQU0F2koaysdY5JOCe-4hVswE4_9jkV_A1X-SM74HQwQI-PwWwAlSqqQMuoQqBDEKnE2urEmkOQvbE-N6LDgxNCFiDmIGXBXK8n0FW3bE2Y-nx9ow2f7K3tyFU/s320/DSCN0894.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near the mouth of the Columbia River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I smell the ocean before we crest the dunes that outline the coast. I witness miles of beach in both directions, north and south, and sand, some mounded in sandy hills, some styled into patterns, some hard and wet, some so soft that we <span style="text-align: center;">spontaneously sink into it and lie down on its warmth, oblivious to time and pressure, soaking in a sense of undefined unlimited acceptance.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heading back to camp, we pass Roosevelt elk browsing at the roadside, their light colored circular rump patches and tails and their larger size<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> distinguishing them from the deer we see so often at home. A pair of elk grabs at the new growth of the low hanging maple leaves and shrubs, seemingly unconcerned as we watch them from the truck. Sand flows over the road we drive on in some places, and the pavement is uneven where the power of frost heaves have overcome the human attempts to smooth the surface of the earth.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the middle of the night, nestled in flannel, I hear coyotes yipping. Their outburst is short. I nudge Lynne awake but too quickly the forest regains its silence. There, when sound from humans, wind, animals and birds have subsided, I lie enthralled by the sound of the ocean waves breaking on the beach, a never ending drama: no intermission, no finale, no encore. No beginning, no end. My spirit lifts; I fall back to sleep.<br />
<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHezUOAWM8l3wqpfz0UogWwWrPutgPQ0zvjEBCiJo7Ax9zsONDWppxDbQBfI8G9DanyRQ56oTqRRaXh3XS-wzGT5N34N-5G3_dNMWydPUMUYocm97o3LH3dkpKOzclKCwyVgjZF5a7jcE/s1600/woodpecker+holes+pattern.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHezUOAWM8l3wqpfz0UogWwWrPutgPQ0zvjEBCiJo7Ax9zsONDWppxDbQBfI8G9DanyRQ56oTqRRaXh3XS-wzGT5N34N-5G3_dNMWydPUMUYocm97o3LH3dkpKOzclKCwyVgjZF5a7jcE/s320/woodpecker+holes+pattern.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woodpecker dining hall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The lightening of the sky at daybreak wakes me to a quiet campground, and then I hear a raucous wave of bird song sweeping high in the canopy through the forest. The start of the day for the birds, a time to proclaim their presence and stake out their territory, comes early in human time.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I treasure being a small visitor to a vast space, me, a human, occupying only a fraction of the space of one potato-chip-barked Sitka Spruce. The giant evergreen has no voice, yet it catches the wind and I drink in the sound of the air ruffling its needles and branches. The trunk is unmoving, yet my eyes delight as the extremities dance with the wind. At its base the green Salal and Sword ferns reflect dappled light. The trees' roots reach into sandy soil, the same soil that outlines the park's freshwater lakes and brown tannin-stained streams wandering by. Around me are tens, hundreds, thousands of trees, vital in their interactions with air and wind and sun and rain and snow and fog, for now protected from logging by their presence on state park land.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we leave this place, I will remember it. It will not remember us. It will continue to evolve. I may have changed its course by the pathway I made with my feet, or the water I dumped in the brush, or by the emissions of our tail pipe. But protected as a state park, this one robust piece of land at the junction of two powerful bodies of water has the momentum to continue its natural path. I reflect on the power of nature, the intricate design and infinite beauty that I hope will survive humanity's presence.</div>
</div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com2Fort Stevens State Park, Hammond, OR 97121, USA46.1985774 -123.9864019000000346.1106524 -124.14776340000003 46.286502399999996 -123.82504040000003tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-78088938625221909302015-06-11T13:49:00.000-07:002015-06-11T14:10:14.562-07:00How to get there<div class="MsoNormal">
How to get there</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you get in your shiny new truck and drive 90 minutes
southwest from <st1:city w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:city>,
you are heading the right direction. If
you take the state ferry across Admiralty Inlet to Port Townsend, then drive
another hour south you will turn up alongside the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Hood</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Canal</st1:placetype></st1:place>. If you get directions from the Ranger Station
then you will know to look for milepost 310. If you turn right you will be on <st1:street w:st="on">Duckabush Road</st1:street> and
if you follow the Duckabush river on this two lane road and keep driving 6.3
miles you will end up driving on gravel. Then if you keep going 1.3 miles you
will find the trailhead. After you park
your new truck, you can hike just under a mile, and you will be there: <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Merhut</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Falls</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
130 feet of cascading water tumbles over cliffs and sprays
from one glistening rock to another, wearing rocks smooth with its constant
passing, then taking a sharp left and changing course for a new expression of
cascading until the water heads into a final leap off the last cliff and falls
unimpeded for the last 30 feet into a clear pool. The pool holds the water only briefly before
spilling it into the creek. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You watch from a wooden bench placed perfectly for absorbing
this show: the perfect stage of the uncivilized forest and the perfect sounds
of the unselfconscious falls. You can be there at the falls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If years beforehand you met some friends and months before
made a plan, if you all looked at your calendars and found an agreeable date,
you can camp fifteen miles to the north and eat lunch on the beach at the
Oyster Saloon before you drive down the state road to the gravel part to the
trailhead and hike together. Then, when
you sit on the bench, your stomach still full of oysters, you have a friend to
share the beauty with, the beauty reflected in your friend's face, her relaxed
face, her eyes absorbing in the show, her quietness and peace, her stopping
there to appreciate the scene.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you've trained your dog to stay with you when you let her
off the leash, when she proves her mettle and when the dog learns to like going
for rides and hops right up in the back seat, you can have her along at that
the perfect moment. With you and your
partner, your friend and your dog, you can hike to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Merhut</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Falls</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you found your life partner a really long time ago and you
stay together 38 years, you can do all this with her. You can buy the truck
together and bring your dog and be friends with other people and find a way to
work well and play well together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you retire from full time work and move to a nurturing
place like <st1:city w:st="on">Bellingham</st1:city>,
you can do all this on a Monday and get to this moment without a lot of other
people around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The falls shares its beauty ceaselessly. The water was
falling when the guidebook was written five years ago; in fact, the falls were
there before the author of the guidebook was born. The trees that grow around the falls filled
in after the first cut in this area, and now stand timelessly around the path.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can pause on the trail and comment on the Maidenhair
ferns amidst the sword and deer ferns, the bunch flower and banana slugs, and
pause by the game trails that cross the path leading to mysterious places. You
can listen to the Swainson's thrush and bring along water to drink and maybe
some snacks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can do all this and then you have this moment, the
moment of being with your friend, your life partner, your dog, and the trees,
at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Merhut</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Falls</st1:placetype></st1:place>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you plan for a day in the spring when the temperature is
mild you may be the only car at the trailhead. If you choose a day after recent
rain, the woods live up to their rainforest lushness. Water droplets still rest
on leaves and your steps are muffled in the soft earth as you walk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can invite your friend to ride along with you. You can go from here to there and reach that
place. You can move forward to new
memories. And if you clear your desk and
sit down and do it, you can share this memory with others.</div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-62566383278549651032015-03-11T18:56:00.003-07:002015-06-11T14:11:18.935-07:00Is it the lightness of the snow?<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it the lightness of the snow under my feet, the spray of
white that I kick up with every step? Is
it the crunchy feeling when I hit the ice underneath? The muffled wind that I hear through my hood,
or the surprise of birds chirping in this white landscape? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it the fleece inside these knee high boots, or the multi-layer
long underwear that keeps most of me draft free? Maybe it is the solitude of walking in the
Arboretum when the temperature is 16. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might be my dog (Winnie), so happy to be romping free in
the snow, her black fur against the white field, sniffing and exploring, then
racing back to me at top speed, happy to be outside again after 2 days of bad
weather. It might be the feeling of
strolling along after scurrying from car to house and staying inside because of
the winter weather. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might be the expansiveness of walking along the path by
the trees, away from traffic and houses, not having to watch for cars, feasting
on the beauty of bare trees against snow.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear the train whistle now, first to my left, then the
wheels rolling down the track, then the whistle again to my right. It might be looking through the trees at the
row of houses from the outside. Or the friendliness shared when I encounter the
occasional fellow enthusiast of winter’s beauty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might be the way my mind can wander to touch on this
concern or that, a quiet conversation unraveling within as I walk along. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might be the thought of my friends reading these words,
the hope that they will pause and feel the beauty of this moment too. It might be the thought of my friends, near
and far. It might be the thought of us
all, journeying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
2-4-2009</div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-12487453449724399772014-10-01T23:00:00.002-07:002015-07-23T11:43:54.228-07:00Kiss me a lot<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9gw4dICk3pIPt2AwXHu92CtfT-4wd9bUoVkHnoMo7CLL1x4OmcXB4mz4RkuGXteTko1thd8Sj8NeuZUDXQRJUdkVjGNy_X93_i7k7mZLJgiUDqumck1lE8nxpk3bRMtA2ry5It09LYw/s1600/coloring+page+best+small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9gw4dICk3pIPt2AwXHu92CtfT-4wd9bUoVkHnoMo7CLL1x4OmcXB4mz4RkuGXteTko1thd8Sj8NeuZUDXQRJUdkVjGNy_X93_i7k7mZLJgiUDqumck1lE8nxpk3bRMtA2ry5It09LYw/s1600/coloring+page+best+small.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>"I took a man dancing," she told me with a smile
the other day, gesturing at the wall. I
look around to see the picture my 98 year old mother has colored, now displayed under
some photos of her as a child. Two
figures are frozen in a classic ballroom dance stance. The man is colored with red and the woman
in yellow. Around them, the few simple
objects are painted also.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>How lovely a thought for her to hold, she who no long can
walk, she whose husband died many years ago, she who only leaves the
institution on Sundays when the bus takes her to church.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>On the windowsill of her room near the picture sits a
stuffed lovesick cow wearing two strands of diamonds and bright red
lipstick. At my mother's request I press
the button on its hoof. The cow sways as it croons <b><span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-size: 10.5pt;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B%C3%A9same_Mucho">Bésame Mucho</a></span></b><span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-size: 10.5pt;">"
(Kiss me a lot)</span> in a tremulous voice, its bottom jaw quivering as it sustains the
first syllable of "Moo-cho."</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>When she meets you, my mother shakes your hand and then
tells you its temperature with a big grin.
"Oh, your hand is so hot," she says, exaggerating the last
word and bringing apologies or a quip about a cold heart from you.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Sometimes she is enraptured in music, sometimes in the
middle of the rapture, she falls plum asleep.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7sOKW6fvS9Nwq9E9Iafd2ogCs_s_U8jQGlsb1Sn0L6TZhiLezcbYAj0ZHScIN_WPkZznK65uqOF-Kl68A6wpyoIFVkqO6zYEVxweaGiLCw_AEI3J743YIMxu450Dri-Aeju7BooBxqc/s1600/cow+best+small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc7sOKW6fvS9Nwq9E9Iafd2ogCs_s_U8jQGlsb1Sn0L6TZhiLezcbYAj0ZHScIN_WPkZznK65uqOF-Kl68A6wpyoIFVkqO6zYEVxweaGiLCw_AEI3J743YIMxu450Dri-Aeju7BooBxqc/s1600/cow+best+small.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-8917275197555952182014-10-01T22:55:00.001-07:002014-10-01T23:01:35.189-07:00Kindness all around<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>We three were walking on the narrow wooded trail that wound
from the beach through huckleberry bushes back to our campsite in the
forest. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhKgprpTuaopIeBJJTQd7yt8g0WAcEaxuBZ4aVjFqM7GOimp06JMF46JKBiq9O9GdVjIP9pcU0Mj5wUyPUcJo7ghkWQMufM6zLDlvBYH6agsrY_qmxs13huuKamnkMls7OPsTOmngl_E8/s1600/birds+on+beach+rugged+coast+50%25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhKgprpTuaopIeBJJTQd7yt8g0WAcEaxuBZ4aVjFqM7GOimp06JMF46JKBiq9O9GdVjIP9pcU0Mj5wUyPUcJo7ghkWQMufM6zLDlvBYH6agsrY_qmxs13huuKamnkMls7OPsTOmngl_E8/s1600/birds+on+beach+rugged+coast+50%25.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The beach had stretched as far north and as far south as we
could see. Lynne and I and our faithful canine companion had been mostly alone,
only occasionally passing walkers heading in the opposite direction. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>They appeared first as dots on the beach, almost obscured by
the mist. One figure alone at the
water's edge parted into two. A couple
with two dogs approached us, the two dogs turned into three, then offered this
friendly interchange. "Yes, dogs
were OK off leash, we like them to socialize," the young woman had said
before disappearing forever behind us, leaving us alone as we headed into the sweep
of the coast, its arc ending with hills rising up from the sea, the edges of
the dark land masses fading as they receded into the grey sky.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Once we reached the limit of our walk, we found a log and
sat down to snack and offer water to our dog, Winnie. She turned our attention from
sand patterns, frothy waves, the constant roar, to a more local focus--her
delight in the sand, her excursions into pools of water, her frolic with the
stick I threw for her, the puppy within expressed as she shook the stick and
tried to break it apart.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Dog companions were popular at that place, that September
afternoon, when presumably families with school age children were far from the
coastal scenery, buttoned into their responsible lives, leaving campgrounds and
ocean vistas to the childless set--whether grey haired or not, many of whom
made up for the absence of children by inviting a dog into their lives.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>This elderly couple we met on the wood trail was like
that. The white haired woman --I'd put
her in her late seventies-- was leading a small overweight white poodle mix and
was followed by her wispy haired husband, probably in his eighties. His legs, pink skinny legs, were bare
although he wore wool socks with his sandals, per northwest fashion. To my surprise the show wasn't over once we shared
pleasantries with the woman and her dog.
The man stood aside and held out a present for Winnie. "Just a small one," he said to our
dog, holding out a little dog biscuit shaped like a bone but the size of a
paper clip. She hesitated to take it
from his open palm. Then he produced a bigger dog biscuit and her reluctance
vanished. She gulped it down as he
grinned, and so did I at this unexpected treat for her. This man had thought this through ahead of
time--equipped his pockets with multiple sized dog treats, and sensing the
occasion to share his wealth, had them ready for Winnie as we walked by.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Not the first expression of kindness recently... Dawn, the ranger cheerfully accommodated our
move from one campsite to another (further from the noise of the road), then
just as cheerfully refunded our money for the last two nights. The host at Beachside who chatted us up about
campers and complimented our rig. The
ranger at the new campground who pointed out that breakfast was waiting for
us--huckleberries were ripening right next to where we parked our camper. The Canadian woman who shared the sunset with
me last night, and of course, Lynne who prompted me to go watch the sunset in
the first place, who held back in playing Scrabble to soften the loss, and made
us chicken curry for dinner. Kindness
all around.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlDSR_0-ImPqBKwg9kxkZ-it-Bru7LmelkkXFX4cL4-r7pyThYWiSQ0O0LgKdLrGHslyTMS1lE3__y3JiclAnH4T6bbmPFyN_-sYf0otHoKy8dAITp0jZkX9GA9rXj1lZZUMIJPxWimdo/s1600/Sky+and+Winnie+reading+book+50%25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlDSR_0-ImPqBKwg9kxkZ-it-Bru7LmelkkXFX4cL4-r7pyThYWiSQ0O0LgKdLrGHslyTMS1lE3__y3JiclAnH4T6bbmPFyN_-sYf0otHoKy8dAITp0jZkX9GA9rXj1lZZUMIJPxWimdo/s1600/Sky+and+Winnie+reading+book+50%25.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></i></span></div>
Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7661218314759272951.post-13764043243237069202014-08-28T12:21:00.001-07:002014-10-08T11:20:07.441-07:00Wonder<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
"<b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">W</span></b>hy
am I in a wheelchair in all these pictures?" she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was my mother speaking.
She was sitting in her tilting wheelchair, her broad hips filling the
space between the armrests, her head pushed forward by her curved upper back,
her legs in front of her resting uselessly on black metal supports. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Because you ARE in wheelchair," I said out loud,
lamely, suppressing my inward alarm at her lack of comprehension.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her yellow peasant skirt with mirrored sequins was pulled
down to cover her legs and as much of the metal leg rests as possible. Below the hemline appeared the beige socks
covering her ankles and feet. Although
she can bend her knees and her ankles, most of the time the weight of her lower
limbs drapes lamely. Her legs are workers without a job.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she fell and fractured both her legs a year and a half
ago, the orthopedists told us that these were life ending injuries. Their prediction was inaccurate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"In this situation, amputation might be
appropriate," the seasoned orthopedist had said, talking over her head
directly to me. I had recoiled from the thought of his capable hands cutting off
my mother's legs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"No," I said to him. Inwardly, I thought,
"We'll make do with these. We'll do
the best we can with what we have."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She has done the best she can. Dementia protects her from grasping her
situation. I suffer from the sidelines.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> "</i><b><i><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">D</span></i></b><i>o you have a car?" she recently asked
my visiting brother. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>"Yes," he
said, pointing to his rental car out in the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>"Can we go out to
eat?" <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He was heartsick at
the request.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>"No," he
said. "I can't get you in my car."<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>"I can fit,"
said my mother.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>"It's not that you
can fit, it's that I can't get you in the car because you can't stand," he
said as gently as possible.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>"I can
walk," she shot back. "I've
seen a picture of me walking."<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I wasn't surprised
when my brother told me this story. She
used to really like going for a ride.
One time she told me that she could actually walk, that she was just
pretending that she couldn't.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"<b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;">D</span></b>oes
anyone else use that bathroom?" she asked me the other day when we were in
her room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"No," I replied.
"That is only for you."
I waited, then added, "Have you seen anyone else use it?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"No," she said, "but I might need to go in
there. I have to go to the
bathroom." My mother hasn't been on
a commode since she broke her legs. She
relies on adult diapers and the willingness of her aides to clean her up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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"If you need to go to the bathroom," I said,
"push that red button," pointing to the call light at the end of the
cord that hangs from the wall in her room.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 18.0pt;"> I</span></b>'ve
taken to jotting down notes: snippets from wise conversations and sermons. There is no end to this story, so I land
here, looking for wisdom.</div>
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<i>Beginnings>endings>beginnings<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>This time with your
mother is a blessing.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Love is an act,
something that you do.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Love is hard,
laborious, something you work at.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>A difficult task
needs...<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I didn't write down the end to that last sentence. I am trying to recall it. I wonder.</div>
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Sky and Lynnehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04790049560761768778noreply@blogger.com0