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It’s been a while, or maybe it hasn’t. I am cranking out art this spring and summer, creating the pieces I love, and selling them at markets and events around the Seattle metro area. I am rushing through my weeks, even more frantically, it seems, than when I was a mom of youngsters. The respite is sitting at the markets and talking to folks as they come into my booth. It’s my chance to be the extroverted person I am, while receiving questions and compliments about the things I have created. Feels lovely; really sweet on a summer afternoon, to be sitting outdoors, running my own little shop in a popup village. My imagination can run wild if I let it. Every once in a while, I stop and realize: This is what I went to college for. Lots of people never get to do art as a job. This year, I do. Here’s my next bunch of markets. Check out my IG page (click the image) for more deets. Cant wait to see you there!  

The words of the men on the beach rang in my head. From the moment I left, I let the thoughts affect me and they’re still with me as I stand in this space. I walked to the tree trunk with its sign, then something asked me to stay here a moment longer. This is part two of a story. Part one is here. A car pulled into the drive, and parked next to the office. I gave him a minute to unlock the door before I approached to engage him in conversation. After greeting me warmly, I asked him about the buildings and the location. It used to be a mill, he said. The big round building was the mill house but they rent it out for events now. I figured since they use it for events I might be able to see inside. His body was in motion before words came in answer; he grabbed the key and headed toward the large round, red building. “Sure… there’s a long boat in there, we just blessed it this weekend.” We walked across the grounds as he described the railroad lines that used to be here, but have been pulled out from between the buildings. The ones that used to support logging on this land. And he told me about the work that the Quileute tribe plan to do to further improve the whole property. His voice echoed inside the cavernous building. Bare wood struts reached high to hold the grand circular roof. They sloped outward and down to posts set in a circle, midway between the center of the room and the outside walls. The majority of the space was filled with a giant round wooden platform risen off the cement floor several inches. “It used to spin freely, people could dance on it while it was moving, but we decided to pin it down, so no one gets hurt.“ It took me a minute to figure out that the wood circle was from the original mill set up, not something they had added to facilitate celebrations. Directly before us was a long wooden canoe cut in the Pacific Northwest Native American style, from a single log. It was painted, patched with metal in a few places, and boughs of cedar still rested under the bottom of it, from the blessing ceremony. Uniform windows encircled the round outside wall of the building. Above them were paintings depicting life and ceremonies of Quileute Tribal activities. “It’s a beautiful space,” I said, turning to see into dark, distant corners. “How many people came for the boat blessing ceremony?” “Well this place was pretty much packed… About 400. And we have improvements planned, New kitchen, we’re gonna make the bathrooms….” “And how big is the tribe?” “Our tribe is a little over 1500. We mostly do weddings here, group celebrations, and gatherings. Last time we booked it we had a group come in, they covered it with hay… I don’t know what the hell…They had this thing… a ho-down… I don’t even know what the hell ho-down is, (I chuckled) … oh my God, they had fun, but they cleaned it all up.  No hay left by the end. And, you know, I don’t care what people do in here as long as they clean up after. And they did.” I walked toward the boat and around it, looking at the grain of the wood, the paint, orientation of the seats. It was a beauty of craftsmanship. “We have to get a permit to take a tree, you know.” [In order to make a canoe] “Can I take a photo of it?” He obliged energetically. “Who did the paintings?” “These paintings came down from the other location, over in La Push… I’m not sure who painted this one.” It was a seascape with orcas in the foreground, seastacks in back, and a long boat full of men paddling in the center. I looked at the next painting just as he begin to talk about it. “Our biggest enemies then we’re the Makah, you know, and still are! Our ancestors, living on James Island, would roll boulders down on the boats of the Makahs when they came to attack.” “So that’s James Island, in that painting?” He nodded, and didn’t pause when a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, entered and stood beside him without saying a word. “They used to steal our women, and behead them, then throw them back, you know. They used to raid our villages.” In describing his tribe’s worst enemies, he used words that if I said them, they would sound more ugly. It seems the local tribes were at war with each other since time began. “We eventually had to move off of James Island, to the mainland, on the land nearest La Push.” Once there was a break in his words, I smiled at the younger man and greeted him. He had no intention of interrupting the conversation until he was invited. “Oh, this is Dave.” “Hi Dave, pleasure to meet you, my name’s Erika.” He smiled, dipped the brim of his hat, but said nothing. I directed back to my host, “And your name is?” “I’m Leroy. Dave and I keep care of this place… Dave nodded again; Leroy continued, “But I didn’t grow up here. I’m Quileute, but I was eleven years old when the Bureau came and separated my family. We had no choice. My two sisters went to Nebraska. We older ones, three of us, went to Oklahoma. I was there for six years. They put us in a boarding school. Back then, out there, boarding school means a bad school, but we weren’t bad kids… Just, our father decided, God is going to take our dad, and left our mom with seven kids. And the BIA thought it was a good thing to do, to take us away and spread us out all over the country. They paid us $11 a month, and you know, it was hard.” “You said you have six siblings. Where are they now?” “All dead.” I gasped audibly. “What about after boarding school?” I attempted a recovery. I wanted to hear more of his life history. “We got to leave and go where we wanted, because our [collective] parents didn’t really want us to come home. They wanted us to learn from the outside world before we did come home. By that time the war in Vietnam started, everybody up and went to Vietnam. I went to school later on in my life, and while I was in school they didn’t draft me. I went to Montana after I graduated college, and had three kids of my own. I lived there in Montana, I loved it… Big Sky Country; it’s just, it’s beautiful. I call it home I have friends there because I’ve lived there longer than here.” Leroy went back to history and land rights. “We’re still fighting them… about fishing rights now, in Congress. They’re in the north, you know.” I nodded. The Makah make local news when they exercise their rights each season by hunting a gray whale as part of their tribal ceremonies. “The Makah are a big tribe. They are claiming the whole thing, and want to chase everybody out. They think it’s all theirs. But it’s not. It’s all on paper, who owns what, it’s there in black and white in Congress.” “Who oversaw that paperwork?” “Our [state] governor in Olympia, and the Congress, and White House. And our tribal chairman met with the governor. They traveled together to Washington, to fight. Every tribal chair went with their governor to Congress, to fight for water and fishing rights.” He paused,  perhaps thinking about his last interaction. “Last night I got asked to coach a basketball team for this coming year. I am pushing 70… People says, ‘when are you gonna slow down,’ and I won’t slow down. Dave could probably tell you, maybe I have slowed down, I gotta really think sometimes… And I got high school kids who come in and walk with me, put up with me, take care of me, and respect me. But, if you travel up and down 101 from Aberdeen to almost Port Angeles, natives own… we own most of this. You take the Quiluetes, for instance, we owned from the Hoh river, all the way to Port Angeles. We’ve been fighting for our land for a long time. We want the beach back, we want Rialto back. For about 50 years we’ve been fighting, way back from when I was in Montana.” “In reality, we’ve been fighting for this land forever. I think we can pray for the best of it, and pray for working together. That’s what it’s about – working together, walking together for this nation, for this world.” He pointed up to the painting of the men in the long boat. “You know… all these guys, they still canoe, they still do their journeys… I don’t know where this journey is in this painting, we haven’t had them in a couple years, but they paddle to each reservation, and into Canada. They sometimes go 18 days, paddling, our men, on these journeys.” “They paddle during the day, then come ashore at night?” “Yes, each night, they ask permission to come ashore, we’ll paddle from here to Neah Bay come ask permission to come ashore from the Makah, if they give us permission, we go up to eat, stay in long houses, and that’s when ceremonies begin. Until about midnight or one o’clock they dance they sing, then they get up and go to the ocean at 4:30 and paddle the next day. Sometimes the Hoh [tribe] will come with us, and we all go to Seattle sometimes, on these journeys.” “After the army, I got my college degree and became a teacher and coach, working with kids here. I still coach basketball… That’s been my calling. Kids keep me going. Seeing them doing the hard part without complaining, in hopes they will learn for me and respect their elders.” Leroy said he didn’t need money to be happy. Twenty dollars and a place to get coffee or something to eat was all he needed to be the happiest guy on earth. He also said that he used to be 255 pounds, had survived 5 heart attacks, an open heart surgery. But he also talked about winning back the rights on Rialto beach. I’ll bet his tenacity is well known. I saw their sign on the left side of the beach parking lot when I drove into Rialto. He wants to set up a taco truck and a coffee stand. Why not get those tourists coming in and offer them some refreshments. Lots of history, ideas, experiences, stories in that one man. I’m fortunate I got to listen to him speak for an hour, about whatever he wanted to say. Bits that stuck in my memory on the rest of the drive home: “Mother Earth is what we do. That’s what we want all of us to do.” “I got high school kids who come in and walk with me, put up with me, take care of me, and respect me.” “If you travel up and down 101 from Aberdeen to almost Port Angeles, natives own… we own most of this.” I drove through that space he referred to immediately following my conversation with Leroy. The road is quiet by my city standards. Early on a Tuesday morning, the thin, curvy two-lane holds more logging trucks than passenger cars. Giant hauls of peeled tree trunks, were taken a moment ago from nearby mountainsides. They hang in my rear view mirror until I round the next curve. I’m headed home. The color of Lake Crescent is glacial teal around the edges, just tipped, as if to tempt you to look deeper before the sun goes behind the next cloud. Dainty trees hanging over the water, are older than they appear. Light splashes on them from moment to moment – if you get a sun-streaked day. Then everything returns to sullen gray.

I ventured west on 101 past Port Angeles, across the Elwah River, down a big hill and further into wild lands. I crossed the Sol Duc River at least four times before making the last turn to the coast. It’s the far northwest corner of Washington State, and also the lower 48. I camped there by myself for 3 days. I arrived at my campsite in the late afternoon, dropped my gear, then headed directly to the ocean. I so love this beach. I’ve been here twice before and each time it has completely captivated me. Giant sea stacks stand sentinel at either end of the 2-mile long stretch of black rocky shoreline. Between them, especially this time of year, the waves roll violently toward the shore, crushing stones into smaller stones with every stroke. Last time I was here I spent hours with my camera just shooting the curl of the waves. Waiting for the light to catch it just right, to reveal green and foamy blue before dashing into the bubbles below. I didn’t bring my camera this time. I spent my time sitting on the beach solo, listening to what the waves had to say. When I first arrived, gray edges scattered across the flat white sky, casting a sullen mood. The wind was unforgiving, sending salt spray to my face, covering my lips in that familiar taste. The power of the ocean on a windy day is unparalleled. If you ever want to feel the grandeur of the energy of mother nature, stand at the edge of the Pacific on a stormy day. The scale of this world shifts so aggressively, that I’m grasping for items of comparison – a person, a car, a building so I can grasp the vastness of this landscape. With the overcast day, desolate beach and howling wind, I couldn’t see it any other way than a graveyard. It’s a moody place to be, when you don’t have the chatter of a group to distract you from the stark landscape. The most staggering piece of this landscape is the skeletons. Rows of ancient trees have been turned by the tide and pushed high up onto the shore, in chaotic piles. Some are thirty-feet long, others have root balls 10 feet across, still attached to bleached trunks, as if they were discarded bones from ages long past. I found one tree trunk with a 6-foot diameter, which means it must be several hundred years old. Most certainly older than my country. It’s humbling to stand on this beach – Rialto has long been a favorite of mine – without any distractions. I am here with only my thoughts. When the wind doesn’t overwhelm my ears, the crashing waves do. It’s luscious and fills my chest with thunder, my veins with adrenaline, my mind with poetry. I stood for a long while next to a behemoth skeleton, wondering where it originally grew… and I thought about time. These grand trees, living beings who have lived, some since ancient times, are fallen and washed out to sea. Everything dies. I am pondering the power of the Pacific to be able to move even one of these. There are hundreds. Now only a shadow in driftwood, some still have branches and bark, others are bleached white by the sun. Unrelenting wind, churning of waves on the rising tide, and the sentinels of history, are now laid to rest far above the high tide line. The beautiful energy speaks not in time but in repetition. The sea marks time in years far longer than our own. Wind is timeless. Back at camp, evening birdsong gives way to pre-dusk frog song. Everything in nature is singing. Or roaring. I think I can hear the wind and ocean waves dancing together in the distance. I’m sitting fireside, reflecting on Rialto. I’m alone except for the giant cedars around me. The next day, I walk to the edge of my campsite. Beyond those graceful trees, down a rough trail, it opens up to the Quilayute River. There I see a lone fisherman in his metal fishing boat, pulling up nets. Once the boat is full of netting, he speeds up the river, then down, to set a new boat-full of net. The beach is calling, so I head that direction. On the way I pass a police vehicle pulled off the thin, two-lane road, along side the river. I stop and ask him if it’s legal to net fish this river. He lets me know it’s the First Nations fishing river, and he offers the name of the tribe. It sounds similar to the river name, which makes sense. I’m back on the beach again. Sitting completely still in the graveyard of trees. I have so many feelings about them; with light spatters of rain, the feelings are still mostly melancholy. I spend most of the day just being in the space, walking the beach, sitting on, under, around the trees. I ford a river and hike to the far end of the beach, where one of the giant sea stacks has a hole in it that you can walk through when the tide is low enough. Instead, it’s high tide, so I hike to the top of the hill and sit solitary, taking in a panoramic view from above. On my last morning, after I left my campsite but before I left the area, I drove to Rialto Beach again to see the ocean one last time. But almost two days later, I’m familiar with the hidden paths between the bones. I work my way from the parking lot through the jumbled mess of skeletal giants, and onto the rocky beach one last time. It’s a -2.8 tide – that’s really low, so I consider staying to re-walk the mile and a half of Pacific shoreline I walked yesterday. I would see the tide pools with so much water gone; but I’m not drawn to stay. I can’t say what it is, but something’s pulling me to go. I’m feeling the desire to move on, more than desire to share tide pools with the trickle of tourists who are walking the beach already, an hour in advance of the lowest tide. As I reach the parking area, two First Nations fellows pass me on their way to the far end of the beach. The more gregarious one asks, “Are you leaving so soon? It’s about to be a good tide…” I relay that I’ve been here for two days and it’s time to go. “You’re not going to stay for the tide?” I shake my head. He pauses only enough to reveal a ray of sunshine in his gentle smile. “There’s nothing more important than what you got right here.” He looks over his shoulder at the waves. The wind tugs the tops off of each of them sending salt spray toward us. My heart tugs back, knowing he’s right.  I smile and head toward my car. They head toward the hole-in-the-wall at low tide. A half hour later I pull in to the community buildings of the Kit’la Center. It had caught my eye the day I came in, and I made a mental note to stop. No one has opened the office yet. It’s only 7:40 AM. I walk the property I spy a grand, round building, labeled, Quileute Roundhouse. I’m curious about the grounds, and it looks inviting, so I spend some time wandering around. While deciding whether to stay, I notice a wooden sign, five feet high, that I can’t quite read. It’s faded and old enough I can’t tell immediately if it’s even written in English. White paint has been worn away from most of the letters; I struggle to read the text. Directly behind it lays a huge section of an old growth tree that was cut down in 1978. At the time it was cut, it was estimated to be 1720 years old. The sign explained that the tree most likely began growing in the year 258 AD. I love when history like this is preserved for us, in hopes that we may never repeat the same trespasses, but it stabs my heart. In a flash, I’m in my head, standing back on the beach with the dead ancient trees, feeling their pain again. This is part one of a two-part story. Part 2 of this story is here.  

There have been many notable times in life when I had the presence to say to myself, “this group of people will probably never be together again.” The day I graduated high school was one of those times. The concerts in Nepal was another. I couldn’t ever imagine a time when that same group might all be together in one place, and that thought haunted me. There is a related group of people I came to know as the SoulFood Coffee House Tribe. The regulars at the coffee shop and music venue where Clint (who went with me on that first trip to Nepal) and his wife, Sara, created a most stellar and unique community. This place was where everyone came to be. Simply to be. Community members were referred to as “brothers and sisters” or “beloveds.” Everyone who entered, from the baristas, to the regulars, to the artists who hung their creations on the walls, to the “peace, love & light” groups who gathered in drum circles, was a member of the Tribe. Sara honored me by asking me to host my book opening at SoulFood back in 2011. She was incredibly supportive of my writing and my book. John ran the sound system for all the music talent who played. Each of the baristas had an unforgettable personality. Craig was one of the first people I met. He had thick dark brown hair that would swing into one eye, a sideways grin that often make him look like he was about to stir up trouble. Lily, was the sweetest, she had a penchant for dainty floral dresses, and was always interested in what I was up to. Sara introduced Craig’s brother Taylor to me as “the Tribe’s best lucid dreamer,” which she exalted with admiration and genuine intrigue. Michail was the Tribe’s well known and most beloved poet, and Rick was the resident astrologist. The community also included a parade of painters, tattoo artists and musicians, who floated easily through the doors on any given day. Shelves not covered in books, displayed an overabundance of incense, prayer flags, brass bells and sage smudges. It was a place I’d go to feel the vibe that this community created. After Clint, John and I returned from Nepal, I frequented the place enough that most of the Tribe knew who I was. I was always grateful to see a face behind the espresso machine who would greet me so warmly and sincerely. I felt comfortable getting lost in the soft chairs. Patchouli often lingered in the air, along with dark roast and steamed milk. It’s one of those unique smells that hides in memory until it’s unlocked by smelling it again. Lighting was like a comfortable living room – perfect for reading near a window, or cuddling over coffee with a friend. All of it had been curated by these “post-holders.” When I was there, I’d occasionally study book titles I had never seen before, and run my hand over carved wood or cast brass – uncommon items from the other side of the world. I was unaware how accustomed I’d become to the feeling of being instantly adored when I walked in. Just for being part of that community. Yeah, I suppose it was a little like a Seattle version of Cheers. As much as it should have occurred to me, I admit I never had the clarity to acknowledge that this group of transient folks, passing though a coffee shop might at some point never be together. But Clint and Sara handed off the ownership of the adored coffee shop to new people. Much of the community remained intact, but the baristas I was most friendly with eventually moved on, and Clint and Sara moved out of the area, so the energy shifted, and before long, I didn’t see familiar faces when I walked in the door. The dynamic duo who never called themselves anything other than “post holders here at SoulFood” no longer held posts. The shape of it changed. Life shifted for me as well. I stopped going, and though I missed the vibe and the Tribe immensely, I moved on. Years passed, people drifted, and then we all locked down and didn’t see each other for two years. SoulFood has always relied on their community when times are rough, so tonight they held a fundraiser to keep the little coffee house in Redmond open and sustainable. And here we all are, at a place, with a group of folks I never thought I would be again. Clint and Sara anchored the event as the closing act. Once everyone knew they were coming, the Tribe showed up. When I arrived at 7:45 pm for their performance, most of the old tribe was in the house smiling, swaying to the guitar, and greeting each other with affection and enduring smiles. I took a seat. The guy setting up microphones and adjusting cables looked familiar… but I wasn’t sure… I watched him for a long moment, then in his motions, the stage light caught his eyes. I was almost sure I knew who it was – John who had gone to Nepal with us! I had to double take, then run over and ask Sara, “Is that John?!” Echoing the look of amazement on my face, she gave an affirmation and we both shook our heads. “I haven’t seen him in almost a decade,” I said. “It’s been almost that long since he’s been here.” When I turned toward the sound booth, Julie, John’s girlfriend, greeted me with “Ohhhh, Edika from Amedica! We were so excited when we heard you were coming!” She and I traded memories about mala beads and times past. She led me over to the sound booth where the two of them were setting up for Clint’s performance. I’ve known Clint’s music for over a decade. His poetry is never loosely chosen, and his voice is still smooth as velvet, and powerful like a freight train. He has an uncanny knack for drawing you in with his stories of life. Rick  waved from across the room. Moments later I spied Lily and Craig! It felt like a homecoming. I had a grin on my face the rest of the  night. I spent time roaming through the people, greeting faces and hearts I hadn’t seen in so long. It’s been so long. I first met my good friend Marcelo a decade ago at SoulFood. He had attended my book opening and we immediately connected over travel stories. He was originally going to meet me for the event, but he got trapped by work and realized late that he wouldn’t make it. As soon as I arrived, he sent a text asking me to take video, then followed up with, “Is his voice still as amazing as ever?” “Yes,” I replied. “All the feels!” Then he pleaded for me to take a little video so he could hear the performances next time we met up. So I did. I didn’t anticipate showing it to anyone except a friend or two, so I did what I could with my old phone, while greeting beautiful, familiar faces in the crowd. There weren’t many words, because the feeling in the room was so strong, almost none were needed. Just the time to connect in person. When I got home I was so full of bliss, the above set of words rolled out of me effortlessly, driven by emotion of the night. The next morning Sara asked me if I had any video to share. So I spent a week putting the rough cuts together, and here it is. Click for Video

A departure from my regular blog content. I told this story to my kids tonight. When I was sixteen, I had my first car, a 1966 Thunderbird. It was older than I, and became a classic the year we bought it. My dad made me pay for half of it, and half of my monthly insurance. And he made me work on it whenever it was broken, which was nearly every weekend for a while. I think he knew going in that it would be an exercise in patience for me. It also served to keep me out of trouble, being under a car rather than running around with the neighborhood “riff-raff.” We put in a manual choke, replaced hydraulics in the windshield wiper system, and sealed a leak in the vacuum tubing. One morning we were pulling and replacing the starter solenoid. Of course he did most of the work, and I got to pass him wrenches, hold the light, and hear stories about how cars used to be much easier to fix back in the day. As we were replacing the starter on the beloved vehicle, two of my more rough-cut neighborhood friends walked up. Metal-head drop outs, they were the scuzziest of the boys I hung out with in those years. They were brazen enough to swear and smoke in front of my dad. Dad, who often worked on cars with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a gallon coffee can of gasoline next to him (it is a great cleaner for greasy car parts) was doing exactly this when the boys approached, one with his own freshly lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. My dad treated them civilly, greeting them then asking them if they’d each hold a greasy car part, feigning the need for more hands to engage them…. I don’t know if you remember sixteen, but everyone I knew at that age was looking to evade parental units as a first priority, seek fun as a distant second, so the discomfort was palpable when these guys approached and found me with my dad. One of them noticed the can of gas and my dad’s cigarette.  With no cool in his voice, he registered out loud the danger inherent in such things. My dad, without missing  beat said, “Nah, you know, cigarettes aren’t hot enough to light octane,” then he yanked a cigarette out of the mouth of the boy who had spoke, and tossed it into the can on the ground between them. The boys took two large, lightning steps backwards, raised their arms in front of their faces and gasped, bracing for the explosion. The can said “pssst” as the lit cigarette hit the liquid – just as if it were water. The boys looked at each other in utter amazement and issued a battery of swear words, in gesture of appreciation, then nods that affirmed that my dad was almost as cool as he was crazy. My dad tried not to crack a smile, then said something nonchalant about needing to finish up this job on the car, and “see ya later,” issuing them an invitation to leave that they couldn’t refuse. They turned to wander off, but just before they were out of earshot, he said, “Now, don’t try that with a match or anything else that burns. A cigarette burns about 450 degrees, but a match or lighter, they’re about 700. They’ll blow you sky-high.” Then he turned toward the car and handed me the starter. I didn’t see those boys for a long time after that.

Maybe I was a gypsy in a past life, or a nomadic herder, but things that serve no purpose other than to take up space are usually lost on me. Even if they’re pretty. So I throw out a lot of stuff. Thank goodness for second hand stores, for they have relieved me of much guilt of expanding the landfill. I just feel so much more healthy when I am not hemmed in by physical objects. Yes, there are things that I don’t have anymore that I miss dearly. In a college metalworking class, I made a round, wrought iron and glass table that I no longer have. It had graceful figures dancing in a circle around a central globe. This particular table captured the essence of what I had learned in my college years – cultures, art, people, geography, creativity. It was one of my favorite creations and I was happy to have both made it and kept it. I gave the vast majority of my college creations away. But in moving across the country, we packed up the 27-foot Ryder truck and the things that didn’t fit went into the apartment dumpster. That table was one of them. I didn’t mourn it then. I was happy to be rid of something that wasn’t quite level, whose corners weren’t evenly spaced, whose paint job could have been better. But every day since that day, when I think of it, it is one of the very few ‘things’ that I wish I still had. There is a bouquet of dried flowers that lives atop the cabinet in my downstairs bathroom. My Aunt Katie bought them for me when I was almost 10 months pregnant. She was supposed to be visiting a new baby, but things were running a bit behind schedule. So we were sightseeing at Pike Market instead. The fish mongers, having spied my delicate condition in a very loud manner, “Dear God, are you charging that baby rent yet?” were attempting to induce labor by placing the hugely over-pregnant lady (that’s me) between them while tossing several whole salmon repeatedly over my head, leaving trails of fish slop in my hair. Their magic didn’t work, but it did elicit hoots and lots of attention for the fish guys who sold those “lucky fish” faster than normal. Across from the fish mongers stood the flower stand, full of lovely Asian grandmas, arranging flowers in white five-gallon buckets. They were in perpetual motion, in an attempt to keep the buckets full and arranged at the same speed they were selling. Aunt Katie bought a bouquet of straw flowers, dried poppy seed heads and grass seed for me (it was October). I was a little more pregnant than this at the time… this was Labor Day weekend. I delivered October 16… 6 weeks later. It has been lovely and collecting dust for the past 10 years. But just the other day a piece of it fell down to the floor and reminded me it was there. I relived the memory of the fish guys, the lovely day at the market, the flower-ladies. I even remembered our bumpy ride to Mt Rainier (while 10 months pregnant, since we weren’t ogling the newest addition to the family yet). And I considered throwing the dusty, crunchy, faded bouquet out. But it’s hard to throw things out that have a memory attached to them, because it feels like throwing out the memory. So the bouquet sat another week in the bathroom, falling apart, some stems clinging to other flowerheads, frozen in their attempted suicide off the high cupboard. Then my expunging pseudo identity reared her sanitizing-self and demanded that the messy flowers be removed from existence. She pulled them down from their home of 10 years, collected the few that were behind the toilet, and stuffed them in a plastic grocery bag. Ooh, I hate her sometimes! In response, the everything-loving, destroy-nothing identity returned and guilted that sanitary creature by writing this post, instead of letting her continue to clean the bathroom. And the memories flooded back again. Once again, the ‘things’ have a chance of being pulled out of the trash and reset in their resting place of the last ten years, to collect more dust. But it depends on whether I can decide that the memories will live on after the flowers have gone. Aunt Katie and me on Mt Rainier while I was 41.5 weeks pregnant.    

Last week one of the vendors I work with at my new job gave me a bottle of Mât Sim. It’s Vietnamese wine made from honey myrtle fruit. I thanked him as he described its flavor, and suggested it go over ice. It’s like a port wine, he said. So tonight, after a day over the stove, prepping about 4 days worth of meals, I thought I might dive into it. Hubby suggested it a moment later, and prepped a wine glass with ice cubes after he read my mind. We tried it. We let the teen try it. He didn’t think it was so bad. We let the little teen try it; he almost barfed on the spot (this is why we let him). I tried it again. Then hubby. He decided he didn’t like it. I didn’t think it was so bad. He guffawed after a second sip. I said, “hey, where’s your sense of adventure? Remember the cashew wine?!” And so we spent the rest of dinner tag-teaming the cashew wine story for the kids. In 1998 we honeymooned in Belize. But we aren’t divers, and not so big on big hotels, so we opted out of the touristy side of the Central American country, and stayed in the interior, in local villages, and toured areas few eyes had ever seen. It was my kind of thing, for sure. In the week we were there, we walked through a bat cave, just the 2 of us and our guide (who was barefoot) with tiny headlamps and no sign of pathways, railings or stairs. It was the real deal. We took a local fishing boat out to an unnamed island (that you could throw a rock all the way across) and snorkeled with sharks and manta rays. We were supposed to visit a jaguar preserve, but we were there in the rainy season (just days before hurricane Mitch hit it and Honduras, actually), and that morning, our guide learned the road was washed out, so his jeep couldn’t make it into the preserve. I asked if we could walk and he assured me that nothing was getting across the landslide. I remember at that time I couldn’t imagine what a road might look like that was washed out the way he described. He offered instead to take us on a waterfall hike nearby, and soon we found ourselves deep in a jungle with no one else around. He pulled to the side of the road and pointed to a small opening in the brush, calling it a trail. We walked single-file, tropical vegetation brushing our legs, until his progress was stopped at a creek we couldn’t cross. “I took a wrong turn, lets backtrack to that last split.” I hadn’t seen a split, but he found it, and pulled out his machete to clear a space wide enough that we could walk down it. Metal hit vines and giant leaves with each repeating swing. Left, right, swing, swing. He panted, resting several times as we padded through the lush greenery. Bird calls I had never heard before met my ears. Flickers of movement under leaves. He stopped short and held up his finger, “Listen… Smell that?… Peccaries!” Our eyes got wide, we looked at each other, as the sharp, wild scent crossed my nose.The local wild pig is also called javelina, and they roam in little packs, rooting up the mud for grubs. According to our guide, Tui, they are very tasty, too. Up the next incline he stopped again. Heaving breaths in the moist air, we looked and listened. He pointed to the ground. A jaguar paw print on our trail, larger than I thought it would be, and just a few hours old, according to Tui. We stopped for lunch at a rare opening in the canopy. There was a flat area where a small thatched roof stood on stilts, covering a makeshift table. On the table were sifting boxes. No one was there. I walked around it to find an application for permit to excavate from the University of Illinois. It was a single page sealed in plastic, nailed to one of the support stilts. Then I noticed a large nearby mound, covered in vines and trees, like it had been there forever. It could have been a hill in the landscape, but it was even and if you imagined it without jungle all over it, it was clearly geometric in shape. Before I could wonder, Tui answered my question: “It’s a Mayan pyramid that has yet to be excavated.” What a marvel! I looked around an noticed several of them poking out of the ground where the canopy was most sparse. Imagine what they will find! Undiscovered ruins – and I laid eyes on them before they were disturbed! I’ve thought for years that I should go back and see what it looks like now. But I’d have to find Tui first, because I couldn’t tell you where it is on a map. The next day we were in a tiny wood boat going down a river on our way to see manatees, I think. Tui had said that there is a shop that sells mango wine and cashew wine along the river, and he was excited to be near enough to get some. The boat pulled up to a nondescript shack on stilts over the water, covered by a tin roof. It was all alone in the jungle. No signs of other settlement. The only markings were a battered old Coca-Cola sign under his tin roof, and a hand written sign that said “Mango wine cashew wine”. As we approached, an old man came out and greeted Tui. We decided to buy a bottle of each. We stood on the dock as the old man went back through his shop to his living quarters, which consisted of a couch and a fridge on a wood slat floor. He pulled out two dingy (perhaps mossy) old bottles and filled each one from a vessel on the counter before pressing a cork into it. Then he grabbed a third bottle out from behind a curtain and handed it to Tui. We paid him about $2 per bottle. Creamy tan liquid shined in the light. No labels, no seals. Straight from the maker himself, in the middle of a river in the middle of the Central American jungle. When we got home we opened the bottles to taste them. The mango wine was almost palatable. The cashew wine, not so much. It was mossy, flat, a bit bitter, and had tiny particles floating in it. The fermentation was more like vinegar than anything else. We let them sit for several months, and eventually made it through the mango wine. I think the second half of the cashew wine met the kitchen drain. No matter. For me, it’s all about the experience. That experience happened over 20 years ago and I still relish in the memory of cashew wine. All it took was a little mât sim to bring it back.

Most of you know by now that in the last month I’ve closed up my consulting business and my photo business and my outdoor/wellness business to take a full time job working for someone else. I’ve spent the last 16-ish years working for myself, so that was no small shift. I took it because while I like challenging myself on my own projects and dreams, I’ve missed working with a team, sharing ownership and collaborating on a regular basis. Countless hours in your own head, in your own space is less valuable to me than people contact and working together on something bigger than any one of us. Also, this company is the big dreamy version of what I envisioned with my outdoor/wellness company when I started it. So I’m super happy with the move. And, as any such shift, there is an accumulation of chaos that goes with it. You might say, “When it rains, it pours.” Three days before my start date I got called to jury duty. Smh, grumble and defer it for 6 months. Move on. Except 18 inches of snow fell the weekend before I started too, shutting down the city, keeping my kids out of school for over a week, and leaving us with one car that could move family members out of the house. The power was out. We shoveled and shoveled. Oh, and my commute is diagonal across the city, and because of the snow, buses weren’t running on any kind of schedule. And plows went up our main thoroughfare once, but that was 8 inches ago. Our own road was plowed in. Let’s just say, the plow drivers were not Minnesota plow drivers. No worries, we have the SUV. Hubby worked from home for several days and I made it through the first week of work and the record snows to the office. So on Sunday around 1 pm, after my first week of learning (that felt like cramming for a college final), I was running errands in my neighborhood. And that’s when all the chaos of the last 3 paragraphs dissolved into “no sweat.” Back roads were still icy, though main roads were clear and wet. I almost made it to errand spot number 2, when a spanking new Acura sedan ran a stop sign on a shared drive between parking lots. He did it 8 feet in front of my SUV. I T-boned him in the driver’s side at about 8 miles per hour. Dang! Don’t ever do that if you can help it. I backed up so he could open his car door, and made sure he was ok. He was, but I couldn’t help noticing he put an open can outside his car door in the snow when he got out. He asked if I was ok. I was. We talked for a couple minutes. He had no license plates on his car. When I asked to exchange information, he couldn’t find his phone, or his license, or his insurance card, but he swore up and down that he was insured, and kept saying the very recognizable name of the company while digging through his car. I called local police and it rang through to 911 because Sunday. I spent about 5 minutes trying to convince 911 that they should send a local squad because no proof of identity. They said that’s not a matter for police; the road was a private drive (parking lot) and not something they would answer. It didn’t seem to matter that there were no plates on the car, no insurance card and no phone number. Two cars passed us, driving between us while 911 asked more questions. Finally, the thing that got her attention was this: I think he might have been drinking because he put an open can in the snow when he got out of the car. Hmmm… she thought, then asked where I was, and said she’d send a car. I got the impression it wasn’t going to be right away. I sent a text to hubby: -Hi, I t-boned a guy flying out of the Motel 6 parking lot. The wreck is not nearly as bad as where this guy probably came from. Waiting for the police to arrive. -Oh no! Need me to come? I noticed his front axle was broken, he wasn’t going anywhere. Then, 10 minutes after the impact of the two vehicles, while the police were still en route, a woman emerged from the back seat of the Acura. She was tall and thin, with a lacy top, furry boots and a parka. Her hair was matted in back, and she stumbled and struggled to stand up. The driver had a short exchange with her. I heard her say, “I just want to go home.” “Take a bus,” was his short, uncaring reply. She turned and walked toward me until her face was 4 inches from mine. Towering over me she said, “I just want to go home.” Her face was scarred and covered in sores. Her left eye was black and swollen mostly shut. She wreaked of liquor. I stepped back and took a breath of fresh air. “I can’t help you,” I said with far more resolve than I felt, so she turned and struggled down the slick road toward the nearest bus stop. I got into my truck to stay warm and find paper to take this guy’s name down. He was sheepish, withdrawn and mostly quiet, but managed to produce his insurance card and spell his name. He admitted to not stopping at the stop sign. I breathed a sigh of relief and said that I had never t-boned anyone before. “Yeah,” he replied, “mine are usually head on…” I wondered if that’s what he meant to say. Seconds later not one, but three squads showed up behind me. There was chatter on the radio about this location last night. One of the police asked me to describe the woman. “We just passed her. She didn’t want to talk to us.” It was now about 1:30 Sunday afternoon. I sent another text to hubby: -I’m good now, the police came, he’s claiming responsibility. A drunk woman with a black eye got out of the car and wandered off. The police found her at the end of the drive. They had seen her last night after an altercation. -Sheesh, talk about instant karma! The third squad circled the motel parking lot and left. After one of those waits that seems much longer than it actually is, they told me paperwork was done, and determined my car wasn’t so damaged as to keep from driving away, so I could go. I thanked them, told them I appreciated them, and went. They called a tow truck for him.

Every once in a while I find myself riveted on a specific moment, like a spotlight is on it, asking me to pay deep attention so it burns into my memory forever. Mind you, this never happens when we’re doing something exciting or novel. My brain usually decides to do this when we’re picking lint from our pockets, or clipping toenails. Well, not that, but you get the idea. So this afternoon my teen said, “I want to sort the coffee beans,” and I knew it was my next opportunity for the kids and I to soak up one of those forever moments. We roasted our own coffee beans last weekend, and they’re a little uneven. So we intended to make a dark roast bag, and a light roast bag by separating them. I know, not a terribly useful or emotional event, but one that was perfect for what came next. I called Kid 2 to the table while Kid 1 set us up with sorting cloths and put music on his Bluetooth speaker. The three of us sat, singing Tonic and Green Day together, rolling beans over, and making our little piles on the table. It was then that the memory spotlight came on, and I mentally recorded the simple act of sitting there with my two kids, doing almost nothing, singing, relaxing, and actually all wanting to be there for a minute. I occasionally think about what I’ll be doing in several years when they’re not both just hanging out in the summer, or comfortably calling themselves together over something simple, and I get a little, uh, you know, midlife-momish. As if I needed any help, the next song was Chris’s. Yes, the teen has almost memorized as many of my hubby’s lyrics as I have. Each of our kids has a song written about them. The one that came on was one of the few creative collaborations Chris and I have done. In spring of 2003 I was coming out of the difficult, dark space of being a new mom. I was able to see bright spots in having a small child more frequently (full disclosure: early parenthood was wicked-hard on both of us). So I picked up a pen and wrote down some lyrics when I was having one of those first days when the “memory spotlight” shined for me. I wrote some poetry, or some lyrics, or something. When I showed them to Chris, he took them, nudged them, then wrote a song which was a gentle, young version of Cat’s in the Cradle, or Father and Son. Something to capture the moment when our firstborn was so tiny: The baby doesn’t want to nap, he wants to play. He wants to fly a kite, he wants to chase butterflies. Mom just wants him to nap. The baby wins, and also shows mom something more. That’s it. It’s simple, sweet, and right here on Spotify, if you want to hear it (click on Show Me if it doesn’t come right up). I usually get to hear songs as they come together in his home studio, but this one he worked and worked on in near-silence. When he finished recording it, we both sat bawling, listening to the little slice of life that had been captured. He laughed through tears, saying, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to ever play that one live, sniff.” In that moment, with that song, we seemed to acknowledge that we had survived a very rough spot in our young lives, and could see even then that we were turning a corner. We had just come from this: I was barely 6 months pregnant, just moved into our first house with a hefty new mortgage, when I was laid off. My hubby was laid off three weeks later and were new in town. So for the last 4 months of pregnancy and almost 6 months of our newborn’s life, we stared at each other wondering which thing we should worry about first. We had no close friends or family anywhere nearby since we were new to Seattle. When we lost our jobs, we lost the few companions that came with them. Our nearest family was 2600 miles away. We were an island for 10 long months, in a house we couldn’t afford, with a new baby and no insurance. The song was an emotional release from that rough patch. It was the first moment I knew we weren’t going to have to pack it up and leave Seattle. We felt like we could push through and come out okay on the other side. So when we were sorting coffee beans, the song played and brought it all back again. Like a spotlight on a spotlight. And now I just might be a snotty, weeping mess, but I’m also happy for the spotlight on these little moments.

Some say love… On the way home from Seattle last night, I heard The Rose on the radio. Yeah, Bette Midler, the whole sappy thing. Though it was the first time I’d heard it in 25 years or so, I remembered every word by heart. But that wasn’t the amazing thing (internalizing music lyrics is one of my superpowers). The amazing thing was how vividly it brought back a memory of people I have not thought about since I was in college. I lived two lives in high school – one at my private, academy-style school which was in the affluent suburbs of Minneapolis, and the other with the local kids who all went to my nearest inner-city high school. At the time it was known for being over crowded, full of deadbeat, failing, pregnant-teen, druggie delinquents, which is probably why I went to the private school. Their hall guards were infamous, and several of my friends would bolt out of class before the bell rang, light up half way down the hall and try to hit the exit door before May, the bitchiest hall guard of all, caught up with them. I can still hear her voice yelling at my then boyfriend, “Raj, get out of this school with that cigarette!!” And by the time she had finished the sentence, he was across the street, off school property, smiling a huge smile, hollering back, “See ya tomorrow, May!” Yeah, they were trouble, but they were fun, so I hung with a tight group of them through high school. The group that I ran with was primarily made of latch key kids, often from single parent homes or in many cases, completely absent adult supervision of any kind. Saturday night parties at Lonnie and Shawn’s place were frequent because no adults lived there or ever showed up… except that one time when their uncle joined us after supplying the vodka and cigarettes. One of the things I learned at that time, from this group of people, was that since their family arrangements were fractured and unstable, they trusted and leaned on each other very deeply. Mike always needed food and never had a dime, so he’d show up and entertain with his verbose stories in exchange for Poptarts and Twinkies. Not sure he ate otherwise. Johnny lived alone most of his high school life. He had a mom, but I think she was in and out of rehab, and he had no siblings. Johnny never had to be anywhere. If no one else was around, Johnny always was. That group of people was his home, and he’d often bum a dollar or trade for what he had in his pockets so he could buy a Snickers and a smoke for breakfast at the 7-Eleven before heading in to school. He played guitar and had the best rocker hair – long and all ratted out, and occasionally smashed on one side from bedhead. I only ever saw him wear one set of clothes. A bandanna was tied over the torn knee of his jeans, and even in Minnesota winters, he wore only a jean jacket. He quit going to school around 10th grade, but hung in the neighborhood and began working on friends’ cars for money. Suzi was a gorgeous, buxom, platinum blonde, who played cosmetologist. She carried a huge, leather purse-bag with makeup, hairspray (it was the 80s), and an oversized mirror. With a deep alto voice, she was bubbly and gregarious, and always knew where everyone (and the party) was. Wherever we went, we looked like the hair bands of the 80s, thanks to Suzi. It was like a little, mobile family of teens and I loved being a part of it. Ginny was quiet, demure, dated my brother for a little while, and had a beautiful singing voice. Jen was my friend down the block. She just wanted to be in the middle of the attention, her natural theatrics flowing out everywhere we went. She was most likely to hang out my passenger window hollering knock-knock jokes at people on the street. She preferred to be with the group instead of going home because she was beaten most times she did go home. She also spent a lot of time in foster homes, so she would disappear for months at a time, then show up back at home again, and reappear in our group. I had a car – a ’66 T-bird with fuzzy dice on the rear-view, no seat belts, and too much guts under the hood. When Suzi got in the front seat, she’d always turn on the radio and push through all the stations, then say, “I always expect this car to play music from the 50s… it should do that!”“Suzi Q, you’re a mess,” someone would reply from the back seat. It was a compliment.In public we were stoic, attempting to stay under the radar (except visually, of course), but alone in our group, we were dramatic, playful and comical. We were a mess. A fun mess. It turns out that this group, which was known by the student body as, “The Metal Heads” because they all did the big hair, 80s metal music and everything that went with it, was also the group that laid claim to theater performances in school. It’s probably the only reason they showed up in school at all. You can only be truant so many times before they wonder why you’re at play practice, but weren’t in math.  During my senior year, they were doing Godspell for the spring musical, and I caught up with them in the theater one day at the end of rehearsal. Ginny finished singing By My Side, and they wrapped for the day. The audio team had some technical details to work out before performances, so they asked someone to stay by the microphones and recite lines so they could do sound checks. Suzi, her bright red lips and fluffy, platinum hair shining at the mic, began singing, “Some say love…..” Before the phrase ended, Jen and Ginny were there, adding perfect harmonies and all the words with deep, bleeding feeling. “Some say love, it is a razor…” It was like they were singing to each other, confessing through song, how strong their friendship bonds were. I sat in the front row, completely rapt, since I had never seen this before, and I remember the feeling in my chest as they finished to jibes and sarcastic applause from the stage hands and audio guys. Because it was high school. We were usually stoic. “I say love, it is a flower…” But this was theater, it was allowed, and they let it out. It was beautiful. A couple months later I went to college and moved to another neighborhood. Jen tried community college,  but ended up in the system after picking up a shoplifting habit. Raj started working fast food somewhere, and I never heard from Mike, but Johnny went to Hazelden. Several times, apparently. Suzi picked up a heroin habit after getting pregnant with twins at 17, then miscarrying. Or that’s what I heard. But it was, for that short time, beautiful.

It’s my second visit to Dad’s house, and the last day of this trip. My aunt and uncle are here threading through paper and kitchen items for the five days I’m here. I’ve coordinated a load of people to disperse my dad’s estate effectively. They include an auctioneer, a consignment guy who bought tools and other junk, my dad’s close friend in the electrical engineering field, Steve – the guy he trained to take his place after almost 40 years of specializing, the junk guys, Nick and Matt, who take everything away once everyone else is done, and Steve’s two helpers, George and Fred, who arrived a day after him because there was too much for his multiple loads yesterday. Now it’s 3 pm on the last day. I fly out tomorrow morning early, and the last two groups of people are finishing up. The two engineering helpers, George and Fred, have loaded their Ford truck bed with heavy machinery, transformers and motors which have been ripped (gently) from their original purpose and now sit bare in boxes. Technical paperwork, and wiring is stuffed in the leftover crannies and even between them in the seat. The junk guys arrived 20 minutes after them, so I have one truck in the neighbor’s driveway, and the other in my dad’s – loading stuff from both sides of the house. It feels efficient and healthy and like a giant relief to be moving this stuff that’s been here for decades. A light rain starts to fall. There are seven things left on the screened porch: Six huge capacitors (each the size of a briefcase, but with ceramic spirals sticking out), and a box of electrical diagnostic equipment. I’ve slated these items for the electrical guys, but when they got here, they determined that there’s no use for the capacitors (maybe mostly because of their weight), they’re too old to be useful – and too big. They each weigh 50 lbs. So I pointed at them, and the junk guys took them one by one to their truck, insisting they’d be recycled for scrap metal. “Yeah,” said Nick, lifting the first one, “I’ve taken these to scrap before. They’re heavy as hell!” “We’ve shuffled all we can, and we can’t get this last piece in.” George said. He and Fred spent a couple minutes determining if they could swing by tomorrow and get it then. One last magical electrical engineering machine – a tool, a diagnostic box of some sort. George and Fred both looked at it, spending a moment to determine its function. It’s the size of a mini fridge, but weighs twice that; a metal box, empty on the top side, but with panels of wires and dials on the bottom. I’ll be on a plane tomorrow morning,” I said. “I guess we’ll have to let that one go, then. Sorry.” “It’s ok. I really appreciate all you guys are doing. This stuff is all being donated to Dunwoody. Steve’s going to catalog it and finish the donation process for me. I hear their new electrical engineering department will put it to good use.” “Oh,” Fred said, “That’s a great idea! Put it in the college, you betcha.” He looked at the metal box again, and the look on his face said what I felt: You can’t do it all. You can do what you can do, and that’s got a be enough. And with that, I pointed to the last item, the heavy mini fridge full of electrical gauges and dials, and asked Nick if he’d put it in his junk truck. Now I have to tell you this: My dad‘s death wasn’t expected. He wasn’t sick. He’s been a smoker for 60 years, and died at 72, but no one expected it to be this year, this month or this week. In a fashion that is typical of my dad, though, he went out with a bang in Las Vegas. He and his brother were on their way to check off a bucket list item. He has talked for years about going to Nevada’s nuclear test site (high-energy electrical engineers have eclectic hobbies). In March he and his brother succeeded in visiting the Trinity Site in Arizona. He brought back a piece of Trinitite for my kids after that. They were delighted to hear the stories. This was the second leg of their bucket list item. He’s always had a fascination with nuclear anything, so this made perfect sense. There is, however, a months-long waiting list to get on a tour for the Nevada nuclear site, but this was one of his fascinations because it relates to energy. So on a Thursday, they flew to Las Vegas and my dad didn’t make it through to Saturday morning. Monday, two days later was the tour. No one could go in his stead because passports and clearances are done in advance. Only US citizens are allowed in after a full scour of background history. So instead of the tour, Monday was filled with a frenzy of funeral planning. While I arranged the funeral and reception, my uncle flew out of Las Vegas back to his hometown then flew on to Minneapolis to help my brother open my dad’s house, for which they had no key. There should’ve been a key, but the coroner apparently did not produce one from the pockets of my dad‘s clothing after they took him. I called two funeral homes, the police department, the coroner, and no one admits to finding a key (or change or any other pocket items, suspiciously) anywhere in his belongings. My uncle has twice checked everything he received from the coroner. In fact we don’t know if there was a key, but we do know one item that was in his possession when he died, that we didn’t get back once he left with the coroner. On Friday night my uncle and my dad were walking through one of the casinos in Vegas, and my dad bought something. He always paid in cash, and he received coins back in change. He had a habit of always checking his coins to see if there was silver. Whenever he found a coin from before 1965, he would study the edge of it to see if the copper showed on the side, and if it was silver, he would keep it and add it to his collection at home. On this particular night, in Vegas, the quarter he received back was a 1964 quarter of solid silver. He made a point of showing it to my uncle and remarking how rare it is to find those these days, before putting it back in his pocket with the rest of this change. That’s the spot where he also kept his keys. So, while we don’t know if there actually were keys, there was no change returned to my uncle when his personal items were given. And there definitely was change. Back to Nick, the junk hauler and his almost full truck in the driveway. He picked up the mini fridge-sized electrical piece and made his way to his truck. I followed him. It felt final and successful, if not completely bitter in the finishing moment of this dark project. He set the piece on the bumper of his truck and reached inside, then opened his hand toward me. “You might want what’s in here.” It was a secret key keeper, magnetically stuck to the inside of that metal fridge-box. The box had lived on our porch forever. I gasped and asked Nick where he’d found it. He pointed as I slid the thin metal top open. Inside were 2 keys to the front door.

This is a year of extensive travel for me. It began in November, with almost a month in Nepal, then December on the Big Island of Hawaii, winter camping on Mt Rainier in January, then I put my head down on my new business for a month in February, before heading to the Olympic Peninsula in March. April was the canyonlands of the Southwest (which is described below), and installing honeybees in my backyard for the third year (ok, an adventure that isn’t travel, related, but notable). In May the hubby and I spent a week in Sweden, directly on the heels of my summit climb of Mt St Helens on Mother’s Day with a gaggle of other fun-loving moms. I’ve had a week and a half to check in with my kids, do laundry, stock the fridge, work some freelance jobs, and tomorrow I’m heading to Deception Pass for a week of camping with 140 kids while teaching them geology of the Fidalgo Island area by way of making arrowheads (flintknapping). The following week school wraps up and 3 days after that I am in the San Juans camping, but leaving early to unpack/repack for a trip to Yellowstone, followed closely by a trip to Napa. <Breath> And I am so happy! So, in the interest of keeping any of this straight a year from now, I’m collecting some of it in writing and photos. Here’s the canyonlands trip from April. I spent a week living on a hippie bus in the desert southwest in April. I was with 30 junior high kids, one teacher, three other chaperones, the coolest bus driver ever, Jake, and his partner, Lauren, our camp cook. We moved as a wandering, untethered group, untied from everything else except our daily goals and this bus that we slept on, ate our meals from and camped with. When I was posting from the field during this trip, several of you asked why there weren’t any kids in my photos. I make it a policy not to publish OPKF (other people’s kids faces) without a model release, and I couldn’t properly vet all my photos on my camera screen with limited battery in the field on those rare times we got cell service (a girl can only do so much!). So that’s why you’re only seeing them now. When we hiked in Zion we hiked three times in one day, throughout the park, and the kids were exhausted, but I heard not one word of complaining. We sweated a lot on the first hike… Seattle slugs getting accustomed to the desert weather. Colors were stunning, there were waterfalls scattered about, and I kept chasing the next hike and the next hike and the next hike. We spent three days in Moab on mountain bikes. What I learned about mountain biking in Moab is, the adrenaline rush I gain from this activity is far beyond any of my other outdoor activities. Hiking, mountain climbing, and running all give me a little endorphin boost, but mountain biking in red rock canyonlands sends me to the stars. It makes me feel invincible and I love the speed, the pumping of legs over rough terrain, the skinny trails and amazing, quickly changing views. It doesn’t hurt to have a $3000 bike underneath you. I mentioned my 25-year old steel-frame mountain bike to the guides. “Yeah, we call that model The Couch, because they are so heavy, you just sit back and mosey.” Truth! But if you train on those, then get on the ultra light, new-fangeldy bikes, you FLY! Having twenty-five gears at your disposal doesn’t hurt either. Canyon De Chelly is completely inside the Navajo Nation, so we camped nearby for easy access to the pretty stuff. The hike down to the bottom was gorgeous, swirling sandstone formations, and mini-plateaus with a huge backdrop of the canyon floor, edged with orange cliff walls and blue sky above. To me it seemed to be just the right size to get a good spread of photos during the hike down. I could tell the light would change drastically between the hike down and the return trip, so I snapped all the way down, taking advantage of the earlier light. Clouds and sun mixed perfectly to help me with that. I couldn’t believe the wind whirling around us as we arrived at the bottom of the canyon. The teacher acted as our guide, describing the peoples who had called this canyon home: Navajo most recently (and presently), preceded by Hopi and Anazasi. There’s evidence of five thousand years of settlement. While we were there, I gave an art talk… I spent a lot of time in college studying the Native Southwest and Central Americans, their art, their petroglyphs, their styles. Besides plenty of pottery and glass sculptures, I made a series of cast bronze plates, each with a different native culture reflected in it. One is Hopi, one Anasazi, one Aztec, one Inca and one Pacific Northwest (the anomaly of the five, especially since I had no inkling of living in Seattle at the time I made them). So it was a joy to share with the kids what I knew of the drawings on the canyon walls. We sat in rough circle on giant roots, under the scant trees, hoping for shelter from the wind. In front of us, beyond a fence were the ruins of a pueblo from a thousand years ago. It was carved out of the bottom of a sandstone canyon wall 500 feet high. Graced on the right side by a beautiful, bending tree and I couldn’t stop taking pictures of it, but what the teacher said next halted me. “The people of this canyon believe that everyone is given a spirit at birth, and it is their job to nurture it throughout their life.” He paused to let it sink in. “So I’d like you to take out your journals and write to this prompt: What does your spirit look like and how are you taking care of it? What are you nurturing inside of it?” Maybe my eyes watered to clear the dust that the wind had put there. I dropped my camera and grabbed my journal, scribbling down exactly what he had said. I needed to write that prompt too. It was a little hard to see the page, or concentrate on the assignment, myself. I was stunned how the kids fell in line and did it. The wind howled, the Navajo silversmiths displayed their wares on dusty tables a hundred yards behind us, dust devils spun wildly into the trees, but the students sat, undaunted, and wrote the answer to those questions, right there in that space with a thousand-year old sandstone home in front of them, the tree bending and flowing; the energy of the age old canyon whirling like the wind. Three days later was the next time I wrote, but several other prompts (assignments) had crossed the kids’ pens since then. We were at Canyonlands National Park. Our group campsite was on the Colorado River, right across the highway from a hike that takes you to Corona Arch. Did I mention we did yoga? One of the chaperones was a yoga instructor, so on several mornings before breakfast, we greeted the day with all 30 kids centering their sweet souls and stretching their bodies with a red rock backdrop. Yes, it really happened. Yes, middle schoolers. (I love the look on your face right now. I love when we, as a large group of traveling kids gets this response while we’re out in places like this. It’s one of the most awesome of the experiences I’ve had with this school, to see other people in awe of the kids incredible attentiveness wherever we go.) So we took a hike after dinner and parked ourselves on the sandstone directly underneath the arch… 30 students and five chaperones scrambled up makeshift ladders, across craggy sandstone as the arch came into view. And the teacher asked for the journals again. I was distracted, only hearing him out of the corner of my ear. There was a serious photographer on the far side of the arch, waiting for the light to get perfect. I was giddy that we had arrived early enough to catch the best light myself, running up and down the curves, framing, snapping, waiting for light to change. I was trying to stay out of the photographer’s way, mind the kids as they scrambled up the rock, watch the light change and the scene unfold. It’s never a single task when I’m on these trips. Then the teacher gathered the kids’ attention in his unassuming way, and issued another prompt. “Consider your perspective. You sit at a pretty unique position right now, where you are, with respect to this arch directly above you, and I want you to consider it and then write two sentences describing the space around you from your own perspective. Two sentences, no more, no less.” Again I loved the assignment so much I had to drop my camera and pick up my journal. I dated it and wrote the following: The light fades up, not down. Warm orange reaches over my head to mingle with deepest azure. But I couldn’t stop at just two sentences so I did the assignment twice, adding: The bright colors fade. Azure becomes faint, orange turns to gray. And then, you guessed it, I pointed my camera and captured perfect light on Corona Arch. Arches NP speaks for itself, so in our 90-minute hke in the park I got these: Our last camping night was at a desolate campground below Lake Mead. As we set up tents, the adults noted how stark it was… I think it was described as a turd in the desert, but the view at night while we were singing at the campfire made it all worthwhile. And the stars were divine even over the lights of Las Vegas in the distance. The Valley of Fire was unexpectedly beautiful at dawn on our last day. We had driven all night, sleeping like sardines on the hippie bus (I could tell you about the smell of 30 pairs of kid-feet in the desert after a week on the bus, but I won’t), and pulled into the park just as the sun was rising. It had the most dramatic colors of all the canyons we saw. It’s a state park… not even a national. It doesn’t get the notoriety it deserves, and perhaps that’s a good thing. Only an hour outside of Las Vegas, it’s usually skipped over for larger, higher profile national parks in Utah, just another hour away. It was the last day of hiking in striped, red rock, slot canyons, surrounded by desert wildflowers in bloom. Early morning light and the coolest part of the day made this hike near perfect. I spotted a desert tortoise just off our path and pointed it out to everyone. Much excitement and attempts to feed it dandelions followed. Kids and animals. It’s a fun combo. And now… the mountains are calling and I must… pack. Namaste.

“Does this glissade chute make my butt look big?” It’s been a long time since I climbed over 5000 vertical feet in a day. This year, for Mother’s Day, my family allowed me to escape the city, and spend the day with 5 other moms, and 495 other climbers, working up the side of Mt St Helens to its summit. In case you ever decide to do such a thing, here’s what it might look like. You wake at 2:30 am, scarf down oatmeal, and begin from a packed parking lot at 4 am. If you’re lucky, one of your climbing partners, who is clearly more together than you are, passes out matching tutus so you can climb as a united force. Before dawn you’re above the tree line and slipping on snow, so you don microspikes (lovely inventions, they’re metal mini grippers for the bottoms of your shoes – not nearly as serious or dangerous as crampons). Soon even the brush and bushes are gone, and you’re out on a boulder slope scrambling in the near-dawn light. You’re using hands and feet, clinking with each step over rough volcanic rocks, that shred your gloves. In the descent of the boulder field, you wonder if you should have gone to the effort to pull off those spiky-feet, but wrestle through instead. Then begins an endless, repeating cadence of snowy ladder steps. Imagine your favorite, rugged set of stairs, covered in slushy snow. No hand railing.   Headlamps make way for sunglasses, hats and ice axes. One of the early pitches on Mt St Helens is the most vertical, so you don’t look up it, because if you do, you probably won’t climb it. Just step in the footprints of the person who went before you. Breathe. Don’t look down either. No ropes and your friend catches snow in her lap when your foot slips in the soft snow.   Over the next hour, the sun crests the east ridge, Mt Adams rises out of the hazy dawn, and the crunchy snow turns softer, and gives way more frequently under your feet. Two more hours and you’re in your head, counting steps and breathing. Air is noticeably thinner for those of us who reside at sea level. You tell yourself you’ll stop and rest at the next rock outcrop, but as the next ridge comes into view, you don’t stop. Once you stop, it’s hell to start again. You have to squeeze all that oxygen back into your muscles once they’ve relaxed, and that’s harder that keeping your burning thighs going. Just. Don’t. Stop. You push to the next outcrop of boulders and pumice dust. You hope you remembered to pee below the tree line, because there’s no place to do that up here! You’re 4 hours in. Most marathon runners would be finishing their runs now, but you’re just about to get to the good stuff. You accordion with your climbing mates. Some are ahead, some are below. You match up at rest spots to eat, sunscreen and change gear, then move on at your own pace.You have second breakfast and then bite in again. Step, step, breath. The air thins. Step, step breath. Then step, breath, step breath. It’s weird work; you’re telling yourself to go fast enough to make progress, but slow enough for your lungs to keep up. If you never hit a rhythm, you never get over the burn. Deepest blue sky, sunscreen, serious eyewear. You finish one pitch only to realize what you thought was the top isn’t. There are more snowy ridges and ripples above it, and once you crest those, there will be more above them. You’re staring at a white, reflective mountainside, telling yourself stories, and feeling like “the bear went over the mountain.” You sing it to yourself a couple times to take your mind off the burning in your thighs and lungs. Lunch at 9:30 am. If you’re lucky, only a little bit of volcanic dust has blown into your teeth and crunches with your sandwich. Occasionally the steps you’re following disperse and the snowfield becomes ragged, slushy and chaotic. Like running up sand hills. “I hate when the steps run out!” You moan playfully, and the guy behind you agrees loudly. The aire is friendly and light and fun. You’re all pulling for each other. But you’ll have to kick your own steps; an exhausting prospect. Your eyes search frantically for the best-made steps in white sea of chaos, and you side-step until you can get in them. The guy behind you is happy you’re kicking steps, saving him the work, but eventually you have to step out of the path and stand, panting on the slope to recover. He passes you. Several others do too. One of them pushes through a step and stumbles to get footing. She’s gasping right next to you, gasping next to her. It’s a good opportunity to check the view. Mt Hood has been at your back all morning. It climbed out of the darkness while you were climbing the boulder field. The sun is peeling down the ridges on your left, revealing valleys and chutes that yesterday’s climbers rode down from the summit. Mt Adams is silhouetted by the rising sun, and up ahead there are miles of white. You begin again. It burns until your breath and legs match pace.   Climbers multiply, and soon you’re in a conga line, waiting for the guy ahead of you to take steps so you can take your own, filling the footstep he just left. You banter with him and compliment the house dress he’s wearing. It has poppies on it. He gives you genuine gratitude in return. The next guy up is in sequins. Someone behind you in the line plays Sting, and you all sing “doo-doo-doo, daa-daa-daa” as a distraction. It’s a good climbing song; it moves your feet. You chuckle at the spectacle: burly men in dresses, women in blinking tutus with skis on their backs and the descent is on your mind. The last snowy slopes come into view. Breathe, step, step. Breathe. Your climbing mate encourages you back into the footsteps one last time. Then you look up and the party appears… a hundred fellow climbers are at the summit above you. Beer, dance party, wine spritzers… it’s a young crowd. A male film crew is documenting the history of The Mother’s Day climb on MSH. They’re in red lamé floor-length dresses, wielding a full sized boom mic and TV camera, having climbed up in ski boots. You puff and will your legs past the hordes up the slope to what you hope will be a flat summit area. There is none. The slope ends where the volcano crater begins.Tiny pink flags mark the edge of the crater beneath the snow. The rest of the snow is a cornice – an overhang of snow that reaches out beyond the edge of the crater. Despite all the warnings – the rangers in the parking lot, the info boards at the trail head, and all the things you could possibly read online – one skier slides across the entire length of the cornice, until a woman climbers yells him down. “Oh, there’s a cornice here?” There’s always one guy. It’s him today. People have died up here that way. Let’s not make Mother’s Day memorable like that. You wag your head and nod at the yeller. Still, other people push the line – it’s so tempting to step one more step so you can see in the crater. Need to see in the crater. You hold your camera as far above your head as possible, so you can snap it over the ridge, but the sun is so high, and the snow is so bright, that you have no idea if you got it or not. There are probably 200 of you up on the summit now. For every twenty or so that arrive off the conga line, only one or two leave it on skis or in glissade chutes. There is much revelry and many dresses on outdoor-style mountain men. You watch them parade across the front of the crowd with pride. You can’t help but yell out, “Dude, you are rocking that neckline!” to which all the ladies in earshot laugh. He turns and smiles with a nod of satisfaction. You pour a celebratory drink with our climbing partners, and watch the antics for an hour. The spectacle is amazing, but the view is so much better. Mt Rainier hangs above the crater to the north, and nearer, Spirit Lake, looking blue and beautiful. Mt Adams is to the east, Mount Hood to the south, and directly below you, a steaming crater that you can see into when you stand on your toes at the pink flags. It’s time to go down after an hour and a half on the summit. Thankfully your legs don’t do most of the work. You don a giant trash bag, poking holes for your legs and sitting in it like a giant diaper, then you grab your ice axe and slip into a glissade chute and slide 4000 vertical feet down over the next hour. It’s like a water slide, but with snow walls. Or like the luge, but without a sled. Just keep that ice axe handy and steer with your feet. Rooster tails of snow fly over your boots, into your lap. Snow follows you down the chute, hissing long after you’ve passed. At times you’re a tiny avalanche all of your own making. When one chute ends, you bail out and find another one. You’re careful not to take one if you can’t see where it goes. There are rocks and drop offs. When in doubt, you send your fearless climbing partner down before you. She survives, emerging far below, so you follow. Snow in your lap, snow in your pants, snow in your hair. You squeal down the steepest ones, or scoot and struggle to keep moving down the shallow ones, and relax for the whole ride on several that are just right. Then they end and you’re standing on dirty snow 4000 feet below the summit. An hour has passed. Maybe two, because you moseyed, and you still have three miles to walk out. You’re on your last sip of water. It’s a long three miles. Treeline, shade, slush, dirt, car. At the end you’ve gone up and down 5800 vertical feet, over 12 miles, and according to one fitbit: 27,000 steps, which doesn’t count the glissading (because it’s not steps). Twelve hours from trail head to trail head. Will you do it again tomorrow? Hell no. But you’ll probably do it again.

Time for photo catch up! I’ve averaged 750 photos per day and probably 20-50 video clips (because the sound and motion is really helpful sometimes! – I wish I could offer smellovision – there are curries and incense floating randomly throughout the city). I’ve also riddled my guides/hosts with a battery of questions and they have so kindly not killed me yet. So here are photos from the last few places I’ve been, and thoughts that may go with them. This is the reason I flew out of Seattle on my son’s birthday – Nepal’s largest festival (holiday/celebration) of the year is during these 5 days. Marigolds are the signature decoration displayed during Tihar. This is the other signature item: Colors. First it decorates the doorways of homes and temples, then it serves again during Dai Tikka (Saturday) – when sisters honor their brothers. There’s also a Dog Day, Cow Day and Crow Day. Today was a rest day/shopping day, and tonight was more kids running through neighborhoods. Hey, they know how to celebrate! This little sweetie was running a color shop. She scoops a couple spoonsfull into a piece of newspaper, folds it and bags it up. However many you want. Here’s what they’re use for. Last night kids followed these into open homes where they could sing for treats.The last one was in Bhaktapur Square and is about 6 feet across. Okay, the cows. Yep, they’re sacred here. There’s actually a punishment for killing one in any way – you go to jail for a while. And here’s where information gets tricky. A couple years ago, while walking through the high country, I asked if the cows were owned by anyone, because they seemed to be. Yes, I was told, they use them for milk, so they feed and pasture them.  So I assumed that was a universal answer… but it actually only applies to country cows. City cows are unowned and wander the streets and markets, rooting through garbage piles and generally just taking up space in a crowded city. They’re like giant rats, if you think about it in a certain way. Giant, sacred rats. So today my friend Krish ordered beef steak at lunch. I asked him where it was from and he said it was imported from India. I asked the obvious question: Isn’t it illegal to kill them there as well? Different rules for different states, was the answer. Final note about city cows… They and I have an understanding: Whenever I’m in a car on the way across town (the perfect situation to see lots of cows in roadways) as long as my camera is on, looking for them, running video or waiting to snap, they don’t exist. As soon as I shut everything off and put it in its bag, they appear in droves. Sigh. Nepalis have a saying: Ke garne – (shrug) what to do. They are pretty much everywhere, my camera just doesn’t show it. Next time your workday sucks, think of this guy. He’s the phone repair man, and that’s a pretty average phone/electric pole in Kathmandu. I watched him for a minute, and he hooked one set up, then called a number to see if he’d connected the right one, then repeated the process several times until he got through. Sel roti are lightly sweet fried dough. A mix between donuts and cornbread. Served specifically for holiday celebrations. We had some really good ones here – at the base of our view at Nagarkot (mountain view). Hi! Welcome to the Himalayas. I love them, they make me happy! You’re looking at the set just west of the Everest Range here. These are straight north of Kathmandu, and visible from a high prominence on the north lip of the Kathmandu Valley. Its the Langtang range, which includes Shishapangma (8027 M – 26,335 feet), the snowy pointy one on the left. Looking across a bit of the KTM valley Pretty mountains with my tele lens. Um…I should say here, you are looking at raw photos – I didn’t bring any processing software with me (because WHO is going to do that when they’re here?!) So consider these photos-estimations of the beauty they will become later. As I mentioned yesterday, there is still a bunch of destruction evident from the earthquake. The ancient landmarks, many of which were kings’ palaces, are now temples and marketplaces, so business goes on around the piles of bricks and rescued relics.They optimistically think it will be 5 more years until things are mostly put back together. I bet a decade. Some of the oldest damaged buildings are 900 years old. Section of damage that didn’t result in a collapse. These are everywhere, and yes, I was allowed in some buildings with them. OSHA ain’t here. The braces are each held in place by a piece of rebar hammered between brick pavers in the pathways. Not that there isn’t a ton of beauty still there! Interesting, magical and curious, the Hindu religion. This is my postcard shot of Bhaktapur. Pretty happy with it. The potters of Bhaktapur made an impression on me. They were spinning thousands of these little clay oil lamps to be used the same day – without firing, because that is what the holiday calls for. So trays and trays of little cups sat drying in the sun. And I’ll leave you with this guy, a happy old wanderer of the Bhaktapur marketplace. He says to tell you Namaste.

Only so much can be relayed in a FB post. Since I’m staring at the ceiling at 3 am, I thought I’d dig in. Ask me about anything and I am happy to expound. This will also fill in some of the story gaps from photos and video I’ve posted lately. Why the face masks? You’ve noticed the masks on a large fraction of the people of Kathmandu. It’s because the air quality sucks. It’s a combination of diesel (their trucks cough black crud) and dust (the Indian subcontinent is famous for its dust. It collects on everything. It’s a little better this visit, since I am here after the rainy season rather than before, but shop keepers routinely sweep off their goods during open hours. Will I use one? I packed a cloth I could use if I need to, but from what I’ve read, it doesn’t help much. Particles are too small for anything other than a full respirator, and those aren’t commonly seen here. Breathing through clean cloth makes the air smell better though. If there was one thing in all of Kathmandu I could change, it would be the air quality. What is Tihar? Also called Diwali among Buddhist folks, it’s the equivalent of Christmas, but also of fall harvest and thanksgiving. Lights are strung, alters and homes are decorated with strings of marigold flowers, large meals are prepared, and about 5 days are set aside to celebrate. Each day has a specific mission. Day 2 was honoring and thanking animals for what they provide (from companionship to work burden, to food). Day 3 is lights and sand decorations (Hindus decorate the roads and floors outside their homes with the colored powder you saw in the markets). Day four is for honoring your brother – Danu, my host yields everything to his sisters that day and they honor him for being their protector and provider. He’s the youngest of 16 siblings, many of whom are sisters. He’s told me I can photograph it. 🙂 Preparing the offering for tomorrow night’s puja (prayer and celebration). This is why they stopped at the Money Lady in the market – exchanging large bills for small ones – the kids go door to door tonight and houses give them money. Your flight to Kathmandu – how was that? Ok, nobody asked me that, but there’s a story. (First, my 17 hour flight to Singapore sat me next to two gorgeous young ladies from Brooklyn on their way to Bali for a yoga workshop. It was their first trip to Asia, so you KNOW I had fun with that!) But on to the KTM flight. Most of the 200 of us on the flight to Kathmandu were Nepal natives returning home though they live abroad. I estimated 1 in 5 on the flight was Western, as the fall trekking season is full tilt right now. So WHO did I sit next to, of all the people? A Nepali musician. Of course! He’s living in Brisbane, playing music with an Australian fusion group who travels the world doing folk festivals. If you know me, you just laughed out loud… Because I wrote an entire 300 page book about Nepali musicians who walked with me up the Everest Highway 7 years ago. So, I happen to have dug the last copy I have of that book out (after letting it hide in a trunk for 4 years) and was planning to read it through on the flights, to cringe one more time, but also to remember all the things I might have forgotten. So there it was in my seat pocket when we began talking. He remembered hearing about that tour which AC led, and knew most of the musicians I call friend/family, and even toured with Mausami (“Oh, give her my regards, it’s been 10 years!”). So you can see that whether its luck or a small community, I run into “my people” everywhere. I pulled my book out and handed it to him. He gasped and smiled, seeing photos of Mausami for the first time in a long while. He read an entire chapter before he handed it back (he picked a really good chapter – the one where the guest musicians fly in for one concert) so I got to relay the parts of that story that aren’t in the book, and he, about those very musicians who flew in, and we spent the rest of the flight discussing cultural classes, castes, political intricacies, and progress (it’s the Salleri Concert chapter if you’re interested). It was a blast to get his perspective. What’s the weather like and what are you doing when you get there if you’re not with a trekking group? Depends on where you are – but it’s clear I packed for cooler weather than I will probably encounter. Ktm was near 80 yesterday and that’s cooler than it has been. RIght now, the open window blowing on my toes is about 55, so it’s a nice range. I do plan to get to Chitwan, the hot, southern end on the Ganges flood plain. It will be hotter there. And sticky. Kathmandu is pretty dry. I knew there was a possibility of getting to Tibet – I have been nudging all my contacts for 2 weeks about a China visa and planned to spend a few days seeing Lhasa – the seat of Tibet, and home to the largest Tibetan Buddhist (that’s what Sherpas are) monastery. But Tibet is closed for business. China shut it a couple weeks ago, and no one is getting in. In case you were wondering how Tibet is faring… Sigh. So my next choice is Annapurna (one of the 8000M peaks on the border of Nepal and Tibet), if I don’t get a really wild hair and go to Darjeeling, Kashmir or Pakistan (hey, it’s not that far away!) 🙂 What’s the road situation? You might have noticed the roads are pretty rough (if you haven’t, more footage to come). Part of it is just lack of infrastructure (Nepal maintains the “poorest country in Asia” label) and part of it is politics. It isn’t always clear who owns what, so taking ownership of maintaining a sidewalk or road is dodgy. At any time the government could decide to tear up the one in front of your home and claim an extra 10 feet for pipe placement or other development. Most cars and motorbikes get along fine, and people just deal. On the up side, they are dropping in sewer and water pipes in many parts of the city. What’s changed since you were here last? Everything and nothing. The earthquake (where over 8000 Nepali people died) was more than 2 years ago and I haven’t been here in that time, but most of the large temples, structures and some homes have been completely rebuilt since then. There was no government pay out or financial help for anyone who lost a house, but they rebuilt anyway. They are a resilient people. Boudhanath’s top section came completely off and they just finished restoration on that a few weeks ago. There is visible construction that might yield better water and sewer conditions, and they have a sort of garbage pick up service now. That’s new – family garbage burning is down quite a bit, but used to be the main method for removing trash. I think that’s helping the air quality. Yesterday a guy in an open-bed truck blew a whistle as he approached, and a member of each house ran out to throw their refuse in. It costs $4 per month for the service, and is mandatory in some areas where there is no acceptable space to burn. Last major change: they are accustomed to 14-hour rolling blackouts, and the city has thousands of gas-driven generators that run while power is out. But the blackouts are not universal anymore. Several people have said, yes, there are no more blackouts in Kathamandu, but Danu says his home is still without power regularly. He is also one of the private homes with a converter (turns other generator on automatically when the power goes down). So that may be contributing to better air as well. It seems not as thick. My eyes don’t burn from diesel as they have in previous visits. (Erika, WHY do you go there! – I know!) Finances? In asking what things cost, a prepared chicken (whole, defeathered, ready to cook) costs about $7 US, and locals can eat a lunch meal for about $4 US. Annual average income is up a bit, but still hangs around $600 US per year. It’s unclear to me if that takes all working-able folk and divides the total incomes, or if it takes an average among wage earners. The contrast would be stark, as often a household has 4-8 potential wage-earners, and only 2 have income. Ok, I’m getting deep and perhaps boring now… The bats have been chirping outside my window as I wrote this, and now the chickens are joining them… time to scoot. Back to photos. Ask more questions if you have them! Here’s what I ate for dinner last night: Fried chicken, lentil soup (yes, dal), curried tete carela (biter melon), green beans, mango pickle (hot, unsweet chutney), rice and white wine.

One of the benefits of flying SEA to KTM is there are no direct flights, so I get a nifty layover in a cool Asian city on the way! This time I flew Singapore Air which does a great job and has awesome flight attendant outfits – actually I am beginning to think that all non-US airlines kick ass and the US really has some major catching up to do. After the standard overnight flight offering of fuzzy socks, headset, toothbrush, blanket and pillow, lunch, dinner and water galore, I watched Wonder Woman and Logan back to back, and had red wine with dinner, then was offered a Singapore Air specialty – the Singapore Sling which had Cointreau, pineapple juice and a bunch of other yummy stuff, offered for free of course. (Get it together, America – your litigiousness is killing you! Ahem, sorry.) The Singapore Sling was red and tasted like fruit punch – meaning I could have put back 4 or 5 of them, but didn’t. The airport is a destination unto itself, so I made mental notes of all the things I can do when I get back –  shower, yoga, curl up in one of the 4 nap lounges, wifi &charge electronics, eat Krispy Kremes, eat a ton of more interesting food, stroll through any of the gardens – yes, gardens in the airport, before heading to the curb. Since my layover is all night time hours, I looked for night time photography possibilities. Singapore is a gorgeous city! Super clean and organized, with tons of creative architecture, active waterfront (complete with the Singapore Flyer – a giant waterfront Ferris wheel). I got Singapore stamps in my passport – yay – and approached the taxi stand. Man, they are orderly! I told the cab driver this was my first visit and he gave me a talking tour in very good English all the way through town to my destination. “The night markets are over there, this seaside road is all reclaimed from the ocean, and we buy dirt from Indonesia to create new space to build on…. and tomorrow is our India new year celebration, so the large Indian sections of the city (Tamil is an official Singapore language, along with English, Malay and Mandarin) will be celebrating tomorrow.” I’ll have to miss that due to the 8 am flight and all…. If you’re daunted by a trip to Asia, I suggest you start in Singapore. English is one of the 4 official languages, and all the signage and administration is English first, so it’s pretty easy to get around. Also, they are really accustomed to tourists, it’s safe, even at night, and the food is wide ranging and interesting (and all edible for travelers). I’ve done enough Chinatowns, I wanted something kind of unique, so I had the cabbie take me to Gardens by the Sea, It was 90 degrees with 90% humidity when I stepped off the plane at 6:30 pm. The sun was just about to set. It’s tropical and lush, meaning everything grows here so there are a lot of gardens and beautiful public walking spaces. Add the interesting architecture and well-manicured spaces (much like Hawaii), and you end up with a fusion of nature and city, all blended together happily. So this is what Gardens by the Bay was doing after sunset tonight. After the light show I sat smelling Singapore – it’s warm, damp and smelled green. The greenery gives off so much moisture it collected on my skin, covering me. I was wet just standing still. I sat down on a stone bench which was surprisingly hot, even in darkness, from the day’s sun. The rest of the grounds had organically shaped bamboo archways, wandering paths, crickets and frogs singing, a lizard or two and a bob-tailed cat in pursuit of them. Further away from the trees there were fewer people, but it still felt well lit and safe. Plumeria and jasmine trees stretched across walkways. Signs warned not to touch the otters, which apparently cross the walkways frequently. The scent of flowers and well perfumed ladies blew past my nose. Creatures I thought were birds flying around the giant trees are actually bats. Much larger than our bats, they scooped bugs from reflecting pools near the Children’s Garden, which was closed by the time I got there. All told I spend 3 hours wandering the gardens. I’m sure I missed most of the flowers because they were lost to my eyes in the darkness, but the cabbie who took me back to the airport insisted that I had picked the best single attraction in the city. That made me feel good. Ok, sleep is finally gripping me… or maybe it’s hunger. Time to go forage and curl up in the airport.

Traveling to Nepal shows me, in stark contrast, all the quirky things we do in our culture. I love how the contrast and realization cracks open my thoughts and breaks me out of my routine, rote way of life. We have everything here, yet we need more. It’s the nature of our culture – creative, productive, consumerist. Not necessarily in that order. If you’ve ever had a baby, you are aware of all the “stuff” you “need” in order to function in our society: a bassinet, a crib, a stroller, a car seat, a changing table, a wearable carrier and perhaps a baby backpack. You may need 3 car seats to get you through the first 2 years of your child’s life – for each car. You’ll need another until age 9 or so. And that just covers “places to put your baby,” not even anything he needs.The sheer volume of products our society has designed in order to make your life with a baby comfortable is pretty overwhelming. So when I tell you that most other cultures replace all those things above with one magic piece of cloth, you probably shake your head. A couple years ago, a small American organization decided to collect up a bunch of used baby carriers and take them over to Greece to give the Syrian refugees a way to carry their children, giving them an extra hand, so they could take more of their possessions with them. It’s a noble idea and I even had a friend go along to facilitate the process. She was in charge of teaching women how to use the specific carrier they received. There are lots of different kinds, from stretchy Mobi wraps to fully supported baby backpacks, there are foam-filled straps for adjusting, a plastic top cover for the sun, metal loops, waist straps and connectors. A myriad of solutions for carrying a child. But the thing that I wondered was, isn’t there a simpler solution? Is that really what they need? One of my Sherpa friend’s sisters-in-law wrote a book called I Taste Fire, Earth, Rain. It’s a lovely, feminine look at what it feels like to be assimilated into the Sherpa culture. She’s an American and married a Sherpa and the book details her every thought while going through the process. Throughout the book I connected with her descriptions of the cultural things she ran across. Here is an excerpt that illustrates that perfectly, and also my point above: From the edge of our mountain side terrace, I look down on the farm house and watch a woman work with the length of cloth. On her back, she carries an infant in a cloth slung over her shoulder; she squats to pick up vegetables that disappear into folds of fabric that cradle her child. I wish her a crib. The young woman reappears on the roof without the child; she gathers ears of corn from under the eaves and places them into the cloth that hangs as a bag. I wish her a basket. After a time, she spreads out the cloth in the farmyard; she stone-grinds the corn and gathers up her flour with the cloth. I wish her a funnel. She gives the cloth a shake; she wraps it around her hips and inserts her knife. I wish her a scabbard. The young woman disappears into the forest; she returns with a bundle of water and the cloth protecting her back I wish her a basket. She unpacks her bundle; she wipes her forehead with the cloth and and twines it turban-like around her head. I wish her a hat. She disappears below the terrace with the plastic jug; she reappears with the water jug balanced on the folded cloth on her head and swings her arms to her song. I wish for a magic cloth. The activities in the imagery of this paragraph are common everywhere in rural Nepal. I’ve stopped to watch women do exactly these things many times. If nothing else, it’s a reminder that necessity and ingenuity go hand in hand. And maybe also, that when you aren’t burdened with necessity, you end up with a lot of unnecessary stuff. I like reminders like that.

“Stoopid photographers!” I yelled to no one, because there was no one there to hear. In reviewing my adventures, I find the most fun, exhilarating, and rewarding ones have one thing in common: I find myself saying, often in a stupor from cold, or lack of sleep, or standing on a ledge, “why do people DO this?” or something similar. Today at about 6 am, on the east flank of Mt Baker I came to the realization that this crazy all night photo thing that I occasionally do – arriving at a location long after everyone has left for the day, staying up all night (well except dozing in a car for a couple hours in an almost empty parking lot) only to wake up freezing at 4 am (as planned), then hiking to a “perfect spot” that I picked in pure darkness to wait for sunrise – almost always elicits that response: Why do people do this? My hands were freezing from gripping a cold metal tripod (even with gloves) wearing five layers of clothing, and wondering why I didn’t bring a sixth. I’d marched over uneven terrain a mile in the sky, up steep slopes that dive into ravines, without a moon, only a headlamp, and managed not to trip on any of the eagerly awaiting rocks (or the accompanying dog) as we scoped out our potential sunrise spots. It is truly insane. But almost immediately upon entering the parking lot, we noticed pairs of little red blinking lights, suspended on three-legged mounts, attended by their owners. More folks than normal. The Aurora Borealis report was favorable for tonight, which is why we’re here right now… We were supposed to leave at 4 am and drive to location in time to hit Friday morning sunrise – last one before the flat grays of winter roll in for good – but upon hearing the Aurora report, we switched plans and left at 10 pm Thursday instead. To heck with plans when there’s a chance for “extra pretties.” To heck with sleep too. Not 50 yards down the trail we ran into a pair of crazy photographers that we knew! It’s pretty tight group of crazy photo folk. They had seen a little bit of the light show, but it faded out just as we set up our equipment, so we were left to stare at unobstructed starlit sky and jagged horizon. Most of the light seekers wandered home after seeing a less-than-stellar show. The parking lot was awash in high beams for several minutes, then it was dark and still and quiet. I hiked up ahead a hundred yards, over a couple hills and around a bend. I heard nothing, not even the trickle of a melting glacier. No breeze. In the deepest grays across an expansive valley I could see a lenticular cloud forming over Mt Baker. A sign that rain is coming. Silence, then an owl called to me several times. A pika answered back. It was 2:30 am. The Milky Way ran like a freight train of dust across the zenith, from horizon to horizon. I found my spot. We returned to the car and tanked up on power bars and water, then crashed for 2 hours. When the nip on my nose woke me, it was 5 am. The southeastern sky was beginning to glow and the rest of the dome had begun to thicken with clouds. Five layers, a tripod, daypack, headlamp, camera. Marching up the trail again. A drop of rain. Fire in the distance leading the sun. Glowing orange and slate blue, dotted by snowy white and fall color. I put on my rain coat. The huckleberries were beet red, the mountain ash was gold and orange. Hills were dancing with color against evergreen and mountain blue. I got to a point in the next hour of just watching, not shooting. I was content to sit and let the morning unfold. Sometimes you have to just see it with both eyes. Perched on the highest pile of boulders I could see both of the near majestic peaks, one to my left, one to my right, and all their more distant neighbors. A drop of rain. Both mountains with cloud-hats, unrevealed. A sound appeared like wind though evergreens, and grew. It was coming from the mountain with two hats. She began wringing out the moisture in the clouds and the sound I heard was a million drops falling on stone from three miles away. This is when I said it. Stoooopid photographers! And then laughed at myself. My partner was on the far ridge a quarter mile off, at his selected perch with his dog. Birds fluttered under bushes near my feet, picking off the last huckleberries. A raven called overhead. More drops; a rainbow. I packed up my camera and strolled slowly toward the car, knowing my partner would catch me before I got there. It’s 8 am on Friday, I am in a warm car on the way home, with a crazy friend, a dog, and a camera full of reasons why I go do these things.

This morning when I woke up, the first thought I had was of Hunchback of Notre Dame. The movie, by Disney. I thought of Esmerelda spinning and dancing in that red dress, Tom Hulse singing almost-opera over a hand-drawn cityscape of Paris, and those funny gargoyles that kept Quasimodo company in the bell tower. Then I thought up most of what you are about to read. Then I wondered exactly when that movie came out. In June of 1996 Disney’s Hunchback of Notre Dame was released in theaters. Four months earlier, I had been hired into my first real art job. By real, I mean, I was sitting at a computer instead of painting en plein air. Hey, I was four years out of my art degree, things looked differently then. Perhaps backwards from the way they do now. Then, I was a production artist for a small creative dev studio in Ann Arbor, which made Winnie the Pooh, Pocahontas and Lion King digital storybooks in no fewer than 22 languages. It was my job to creatively arrange Japanese, Hebrew and Greek words on the page, then make them highlight as the narrator spoke in that language. I will never forget the angst of installing a Hebrew operating system on my computer so we could set the type right to left digitally. They saw how easily we could crank the languages translations out, and they kept adding languages. By the end we joked, when they announced another set of languages, that we would be doing a Pocahontas storybook in Swahili. Six production artists including myself were packed into a windowless room, elbow to elbow at folding tables, creating translations word by word. Within a few months, I was moved into a lead artist role for what would be the largest project that studio created. We were tasked with releasing a digital storybook version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame movie, almost in parallel with the movie – releasing just 5 months after the theater release, with a 15 month production schedule, if I remember right (which means we were creating content without having seen the movie, because it hadn’t come out yet). We received dailies from Hollywood shoots, some storyboards, pencil sketches and voice clips, and I remember learning a ton about movie production from that process. That’s when I cut my chops on Photoshop and Director. Back then Google wasn’t a thing yet, and the internet was used primarily for FTP and email, from my corner, anyway. But we partnered with Disney and made “Edutainment” – storybooks on CD-ROM (remember those!) where you put a CD in your 486 and the narrator reads the story  while text highlights, and the story characters come to life and talk to each other, and sometimes you, when you click on them. It was pretty novel at the time. Disney’s leads (the co-producers and the art director) would fly out and visit us every week or two to check on the status, because there was so much we couldn’t send them over FTP. And we definitely got into our projects neck deep. We personified them, became them. Chris was the audio director on Hunchback, so we saw a lot of each other, though we weren’t a thing yet. But he shared a room with Leslie, who would become our Maid of Honor a couple years later. It was after hours when the studio was most interesting. The execs had mostly gone home, and the team, actually the whole staff, operated much like a college frat – no, not Animal House, just close, where we’d bust ass all day long, into the evening, in lock step, doing what needed done, then, as if we hadn’t spent all day together, we’d go out in the evenings. The art team was closer. After hours, from Todd’s office, the soundtrack of Hunchback would grow and grow until half the studio was dancing from cube to cube, operatically singing, gesturing right along with Tom Hulse, even on the high notes. There were stories about the Disney artists drawing Demi Moore while she was rehearsing for her next movie (which was Striptease – yeah, you’ll never see Hunchback the same way after you know that little tidbit). There were audio clips of Jason Alexander and Tim Hulse delivering their lines, and some pretty funny warm up audio that came along with recorded scripts, that Chris and the audio department received. We were working. All the time. Then we’d occasionally escape after dusk and gather on the patio at the best extension of college barlife I ever knew in Ann Arbor, Dominicks. Over sangria we’d hash out the next screen requirements, and talk shit about the execs. Then do it again tomorrow. That was summer of ’96 and it was beautiful. Our art team made it an event to go see Hunchback when it released, and then several times following. It was R&D, of course. I was making art for Disney and I couldn’t have imagined that summer better if I had created it myself. Our art room often began with coffee and morning chats; we were close enough that we’d spin our chairs away from our “desks” and we’d be almost knee to knee, and since we spent the whole day back to back, we often began in a little coffee circle, while checking the progress on last night’s Bryce landscape rendering over our shoulder (we’d set them up after quitting time and let them render all night long). The beauty was interrupted one morning in July when the art manager stepped into the doorway and asked me to come to his office. Still now, I remember the only thought going through my mind was, “Really, too good to last?” Really?” Ten minutes later, the last question he asked me was, “Do you want to gather your things now, or later?” I answered now, which I thought would give my roommates fair warning that something was wrong. Silently I sat at my computer, choked up, copying down my Bryce landscapes and a couple personal things, trying desperately to adhere to, “don’t say anything, just gather your things.” The manager stood in the doorway and everyone who noticed my demeanor began asking what was up. “I don’t work here anymore,” were the only words I could croak before tears filled my eyes too much to see my screen. They sucked the air out of the room, then I was escorted out the door. That’s when I was given the best compliment I have received in my life, ever. My art director, Todd had followed me out the door, having heard enough to know what was going on – they were firing his staff out from under him during this largest project! We had been working nights and weekends to get to deadline, and they were taking staff away! He stopped me and said, “There are leaders and there are followers, and Erika, you are definitely not a follower. I can’t finish this project without you. We’ll get you back here.” He hugged me and I got to my car sobbing. Right next to me, the lead developer, full tears running down her face, had just reached her car as well. We exchanged red-faced, defeated looks, then I asked her if she wanted to go have coffee, and we cried together all the way to wherever we ended up. All the artists in the art room were let go that day, except one. A lot of others, too. They gutted the studio staff. We all connected that evening at Dominicks, I think, shaking our heads in disbelief, crushed that such a beautiful thing had ended. I had a thought-a-day calendar that I had thrown in my bag upon leaving. I have kept that day’s page ever since. It said, “You do too much. Go and do nothing for a while.” For years every time I saw that, I would cry. Less than three weeks later, I was at a fledgling website design company (yes, I was a web developer in 1996!) and working on the design for this thing called a “search engine” for mechanical and industrial companies (much like Angie’s List today). I remember loathing walking up the creaky stairs in a 150-year old farmhouse in Ypsilanti, that had been converted into this web startup. I was sitting at the window, trying to understand how character recognition software and this search engine might work together, hating every moment of this non-creative job, when my phone rang. Todd was on the other end, asking me back. I walked out that day, and the next, I was at my old desk. We shipped Hunchback and celebrated. I was hired and fired three times by that creative studio. They couldn’t afford to keep the talent they needed. The last time they fired me, I had been the art director of a nine month project that we squeezed into five months. The project was Disney’s Hercules. Fitting. It was like that, it was good, hard work. We got to know the characters like family, and I remember that as the moment I became really fond of James Woods for his audio warm ups. He would scat and jive to get into character before recording, except they sent us the whole tapes. I just loved it! But it was that sort of effort; Herculean. Leslie was the audio director on that one, Aaron was the most amazing producer. We build a digital ink and paint system while crunching this hard, and I loved the moment Joslyn took the reigns on that and saved me from drowning. I flew to Toronto and back one day to hire the art team we outsourced some animation to. It was all still hand drawn, 2D art. Rick just had a tally list of beers on my white board. He was the lead programmer and every Herculean effort he achieved on my behalf, he earned another Dominicks beer from me. I regularly worked 80 hour weeks, and clocked 110 two weeks in a row in order to ship it in time to match the date the movie released in theaters. Not a month after Hercules shipped, they walked me out for the last time. This morning when I woke up, the first thought I had was of Hunchback of Notre Dame. The movie, by Disney. Then I thought up most of what you just read. Then I wondered exactly when that movie came out. Chris and I talked about that project and fumbled over the dates. Did it ship in 1997? No. It was the vacation after shipping Hunchback, our second date – a week at Club Med Cancun, that Chris and I mark it by. That was December 1996 (and another story entirely). But the movie came out June 21, 1996. Exactly 21 years ago today. Google told me.

  Growing up in the Upper Midwest, my art experiences included studying Native American art and craft work of the Sioux Nation tribes. As the child of an art major, I didn’t realize or appreciate the depth of art culture that was shown to me then. But I must have internalized it, because I took an art major as well, making three generations in a row who studied art in college and received a BA in art. Count four in a row, if you include my maternal grandmother’s father, who was a stunning nature photographer in the days of Ansel Adams and Teddy Roosevelt. I grew up doing bead work on leather bracelets, braiding, weaving and leatherwork, using Dakota art as inspiration. What I didn’t realize then was how intertwined culture is with art. But the way culture impresses upon us necessarily affects the way we see the world. Since then I have traveled to other cultures, been enamored of their art, and through those experiences, become more aware of my own culture’s art. One of my endeavors is to more deeply explore and understand how culture and art work together, and how they can bring people of different cultures together as well.

Danu is my regular weekend hiking buddy. He’s been in the US for twenty years, but before that he was a mountain guide all over the Himalayas and has guided summits of Everest. As you might imagine, he has a thousand stories. He’s been back in Nepal for the last two months, and I have missed hiking with him, so I was happy to meet up this morning for our first hike of the new year. But that’s the end of the story… In October Danu asked me to help him with some paperwork. He had spent two years working with a lawyer to complete immigration paperwork for his son, who is now 15, living in Nepal and raised by Danu’s sister. He wanted nothing more from me than to help him navigate the myriad of government forms to complete the third and final component of the family visa and immigration process. If you know me well, you know how much I “love” this sort of bureaucracy and red tape. But I willingly took it on. Actually, I was honored that he asked me. I sat down with him in October, filled with pride to be asked to help in this way. We worked together over three or four meetings at a library, after Danu’s work days finished, poring over reams of paper, and hammering through online forms. You pay the fees, send the ridiculous pile of docs, hoping you did it right, then you wait. During our work sessions, I often asked if he was angry at the lawyer for charging triple her quoted cost, and then leaving him without a submitted application after all that time. I was certainly mad at her and the mess she left. “I just want it to be done, sis. I don’t feel angry at anyone.” That’s Danu. In late December he sent me an excited note that the paperwork was received and accepted, and it was time to schedule an interview for his son at the embassy in Kathmandu. He immediately booked plane tickets, got medical requirements in order, scheduled the interview and flew to Nepal. The interview was scheduled for late January. Then Trump did his border/immigration bullshit. The interview date passed silently but the next day, Danu sent me a text saying his son had passed the interview, including the date they would be coming back. I remember how tempered my reaction was, knowing that this was no longer the hard part. I replied optimistically to his message, told him about the immigration ban, which had only happened a day or two before, told him to be patient (yes me, telling a Buddhist to be patient – ha!) and then I held my breath for almost two weeks. Last weekend at this time they arrived in Seattle after 22 hours of flights, and went through the standard immigration questioning by officers. I’ll not go into the details of what I heard this morning, but suffice it to say, traversing our borders is a terrifying experience at this moment. After watching others attempt to pass through, Danu and his son stood in front of the officer, who opened the sealed envelope and looked over the contents. He asked a couple questions of Danu, then stamped the paperwork, handed it back and said, “Welcome to America.” I still can’t even type those words without tearing up. I gasped when Danu told me this today. Then I asked if he cried. “In my heart I did, sis.” His son starts school (as a high school freshman) on Monday.

One of the things I love about my travels to Asia, is that they remind me of how many little bits of knowledge and learnings have been packed inside my head over the past 40 years. For instance, color association: we associate red with hot and blue with cold, and black is evil and unknown, white is good and pure. In Bali, their religious colors are swapped – black is good and white is death, which for most of us is counter intuitive. Add to it red, which is the creator’s color (their creator god, Brahma is denoted with red at temples). We would most likely associate a red mask with evil or devils, but they see the crazy red mask in their dances as a good and welcome symbol. The one that has taught me the most about myself is the use of the swastika. The Sanskrit word “svastika” means “well being” or “good fortune” and is still widely used in Buddhist and Hindu holy decoration. For me, it was a lovely bit of introspection to unwind from the connotations that I, as a Westerner, held of this symbol. Symbols by definition mean something and until I went to a Buddhist country, a swastika always denoted Nazi Germany, evil, exclusion, horrible thoughts, etc. I remember my thought process exactly, when I sat in a cold common room at 15,000 feet, and first noticed with shock, then contemplated a beautiful brass and copper urn in the corner. It had dabs of butter pressed on the cover where it met the lip of the urn, and I got up and studied it before asking the meaning of the butter and then the urn itself. And then I asked about the decoration, a swastika that doubled back on itself, in brass, then continued into the rest of the ornate design overlay. It is part of the eternal path in Tibetan Buddhism. Like the Christian labyrinth, a knot that doubles on itself and continues onward. Designwork and symbols on the gate at Tengboche Monastery in Tengboche Nepal I remember that it was easier than I thought it would be to unwind my negative ties from that symbol, and understand it for the meaning it had for Tibetan Buddhists. And it is pervasive in Bali, too. There is a Hotel Swastika in the tourist district, though I am not sure it does very well. Then I thought of how the locals see that hotel, and if they wonder why it isn’t a polished, glowing successful place. But that’s not fair. That’s imposing outside connotations on a different and separate use of a symbol. Our own culture can be so ingrained that it becomes invisible. Visiting other cultures, particularly one with stark differences in symbolism, like the friendly red gods of Hinduism, remind us what we have assimilated through our own upbringing. I remember learning that red was hot, danger, stop. I’ve done a lot of design study, particularly those of Celtic knotwork and repeating designs. The Book of Kells held my attention through college for its illuminated lettering. I insisted on learning those knotwork constructions in triangle, circle and square, and how to create my own using the same patterning and logic. One of them is much like the swastika – turning back on itself to catch another shape before looping in the opposite direction. Celtic symbol construction methods from a book I’ve had 20 years: Celtic Art, the Methods of Construction, by George Bain It can mean whatever you want it to. It’s a symbol. And since I realized that a swastika has pleasant, positive meaning in Asia, when I see it, it’s my job not to read into it with my own past learning, but to unhinge from it and move forward in seeing something differently than I always did before. That’s what I love about travel. If your eyes are open, you learn a lot about the place. If all of you is open, you learn a lot about yourself, too.

We were supposed to backpack to The Enchantment Lakes area, having jumped through all the hoops to secure a set of coveted passes for the restricted, fragile, high alpine region. This was the weekend we wanted because the change of season brings a very unique sort of fall color – the larch. Most normal people don’t know what larches are. My mother-in-law thought it was a variety of slug, for instance. But Pacific Northwest nature photographers get a little crazy about the subject. It’s actually a variety of deciduous conifer: a pine tree that loses its needles in a golden flush.  The variety that lives here, in the Pacific Northwest, resides only above 5000 feet, so in October, these golden beauties decorate mountainsides like The Queen’s necklace, often just after they receive an early dusting of snow. This is what we were after. This is why we chased those permits, planned this weekend, watched the weather, and panicked when, after a week of mostly sunshine, a strong Alaskan storm pushed into the area on Thursday and Friday. There are only a couple of people I trust to drag me into the wilds when weather threatens. Orion is one of them, as he has a knack for triangulating multiple weather reports, and out-guessing most weathermen. Many times has he called the weather correctly when the weathermen were wrong. It’s easy to get mountain weather wrong, but at the very least, I trusted he could select the best locations to get to larches and avoid the worst weather. First, our Enchantment location became sketchy, then we ruled it out, as the last section of trail is steep enough to collect snow at a moment’s notice. In an alpine storm, nine miles of rough trails with 45 pounds of winter gear, tent, food, clothes, on your back quickly becomes the last choice. The final mile is a lot of scrambling, questionable even when it’s just wet. Some of you think I am hard core, but I’m not crazy. Here we are staring at first snows of the season.  So after much deliberation and weather watching, we scrapped the idea and opted for a campground on Highway 20, along the northern route of the Cascade Loop instead. The goal was to day hike each day and get up to larches that way rather than backpack. It allowed for quick exit, should the weather turn really nasty. Problem is, when we left the Seattle area it was lightly overcast and dry. We were optimistic and hopeful. Ninety minutes later, the windshield wipers went on. Not long after, as we gained altitude, and approached our camp spot, it was a full-on down pour. With views obscured due to low clouds and rain, we decided we could sit in an idling car at the campground, or drive the car through the picturesque highway and see some of the waterfalls we passed on the way in. The dramatic slopes of this area make waterfalls extremely dynamic. The ones that aren’t fed by snow often run dry within a day of rain. This day, they were gushing. So, with extra towels and our cameras tucked in our raincoats, off we went to shoot in the rain. What else do you do? Here’s what we saw along that bit of road. These are usually a trickle or non existent in the summer. I think we really take for granted the engineering marvel that is mountain roads. This is the stance: get your settings down, then shoot, dry camera, tuck and repeat. We had a little fun, too. We weren’t even the only crazy people out there! Then we turned and went back past our campground and ventured deeper into the mountains. Blue Lake was our hike slated for this Saturday, whose trailhead is between Rainy Pass (4700 feet) and Washington Pass (5470 feet).  Just before we got there, a 4X4 pickup with a camper was coming the other direction. He had just pulled off at an overlook on his side of the road. Just before we passed, the driver’s door opened and the driver fell all the way to the pavement, head first. Passed out on the freezing, wet road. The two of us not driving said in unison, “We should turn around!” By the time we pulled up behind him, he was conscious and standing back up. As we ran over to him to assess the situation, I said his license plate out loud, and noted it was a Georgia plate. He was tall, thin and dressed in shorts and sandals. There was snow gathered along the shoulder of the road. He said he’d had a panic attack. We began asking questions, stalling him from returning to his vehicle to continue down the road, which he looked intent to do. Are you all right? What happened? Do you have more clothes? Are you from Georgia? “My son is on the PCT. I am supposed to meet him at Rainy Gap.” His voice was quivering, distraught. He was breathing hard. The Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) runs along the spine of the westernmost mountain ranges of the US, from the Mexican border to Canada. It’s 2600 miles of wild mountain footpath that is probably all too popular since it made the Silver Screen with Reece Witherspoon a couple years ago. “I…I dropped him in Stehekin this morning, and I’m supposed to meet him at Rainy Pass. Do you know where that is? And this storm, this storm…. It’s eighteen miles on that trail… I had a panic attack. I have to find him! Do you know where Rainy Pass is?” We assured him it was just a few minutes down the road, in the direction he was headed. “Could you lead me?” Are you okay, yes, we can lead you, but you must go slowly, carefully. He nodded, called us angels several times, and in about a mile we reached the parking lot where he meant to be. He hopped out of his truck and almost hugged the yellow PCT signpost, “Yes, this is the sign! I am supposed to be right here!…You are angels, thank you all for your kindness.” He was relieved but still frantic, gasping for breath. I asked again if he could get in warmer clothes, if he was okay. “Darlin’ I had an attack, I am hot, I don’t need more clothes just now…” 35 degree rain continued to fall. He looked up at the sky, over at the trail and stood motionless except his heavy breathing. Then he broke down in tears, covered his face with his hands and doubled over, exasperated, exhausted, frightened. This is where you need to know that the vast majority of the North Cascades has no cell service. None, not even one bar. I tried my phone anyway. No dice. We’re hell and gone from anywhere. Nearest tiny mountain town is 40 minutes east (through Washington Pass) or 80 minutes west. Neither of them have cell reception either. The only other car in the parking lot was leaving, unaware of the situation. I ran over and flagged them down, asking to see if they had service. Nope. The last forest ranger truck we’d seen was about 50 miles down the road, back past our campground. I considered walking down the PCT a mile or so, but two lost people is no better than one. We waited. The rain continued. The man got in his truck and stayed there. We decided after a few minutes that we could go. It was about 3 pm. Even an optimistic two miles per hour in this weather, with elevation gain, rough trail, (this section of the PCT is one of the more challenging in terms of elevation and weather), he might wait a while.  But he had clothes, heat and a vehicle. There wasn’t much more we could do. So we continued on to Blue Lake Trailhead, just a mile up the road. We got out, sopping wet, and stood in the slushy snow of the parking lot for a moment before setting feet on the trail we intended. I guess we figured, heck, we’re here, let’s hike for a moment and see how it feels. Just then a couple dressed like they’d been through a Nor’easter came off the trail. They were pink with chill and shimmering, dripping across every inch. I asked how long they’d been out. About two hours. I couldn’t imagine this much wet for two more hours, but we set feet on the trail. We walked for 6 minutes then turned around, content to have tried it. Remember what that mountain looked like on Saturday… you’ll need it in a minute… Blue Lake Trail On the way back to our campground, we passed the Rainy Pass parking lot and the man and his truck were still there. Once back at camp, we made an early dinner and I managed a campfire which roared for about an hour until the rain won. But not before we had roasted marshmallows and relived the moments of the day. We played cards in the car for an hour before giving up the rest of the evening. We crashed in the cars, since the tent pads looked like this. Constant drumming on the roof drowned out the sound of the swelling, rushing river only a few feet away. The next morning I woke to silence. Sweet silence inside my truck. No rain. I could almost hear the river, and no other sounds. The tent pads had dried. So we made our way back up to the pass and hiked. This is what we saw. The morning cleared slowly, mist hanging among the valleys and trees. Once on the hike, we saw them! In the distance, lighting up granite faces with gold. …snow all along the trail… Remember that mountain from yesterday… tallest one, right of center (above). What a difference one day can make. Blue Lake, elevation 6250 feet. Washington Pass (see highway 20 below center, next to tree)

Recovered from my ancient blog: [First entry: Thursday, July 24, 2008] A really amazing thing happened to me yesterday. While exiting the freeway (520) at 4:00 PM I noticed a large hawk sitting on the side of the exit ramp. I didn’t figure out what it was until I had whipped past, but kept it in mind and went on my way to pick up my oldest from school. On the way back, I told the kids what I had seen and asked if they wanted to go see if it was still there. I expected that it had just caught a vole or mouse and was about to fly up to a perch to have a snack, but after a three-exit, rush hour-turn around, so I could exit up the same ramp, it was still there! I pulled out of traffic, ahead of the bird and pulled off my sweatshirt. I walked toward it and noticed that it looked completely intact, no broken wing or injury, but its eyes were closed. It had dark brown stripes across its back, a dark head, golden ivory neck and chest, and yellow feet with dark, sharp talons. My kids looked out the back window of the car. I slowly slid the sweatshirt over its back and anticipated it flying off. When it didn’t, I slipped the sweatshirt over it’s head, wings and talons and scooped it up under my left arm, tail hanging out behind my left elbow. It flapped only briefly, then rested, almost contentedly under the weight of my arm. I walked back to the truck and exposed its head to let the kids see. They were completely enthralled. We were rescuing a hawk! It was no small hawk either. About the size of a house cat with yellow eyes almost as big. I called a friend who gave me the location of an avian recovery center right in my neighborhood (go figure) and we ended up there after a bit of trial and traffic, 90 minutes later. The bird was under my left arm, in a sweatshirt, on the freeway, through town all that time, and remained calm, fluttering only occasionally to let me know it was still alive. The clinic graciously took it in and sent it up to no other than my favorite wildlife clinic. They are the ones who identified that jawbone I found last October. So the bird made yet another car ride up to the specialty clinic and rehab center last night. I called this morning to see if they knew how it was doing. “The one found on 520 and 148th?” “Yes, how is it doing?” “She’s a yearling female Harlan’s Redtail Hawk, and she is fat and sassy and just has a little swelling around one eye. We cleaned out her crop for something nasty she ate, so we’ll have to re-hydrate her and over the next few days test her wings to see that she is releasable, but it looks good so far.” My heart soared. I had never done this before! How wonderful. Then it got better. “Do you want to release her yourself, if she is releasable?” “What? Yes!… What is your procedure for that? Yes!” She spelled out the days and requirements, collected my contact info and gave me a case number. Sometime next week, I will be driving to Arlington to collect her, name her and set her free, myself, in Marymoor Park. Anyone who wants to accompany me is welcome. [Next entry: Friday July 25, 2008] I talked to the clinic again today and she continues to improve. They said in nine years, they have only seen one other Harlan’s come in. They are a pretty rare sub species of red tail. The gal I talked to has completely taken this bird under her wing (pun intended) and is almost as excited about her as I am. “Oh, the Harlan’s… that’s MY baby!” Today she will get her first food since she arrived and more hydration. Tomorrow she may be able to fly their grounds to test her physical strength. But they are really careful not to release a possibly-still-damaged bird back out. So it will be Thursday or Friday next week, at the earliest that this little saga gets its happy ending. [Next entry: Tuesday July 29, 2008] Epiphany That’s the hawk’s name! I am having a series of epiphanies recently, so it must be the hawk’s fault, right? So her name is Epiphany. Well, it is if everything goes well. I called again yesterday and everyone knows “the Harlan’s” that is at the recovery center. They said she took a step or two backwards and isn’t eating well. So they have to re-hydrate and do another set of tests on her to make sure she is okay internally. I guess birds are “really good at acting perfectly fine until they drop dead,” according to one of the gals there. So I didn’t call today because I am not a pest… I am not a pest… I am not a pest… but it sounds like it may be next week before she is ready to release, and it just so happens that we are leaving for Utah next week. So, yet another bit of waiting, wondering, chomping at the bit (or pulling on the tethers). More soon. [Next entry: August 8, 2008] Free Bird (sing the song all day…) But what this is really about is Epiphany… my hawk. Last Monday (Aug 4) I got to go retrieve her and set her free. It was a great experience. The hour long drive up to get her was, well, long and full of anticipation. The lady, Sue, had to go catch her from the flying grounds that she was in, and put her in a pet carrier that I supplied. The kids and I looked around the “recovering birds display” while we waited. There were bald eagles, all sorts of owls, hawks and falcons, most of whom were beyond total repair and thus, permanent “exhibits” of the center. My favorite was the snowy owl. She was huge and spunky, with a bit of attitude. She’d hiss at us every time we moved. Once back, and on location at the park, this is what unfolded… Peeking in Looking out Helping out (She didn’t need help, I just really wanted to hold her for a second, again…) First Wingbeat of Freedom And in a second… She was gone… Full Wingspread (notice how tiny Erik is here!!) And up to her first perch Where she sat for several minutes to catch her breath. There was already a pair of resident Coopers hawks, who immediately pestered her (though they were much smaller). So once she got her bearings and a bit of a breath… she said “thank you.” This is her looking right at ME, and I’m quite sure she opened her mouth to say it … Freedom Again

September, that lovely season of crisp breezes, falling leaves and back to school. This year has been different. I have a high school freshman for the first time since I was one. This week was curriculum night, where the parents go through an abbreviated version of their child’s schedule, meet the teachers, get an overview of the class material, ask questions. His world is very different from the one I grew up in. For instance, my high school was almost 400 students when I entered; he has more than 400 in his entering class. Even in 9th grade, most faces I passed in the halls were familiar, many said hello as I passed. His experience feels a bit like my freshman college year, actually – awash in a sea of unknown faces, wrestling through crowds to get to a classroom and take lecture notes. It’s daunting for someone with my experience, and down right terrifying if you think about it too much. But there are bright lights. Curriculum night, for example. I’m pretty sure we never had that, and if we did, my parents didn’t go. Clubs galore. I suppose when your school community is pushing 1700, there are a lot of interests. Many of the clubs I’ve never heard of, many others are brazen big brothers of what I knew. Our cheerleaders, for instance, also ran pep club (what there was of one) and were also in charge of concessions at games. The gymnastics team worked out in the wrestling room (stinky!) often right after the wrestlers had been in there. There were 2 entrances on our building. This one has 37… or something ridiculous. But the feelings are the same. It immediately sent me back to those same old high school feelings and whirling through nostalgia for about 3 days after that curriculum night. I’ve been thinking about old classmates and team mates, many of  whom I’ve since reconnected with on Facebook. Some who are now gone. I remembered through my teachers and coaches, ever grateful for the experiences they imparted to me. Homecoming revelry, team cheers, classic novels and final papers. That damn wallflower story the headmaster told every year…. And through the haze of nostalgia, as I sat in my son’s seat, his teachers impressed me. The curriculum too. He’s almost done with the JV tennis season already. Homework doesn’t seem as hard as last year. He’s confident… maybe more so than I am (is this where the, “gees, Mom” starts?). I think he’s going to do all right.

I have a story about this song. I have stories about lots of songs, because that’s the nature of music. At least for me. It brings memories, ideas, feelings and so much more. This one came to mind today when Mingma posted the newly completed video on his Facebook page. He is one of the musicians I traveled with on my first trip to Nepal. He is so at home with a guitar. Often, during the month we traveled together, I would find him strumming in a corner, on a patio, in a common room of lodges along our way. Even when it was 40 degrees inside, his fingers worked the strings. I remember when he first explained the words of this song: He stopped strumming long enough to say humbly, “This is a song about the youth today. About how it is our turn to build and take the next step and make the world better… a beautiful place,” Then he crooned heartfelt words to gently plucking fingers. That night on stage he played it again and the audience fell silent listening to the poignant words. The song wasn’t yet recorded when we toured in 2011, but the message was ready to be shared. It could very easily have been a rally and fight song. If it was American, that’s probably what it would have been. But Nepalis are devoutly communal; this song is about taking care of the less fortunate. About being strong and courageous enough, confident enough in yourself to reach out and do that. Today his words that accompany the post of this video say: Namaste everyone… from this song and video by Cvds Nepal, children and disabled society is getting supporting helping hands day by day. Jaya (raising up) humanity and yes, you all are a living god. The last line is precious: you are all (each) a living god. It probably doesn’t even matter that you (or I) understand the lyrics as they’re sung. The visual is strong enough. Enjoy.

Went on a hike to see pretty things and get a little exercise. But it was a photographer’s hike, which means doing it during hours that don’t make sense to most people. And the people it does make sense to are either mountain climbers or, well…. How Photographers Hike You take off mid-day, drive 3 hours, fight for a parking place, or wait for people to leave. Hike 3 hours, donning and removing your spikey feet several times, take some photos, and wait for the day hikers with reasonable judgement to leave the mountains. Then you take some photos, eat a leisurely dinner at your chosen post, watching the main feature change colors as people continue to clear out. Shoot, shoot, shoot, with your camera. Wait for the last few unprepared idiots to go… “Dude, with this gallon water jug, I’m 220, cool man!”… yes, you’re also shirtless, sunburned, road-rashy and nearly hypothermic from sliding down that snowfield on your face. Probably should drink the water and high-tail it off this hill, mmmmmkay? “Heh, ok…I’m…I’m not crazy!” Deep breath… set up tripod. More photos, watch the sun drop and the colors turn golden, still shooting until color leaves the sky. Pack up gear, hike out after dark with head lamps, traversing a couple sketchy snowfields in the dark, and return to a nearly empty parking lot just before the moon rises (it was red). Shoot a couple photos of the Milky Way, because you can see it up here like a ribbon across the sky. Get a little tired of being cold and tired (note to yourself that it’s still “early in the season” on July 23, and coolish, like 40 degrees). Pat your hiking partner graciously for picking a picture perfect weather day. Drive 3 hours home. Hit bed at 2:30 am. Then when you look at the photos the next day, realize why you do stuff like that, and vow not to wait so long until you do it again! The Photos Chain up area ahead. And low clouds that blew over us for an hour, making us wonder if we’d see the main event at all this trip. But it did clear and that behemoth was right in our face. No telephoto lens needed, captain. Mid-day, you shoot and wander. Fremont Fire Lookout on the right, Glacier Peak on the left (below). Indian paintbrushes and Little Tahoma in the shadow of Tahoma (Rainier). Pretty things yonder. Awwww, critters!! Chipmunk, meadowlark, ptarmigan and her baby! We also saw a packrat – a real one! Also known as a bushy-tailed woodrat, we caught him in our headlamps long after dark. They look just like rats, but with fluff at the end of their tails (and no sewage behind their ears). Main Event and side show… Final moments and afterglow. Stars in the parking lot. Milky Way (above), moon-lit Rainier (below).  

Have you ever visited a place for the first time and felt immediately as though it is your home away from home? Today, for the second time I visited Sidhehaven, and that’s how it feels. An hour and a half from Seattle there is a modest two-and-a-half acre parcel with a small house on it. It’s far enough away from the city that there’s room to breathe. It might look like a hobby farm, or relaxed retiree oasis, but it’s more than that. What happens there and what’s been added to the property, is what makes it really special. This is a home and a haven for Sherry Kirk, who also uses it as her artist’s studio. The first time I went to visit, I went to play with clay in an active potter’s studio. I went to put my hands on a potters wheel and remember the feeling after more than 15 years. She led me across the wooden porch, through a screen door, to her studio. The smell of clay dust, wet metal, glazes, and moist sponges is still familiar and beautiful to my nose. It transported me to my college studio, where I spent hours every day perfecting my own art so many years ago. It also took me back to that time in my life when art came first. As I spun clay, Sherry spun stories of her past. I heard about her military history. We have a mutual friend who lives in Chicago. One day we both appeared side by side on Facebook, and the friend suggested we connect, so we did. They were in the military together in Turkey and Iraq and Afghanistan. Sherry told of helicopter runs over borders; some as a recon, some as unsanctioned “supply runs” for a group of her buddies on one side or the other of a border she was or wasn’t supposed to be on. “Yeah, I got an a little bit of trouble for that one,” she says with a smile and a giggle. My original thought was that she was standard military personnel, now retired and relaxing on her rural parcel not far from the military base she once worked at. “I’m a much different person now than I was in the Army.” And the person she has become is what decorates Sidehaven. Sherry and I spent hours trading stories and going back-and-forth the first time I visited. She told me about the seeds she received from one community member and the plants she traded with another, and dinner in trade for massage, or tools. The barter system works well here. She gets art supplies as donations from other members of the community because everyone knows she’s good at passing things around to other people who need them. “We just received a welding setup and I am excited to get that up and running.” Once I sat at the wheel, it was just like riding a bike. Well, after a few tries it was. Muscle memory is a beautiful thing. But while my hands were immersed in earth-red clay, I spent as much time studying the studio as I did making pots. Wildly creative drawings and paintings mingle with army plaques and decorations along the walls of her studio. A T-rex in chalk, a Master Sergeant award, a fairy holding a machine gun, a scantily clad vixen with a whip and sergeant stripes tattooed on her arm. Most are gifts from people in her community. On the floor, in the center of the studio begins a poem or a manifesto; words to consider if you live here, work here or visit. The words spiral out in a circle, decorating the floor as they reveal the poem’s message. “None of this was here when I bought it, but when I retired from the military, I wanted a place where I could enjoy doing pottery,” she says. So she converted the master bedroom into a pottery studio, two years ago, and that became the heart of Sidhehaven, pronounced “she haven”. The Sidhe are a group of elves and dwarves who live underground in Irish mythology, she explains. “So that’s where I got the name, but it’s a play on words as well. It’s a haven for me, for the community.” Her pottery is often adorned with Celtic knot work and designs reminiscent of Gaelic imagery, and with a decidedly Hippie flair. She has an Etsy store that keeps her business hopping; she’s often backed up on orders for her latest designs of coffee mugs, pitchers, and other functional pieces. She has also put in a stone labyrinth and herb garden, food garden, hot tub, performance stage, two fire pits, flower beds, and a yurt, where interns or guests often stay. The renewable, reusable and environmentally friendly live here. There’s a composting toilet surrounded and secluded by tall bamboo which feed on the wastewater that the toilet produces. There are chickens and ducks roaming the property between the gardens, and a very affectionate cat. But at the heart of Sidhehaven are Sherry’s stories. Today I am here again, and brought my children this time, to let them experience the art I love so much. They’re working on the potter’s wheel. As she walks us through her home and then through the gardens, there are stories of each place, each room, each stone. She tells of when she was in the military, of what she wanted when she was done, why there’s no carpet on the floor, and why there’s money from around the world decoupaged onto her dining table. The deck is covered in beautiful hanging things that spin in the wind and make delightful sounds, and a cat stretched out in the sun, under them. There are ceramic pots and bowls filled with shells and sea glass, and plants trailing down small steps. It’s eclectic and shiny and unique. It’s every bit Sherry’s heart and vision, brought to life in a place, a haven. She said she tried to make it an intentional community living space once, but was surprised when the people who were most excited about the idea, didn’t understand that it involved doing some of the work in order to make it function. She explains some steps of converting a regular house into a haven. “We couldn’t afford real flooring, but we couldn’t leave it bare, and I hate carpet. So we put outdoor paint on the subfloor, then painted the stone design. It was supposed to have lacquer on top, but we didn’t get that far.” In the main room hangs a large batik of a graceful, bountiful tree with Gaelic knot work designs around it. “That’s the design for Sidhehaven,” she says. It’s repeated perfectly in the tattoo on her right arm, and in some of her pottery pieces. I run my fingers over the molds and pieces she has in production, enjoying her delicate craft work in the red earthenware. “I never want to spend my time just to make 20 pieces all exactly the same.” She’s interested in the unique, the individual, each piece with its own personality. And that’s what her customers get. Right now she’s working on a steam punk series of coffee cups. She shapes and places each gear on cups in preparation for tomorrow’s bisque fire. We’ll go back soon to see the bisqued pieces that the kids made when they were there today. I wonder what she’ll be working on then.

I found and an elm seed on the ground this morning. What I did immediately after that was smiled. Then after I realized the smile on my face, I picked it up and spun in a circle twice, looking for the source.  There were giant trees everywhere, in full green – fir and sequoia, maple and alder. But I know this seed. This seed is something I’ve known since I was tiny. We had an elm tree in our backyard where I grew up. It was the biggest tree in the neighborhood. We couldn’t even try to climb it because it was so big around. Every spring it would cover our postage stamp lawn in pale lime-colored circles the size of a dime. We’d throw the piles up like fresh snow after a storm. They’d flutter and float willingly back to the ground. Then when I was about eleven, Dutch Elm Disease ripped through the neighborhood and all of the big elms came down. They were spray painted with orange, then day by day the cutting crews came through and thinned the neighborhood block by block. The shade trees all but disappeared. A volunteer mulberry grew in it’s place; nothing anyone planted. We picked the sweet berries whenever we were bored, and they squished between our toes when we ran barefoot in the yard. But it’s the elm tree I’ll remember. We’d lay under it to watch cloud animals chase each other above its friendly canopy. So when I bent and picked up this single seed, I couldn’t believe that I’d found it, and that there was no trace of any others or of the giant who made it. I turned again, looking at the treetops. I thought about writing about this. I thought about another recent elm tree experience. And I thought about the elms seeds I still have in a glass jar. I harvested them right before leaving Minnesota to live in a new city, a new state for the first time. I kept them with me for the seven years I lived in Michigan. Since I was transient to that area for all those years, I never thought about planting them there. I’ve thought about planting them here, and imagine how big they’d be today if I had, the first year we moved into our house. They’d be fifteen years old now and who knows what kind of space they’d command. But instead they still sit in that jar. I interrupted my workout in the park (maybe I didn’t really want to work out anyway) to take this one seed over to the edge of a field where the tallest cottonwoods were shedding their fluff. I looked at the ground and the false snow that had accumulated, at all the seeds this one elm seed would have to compete with in order to grow. I thought about the hundreds and thousands of seeds each tree gives for the chance to plant just one seedling. When I got to the edge, I grabbed a nearby stick and dug a hole in the hard ground just large enough to hold the seed, dropped it in, and covered it with almost damp soil, then tamped it down. The rest is hope. Maybe that tree will grow. Maybe I’ll finally plant those elm seeds in the jar. There was a sugar maple in our front yard. I have a jar of those seeds too….  

Way back in 1989, I had to declare a major in college. I toyed with an architecture major, but the prof for the prerequisite: History of Cities was horrific and scared me from that path. I considered math (very briefly) before settling on Fine Art with an emphasis in photography and ceramics (yes, two opposite ends of the fine art spectrum). Art degrees are funny, you spend hours practicing this thing you know very little about, and then you read about and memorize all the masters in your specialty. Then you’re meant to fill in the giant chasm between your work and theirs from your own guts before graduation. Since my college years I’ve had it on my list to see Yosemite. I mean, it’s been there since 1890, so I’m a bit over due. So when the chance came, I went… with 27 teens on a school trip as a chaperone. Below is my photo essay of the three national parks we visited in that six day stretch last week. Happy 100 years, National Parks! Descriptions in line. Aah Frisco. The tourist tour. The entire week was spent on this tour bus – the one whose wind shied I am shooting through. Hey, you do what you can. We began a series of about 10 hikes by walking across the Golden Gate. It was a good break-in. This was the visit to San Fran that let me see things a bit differently. Through childrens’ eyes, perhaps? Sunset from our city camp site at the Presidio. Who knew you could camp there? As we set up tents, the tour bus owners brought halibut from one of their Alaska tours, and crevelle (like a grouper) from one of their recent Baja trips. He fried it up in camp while I gushed over the fact that he was feeding these hard-caught delicacies to kids! Before we knew it we were on a gorgeous California beach. “Where are we?” We asked… Marin county, so this is the Marin Headlands beach. Quintessential. I watched the surfers when I wasn’t on alert for random kids running into the sea. Before we knew it there were dorsal fins in the surf. I noticed all the surfers were turned away from the beach at once. I thought they were looking for the next wave, but then I realized they were spotting the fins. By their spray we could tell it was mammals, not sharks. The surfers relaxed and paused, even, to watch the small pod pass. But the dolphins paused as well and played in the surf along with the surfers. You can see one on the left of the image above. And closer here. Photographically I had several challenges. The largest was shooting with available light. Meaning, high noon most of the time. This is what Yosemite looks like at noon. (Photographers cringe, but I like the challenge.) El Capitan on the left, Half Dome in the middle, Bridal Veil Falls on the right. I look forward to playing with these in black and white. Another challenge is that I have done no post production work on any of these shots. They are all right out of my new camera, jpg crunched at the moment they were shot. (At noon, can I say that again?) I hate spending time in post production (done enough darkroom hours for a lifetime), so this was a fun challenge: Get it right the first time; no messing, no fixing. (And bless Fuji for making this camera like my Minolta of 1985!) For the first time since my film days it felt like it should. And it feels luxurious. I love it. Of those 10 hikes we did in a week, this was the doozy. I offered to lead the Upper Yosemite Falls Hike. It spends 3.4 miles going up switchbacks next to the waterfall and tops out 2700 vertical feet later at 6500 feet elevation. So it’s like Mt Si, but starting at 3800 feet elevation instead of ending there… in about 80 degree weather. We felt it. And we almost got to the top, but since I only had 9 of the kids, we had to meet back up with the rest of the group at a certain time. We were all pretty tanked anyway (yes, me.)  But 4 of the kids really wanted to make the top and ran ahead of me for the last 10 minutes. By my estimates they had 3-4 switchbacks to go until the top. So there you go. A peakbagger I am not. I turned them around. This will be a pretty black and white when I get to post. Taken on the way back down. Here’s the fun part about this tour bus: You eat dinner under El Cap, you fall asleep on this moving hotel, and you wake up to imminent sunrise over Death Valley. As a landscape photographer I truly appreciated rolling over in my sleeping bag, so I could face the giant picture window, and run video of the sun rising over the thirsty brown mountains. By noon we were fed, sweaty and marching across the Mesquite sand dunes in 105 degrees. This is where I will tell you my third photo challenge: I was limited to one lens: 18-55 mm. That’s wide angle to standard portrait. No telephoto. I knew this, but these dunes are one of the few places where I wished for more reach. But more than that, I wished for sunset. I’ve always had visions of standing in the Sahara as the last camel caravan crossed a shaded ridge in the low light. This is what I’ve got. It’s more than I had a week ago. After cooking in daytime temps with the kids as they attempted sledding (in saucers) down the dunes, I strolled back to the parking lot shade shelter. Along the way I studied lizard tracks… And snake tracks, and wind tracks. And I realized in looking at these, there is no way to express how freaking hot it was at this moment, as sweat evaporated before it dripped from my head to my camera, and every step was … well it felt like an old Western. The cracked-lipped-dry-wineskin-stumbling-through-the-desert-type. We hadn’t showered in three days. Our third hike of this day was a loop around the rim of this lovely volcano: Ubehebe. I took the short route and turned around here, so I could (rest) take photos of the other group. And sit in the shade of the bus, and drink water. We pitched tents in an oasis that night: Furnace Creek. Appropriately named. One thermometer read 120 degrees. It looked like this (below). This is also my Ansel-channeling moment: All I could think was, Moonrise over Hernandez must have felt like this. It’s a fun read if you want to know the history of that photo. Sotheby’s probably doesn’t want my rendition, however. It was still steaming as the sun went down, colors and light realized after the heat of the day dropped to a level that we could actually appreciate the space we were in. It was about 95 degrees as we tucked into sleeping bags that night. Death Valley Sunset More hiking the next day. Zabriskie Point – a photographer’s trap in the desert. It was gorgeous at mid-day. I can imagine the row of photographers who gather at sunrise to shoot it. We hiked down into it instead. We took a wrong turn along the path through the Golden Canyon and ended up on a slightly longer hike than we planned. It was 105 again. We were hiking. This sign caught my eye. It felt so perfectly placed. Traveling light, 1.5 mile trail down from top to bottom… the bus will grab us at the end… if we find it. An hour later we were at the edge of Death Valley, visiting a date ranch. I must admit, this is the first time I connected the term “date palm” to the actual thing you eat. Hmm. They grow here. Along with the saguaro cactus. So of course we had to hike through them. And if you’re counting (I left out the salt flats) this is six hikes in two days. All in Death Valley. It’s a dry heat. I trotted up one of  the near ridges and got a good look at the date farm (and the oasis that feeds it). It looked like what I imagine Saudi Arabia looks like. Gorgeous in its inhospitable terrain and climate. A few cactus shots… these guys were dancing in the last of the sun. Aloe vera last light on the rocks. The remains of beehives among the junk and rubble of the date farm. Bees are really useful creatures, folks. Once more we converted the bus into what they called “the miracle” so that we could sleep during a night drive. When the bus stopped it was dawn in Joshua Tree. I was itching for some early light (and temps) so I grabbed my camera, crawled over a dozen sleeping bodies, and ran kidless (!), amok through the poofy trees and rocks as the day came alive. Click. Breathe. Click, click, scamper… look. Listen. Silence. Click. As I returned, the bus was waking and setting up breakfast. And on our final hike in J-Tree, we ran across this lovely gopher snake. He was about four feet long, and played it really cool when 27 kids encircled him to get a look. If you look on a map of California, Joshua Tree is in the southeast – almost centered in the triangle that is made by Los Angeles (west) Phoenix (east) and Las Vegas (north). So it took one more night drive, aka The Miracle, to return us to San Francisco for a 11 am flight the next morning. Thanks for reading.

One of the common threads for PKU kids (and adults) is that they play down the emphasis that our society places on food. Think about it – if your meal is restricted every day such that most things that are offered aren’t viable options for you, you spend less time being absorbed with that topic at all. I think of it as a coping necessity. You don’t regularly go play in a field of daisies if you are allergic to them, even if everyone else is out there. As fun as it would be, it’s not the reality you can easily live with. So imagine my surprise when I realized how much my little guy with PKU enjoys being in the kitchen, helping me cook. We make dinner together, and bake cookies together, we figure out what goes on a sandwich. He slices the fruit or peels the carrots, but will also ask to crack the eggs or take the meat from its package (both things he can’t eat). This struck me as strange, since it seems a bit like an amputee who designs shoes: how do you?… and then how can you want to? But he enjoys the creativity and the mixing and everything that goes into the process. It often doesn’t matter at all if he can’t eat it. So I involve him when I can. Enter culinary experts. Le Cordon Bleu, the acclaimed cooking school, hosted our entire group of PKU families for an afternoon of cooking! Three master chefs, teaching chefs, and assistant chefs led us through recipes that were all acceptable for the PKU diet. As you might expect, the creativity in their solutions to the PKU diet were wonderfully refreshing. I spent the first two years of my son’s life scouring lists and committing foods and protein numbers to memory. I consider it my nutrition-degree-by-fire. Those two years of knowledge have carried me to most of the recipes that I make for him regularly. I have hundreds of items in my head and their respective protein and phe amounts per serving. I use that list to make every food decision for him. Having pro chefs and master chefs run through this process was incredibly refreshing. To have someone else do my homework, look through new foods, and make familiar foods into new epicurean delights. They had done their homework and prepared an amazing, creative menu. So here’s some of it. Making pizza dough that he can eat! Rolling pins are so fun! Waiting to taste… He loved using the giant chef’s knife And roasting romaine lettuce (what?! – it’s pretty good!) Presentation Three amazing main course salads This chef made me cry. He’s been teaching students in standard culinary school for years and I could tell how much he enjoyed the PKU food challenge. He was truly impassioned by the challenge of finding a food solution for these kids. I suppose it’s like taking brushes away from the painter; he will still create, but the format changes, the rules change, but the methods and creativity shine through just the same. So he showed us amazing ways to make low-protein burgers and stirfry dishes. He showed unique ways of using cellophane noodles and low-protein rice. In the middle, occasionally, like he does when teaching regular students, he offered a substitution, and then paused, remembering the restriction. “Does this have too much phe? (Phenylalanine, what we call phe, or “fee” is the component of protein that is counted for PKU folks, the way sugars are for diabetics.) And we, the parents of PKU kids, could all tell him without a pause, yes, or no. It’s in the mental catalog. Then he would offer another substitution and wait to see if that was a better choice. “No, but you could use A, B, or C.” we’d occasionally offer. He’d think about it, then say something like, “Ok, that would work, but that one doesn’t have the body or the texture that this option does. Let’s see what we can figure out.” I watched the artist at work, struggling just enough with the tools he’d been given, to find a viable solution to the problem. Those few moments filled me up and made me realize that what I create every day in the kitchen is pretty magic. That the knowledge I have absorbed from this method of feeding my child is not inconsequential, and not an easy set of parameters to work with. On our way out I thanked this chef for his insights and suggestions for new foods for our kids. “Oh, no, thank you all,” he said, “you have taught us all so much. This is a very challenging menu and I very much appreciate what it takes. Thank you for showing us for one day, the things you work with everyday of your life.” It’s rare to find that level of passion and gratitude, so I spent a moment soaking it in before I wiped my tears.

This is a photo story about a unique day we had in Bali. It included a giant bamboo structure, snakes, a concert and yoga. Grab a cup of cleansing organic tea and have a little holiday. Before we began our Bali escapade, we selected our hotels, flights and vaccinations. The rest we left open, except one thing: All eight of us bought tickets to a concert fundraiser to benefit Bali’s Green School. They weren’t cheap tickets, but it was for a good cause… The only thing I knew above that, was it involved Michael Franti. He’s what I would call a free-love music front man, conservationist and yogi. He calls himself a poet, musician and activist. He calls Bali home, or at least spends a lot of time there. And he was headlining this fundraiser to benefit the school where it was held. I’ve never been to a yoga concert before, so why not make Bali the place to try it out, right? As it turned out, it was the most Western of our adventures in Bali, and much of it felt comfortable, like a Hippie home away from home, in a gorgeous tropical setting. The venue and grounds were one of the most interesting things about the evening: a school  called The Green School, it is aptly named. It’s a lovely, heartwarming idea, and also a great example of reverse innovation – creating solutions in developing countries that can also translate to developed countries. The sisters in this TED talk are Green School students talking about how they are making environmental change in Indonesia – a very populous, developing country (which includes Bali, Java, Borneo and Sumatra, among others). The central building of the Green School is a gorgeous two-story structure made entirely of bamboo. (Bamboo, being a fully sustainable building material, and readily available locally, made this a wise choice.)  But it’s also a unique form. Not a box, like most other schools – they sent packing the architects who suggested a cube-like structure and made it a double helix shape – natural, organic, open air. It’s called The Heart of School rather than the box-proposed “administration complex”. A very bold statement for thinking outside the box. It’s a school where they make 70% of their power needs from solar.  I was impressed enough that I took a photo of a photo of their solar panels (which are tucked away, invisible to all but the sun). They do more than that, though. They grow their own food to feed the students, cook with sawdust and reclaimed methane from their farm animals, and they teach forward thinking about how their own students can become leaders to promote environmental change. It was voted the greenest school on earth in 2012. I love that a developing country is home to this. It is a hopeful sign. (In case this is intriguing to you, the founder of the school has a TED talk about why he did what he did.) My only further hope was that the school itself included local, indigenous folk as much as the expats who were there on this day. Gentle marimba music trickled through the bamboo gate as we arrived. Late afternoon sun spilled through palm fronds onto the grassy center lawn. Spicy satay wafted on the air, and musical acts were entertaining gypsy dancers, half-dressed children and long blonde dreadlocks in the gathering crowd. It was the biggest Hippie party I’d been to in a while. Probably the biggest since that Hurricane Hugo raggae fundraiser I went to at some Minneapolis community center gym years ago, but back to Bali…  The event was comfortable, relaxed and low key, if not entirely attended by expats. I sat for a long while and thought about how it might feel to live on this island and send my kids to this school.   The audience sprawled comfortably on blankets across the lawn with naked babies, listening, and chatting (mostly in English) while their children played on rope swings and bamboo playgrounds. Ours blended in and did the same. It was a little taste of familiarity, a break in the middle of an otherwise very foreign trip for my kids.     Inside were jewelry vendors, artists, dancers, body painters (and related photo shoot) and as you would expect, snakes. Just outside there was a pig. For eating. And across the lawn… there were drum circles blooming organically on the grass, casting a warm, woody rhythm across the crowd. The star of the show wandered among the people, randomly spotting aerial yoga poses. That’s Franti, on the right, drumming, (above) and on the left, spotting (below). Across the grass, under another cover was the stage. As the sun fell, the volume rose, encouraging dance and revelry.     And as I had taken to capturing the food we ate… This is locally grown (on the school grounds) raw-foodist pesto-vegan pizza, I think. Served in typical Bali style – on a banana leaf. Perfect Franti-concert fare, but I stuffed myself on satay instead.   Then the light faded and we faced a four-hour drive back, along thin, winding, dark roads, to the villa, so before Michael Franti even took the stage, we headed out.

I almost titled this “There is too much, let me sum up…” but that’s actually counter to the point I am about to make. There is so much to read now, so many people casting words and videos and snaps into the ether, that if you aren’t careful, you drown. And from what I’ve noticed, you tend to drown in a very narrow slice of the thoughts which are cast out. Meaning, all the algorithms that send us article after article of “you may also like” are doing us a disservice. This week an absolute jerk (who doesn’t deserve to be named) proved to the entire world just what an asshole he can truly be, when he is at his best. The entire cyberworld paid attention and countered his idiotic thoughts, and much of the next three days was nothing but rallying, countering, counter-countering, ass-covering and miles of words cast into the ether about this one topic. I said almost nothing because clearly, it would have drowned unseen. My friends who cast a wider net were saying more effective things along the lines that I would have written. They were doing it better. So I let them, and I liked and shared it. Because I like and share those sentiments. Nota bene: What I am about to say should not be construed as me not caring or not taking a side in the above issue. There are, believe it or not, quite a few other things going on in the world. The asshole above simply stole your attention. I’d encourage you to not let him do that. Just a quick trip down NPR’s top international stories, and a few other sources reveals much more intelligent and worthy content: Saudi Arabia, one of the most repressive large countries, is allowing women to vote in this “partial election.” The Climate Change Conference in Paris is making strides, in session overtime. I am always looking for the bright lights after a black cloud is cast over media and the majority of our cyber-attention. I found one in this piece. One of our local philanthropist’s companies was integral in creating this beautiful campaign. You might notice that some commenters think it’s stupid. To which I’d reply with this piece. Just in case you can’t stand all the positivity, and need negative headlines in order to consider it “news,” here’s your lede: India has been blockading Nepal’s borders for more than two months. The reason: Nepal wrote the country’s first constitution (following monarchy and civil war) and ratified it in late September. India didn’t like what Nepal’s constitution said, so it cut off the tiny land-locked country from supplies of fuel, food and medical supplies. The article above has a poignant snipit: “The impact of the Indian blockade on Nepal’s economy has now far outstripped damage from the earthquake.” Me meeting the Prime Minister of Nepal in 2011. “Oh, right… that’s the country that had 10,000 die in a 7.8 earthquake in April. I had forgotten….” Because perhaps you’d rather wallow in the attention-mongering asinine actions of certain presidential candidates. The UN has called for India to quit the blockade and they haven’t. I know a handful of Nepalis who are posting occasional images from nearby the border blockades. They’re showing up on Everyday Nepal. I’ve written more about my personal experience with this situation here. But my guess is, if you didn’t know me, you’d know nothing of this situation. Because of our cyber-blinders. Think I’m full of it? This should help. As  much as I hate that style of journalism, it’s a good teacher. We view the world through our own very narrow tunnel, whether we mean to or not. And perhaps we’re taught to own our convictions. But that’s exactly what’s caused the polarization we’re experiencing now. Especially once we reach a certain age, we repeat very small circles. Media since the internet has encouraged and honed this because it’s algorithm-able. Pile more on what you clicked on. Add to the base coverage that was clicked on most yesterday, feed it to the people who ate it yesterday. I’m tired of the internet telling me what I should eat. So after you’ve clicked on the tenth asshole-political-candidate article which supports your view, try clicking on one of the links above or below that you know nothing about. I know I am in the minority of people who actively goes out and searches for information outside of my own interests, but I encourage you to try it. If you are a devout Christian, go learn something about Hinduism. If you are an animal rights vegetarian, go learn about the benefits of meat as a protein source, or about hunting. And I don’t mean the raw-vegan site that talked about it one time, in language you are accustomed to. Go to a hunting site and listen to what the other side has said. (Not about guns, for cripes sake, about meat as food… start reasonably.) And prepare to quell your own heart palpitations and red-faced denial. Sit outside of your own ideology for just a minute and listen. Or if you’re a hunter or devout carnivore, research a couple of meatless meals you would be happy eating. Find the intelligence there (and by intelligent, I don’t mean, “things that agree with you”). Find curiosity in foreign topics and figure it out a little bit. Learn what people who are NOT like you know. Wait, read that last sentence again… I’ll wait here. Good, now I’ll place quite possibly the most intelligent of all these links. (Though, as an editor and like being inclusive, I’d change “Buddhists are not free of it either” to Athiests. Everyone. Humans.) It’s about how your own truth is no more valid or truthy than all those you hold counter to your own. It’s about being devout in any belief, and how that devoutness can damage you. Seriously, even if you didn’t click on any of the links above, you deserve the wisdom in this one. Read something outside your own comfort content. Most of us haven’t done that since high school or college. Who knows, you might learn something new that opens you up to a more complete, fulfilled life.

I was going along, doing my normal house-mommy activities, washing dishes, folding fitted sheets – king size, alone – how does a person do that?… trying to decide if I’d started searing early enough to complete the roast before dinnertime. I was scrubbing the pan from yesterday’s attempt at baking and contemplating running out to the store to get a can of Guinness at 10 am. I’d woken up singing Magaritaville, but tequila doesn’t go in a roast. Guinness does. You know, your regular Monday morning thoughts. I was also thinking about socks; wondering why there are so many unpaired holey beauties and counting the hours that the roast needs to sit in the crock pot, because those are the deep thoughts I have when I am not thinking about discovering tertiary revenue sources and divergent directions for obscure online publications. The phone rang, interrupting Jimmy Buffet-in-my-head and my morning routine. The caller ID let me know it was a telecall type of thing, and I answered it so I could tell them to remove me from their list personally since they obviously don’t understand what the national do-not-call register is. It’s okay, I am patient like that. Inside of three seconds, the thick accent on the other end was frantically “ma’am, no ma’am, ma’am-ing” me while trying to convince me to give him details about my computer’s operating system. It’s obviously broken and he’s going to show me right now before anything else bad happens. Yes, apparently problems bloom on my computer and just in time, The Ether sends me people like this lovely angel direct via Ma Bell to fix it. So I thought I’d have some fun. He knows me intimately, of course, I am “Chriserika” and he has my registration number right here, “I’m just looking it up, one moment ma’am, just one moment while I look it up, please.” “Which company is this?” “Computer Services, ma’am and we have a record from Windows that your computer needs to be fixed.” “Uh-hu.” I’ll invite a little fun, I thought. I like to mess with computer scammers whenever the opportunity presents itself. Turnabout and all that. I asked him the company name again. Now it was Computer Tech-something-in-California. I asked again why he was calling me. Obviously, it’s because I have problems with my computer and if I would just get on my computer, he would be happy to show me the problem, ma’am, with ma’am, ma’am in between every other word for politeness freaking sake. After letting him know in no uncertain terms that I was in fact having no computer problems, he got pushy, and then we had our little dance again where I asked and he offered the name of his company, except it was Tech Center this time, not anything computer. So now I’m in the land of a million ma’ams and revolving company names. Isn’t that cute. He told me he knew exactly where my problem was, if only I’d look at my computer. So I asked which computer it was that was having the problem. Certainly if Windows gave him authorization to call and he had “my registration number” (that he was still searching for) then he would know which computer was troubled. Silence. Oops, he didn’t anticipate the fact that I have more than one computer. I let him ma’am-ma’am me for another moment before I interrupted his stream of frantic begging by threatening the BBB on him. Then I waited for him to relent and hang up. But I got tired of listening and did the hanging up myself. My next objective will be to see if I can get them to hang up first. Now, back to my Guinness and roast.

During the last week of June I led a single overnight to the south foot of Mt Baker in the North Cascades. Anyone who is familiar with the hiking trails in that area is reading the first sentence again. Yes, the trails, usually not accessible until late July or early August were open and completely snow-free before June was out. It seems the California drought is the height of climate fashion and we’re following suit with the lack of snow and rain. We camped on Railroad Grade which is one of the ascent paths to Mt Baker’s summit. It was beautiful and wild, and on a weekday when we did this, wasn’t cluttered with too many people. One pair of skiiers passed on the way up as we rested. They were optimistically porting splitboards and smiles while they chattered up the trail. Their round trip had about eight miles to hike in to get to a 10 minutes slide down, then a long hot dry haul out. Seems ridiculous, but our ski resorts weren’t open very long this winter so local skiiers are hard up for any snow – even crusty slush ten miles in. Next we passed a pair of climbers descending as we headed up. I asked how the climb went and how conditions were. “There’s not much water until you get to the glacier… and I am surprised every time by how much the glacier has receded each year when I come up.” Yeah. That second part was especially hard to see, even after the warning. The movie Chasing Ice turned me on to comparing glaciers across years. I took the above photo on June 25 of this year. The photo taken below is from my friend Orion Ahrensfeld. His was taken July 1, 2009. Note the exposed dirt on the right of his photo. It’s the same ridge that runs across my photo, just above the middle. Even though my photo was taken a week earlier in the season, his clearly shows a thicker, fuller, healthier glacier. I spent a long time staring into the ravine that the Easton Glacier carved (photo below) and imagined the massive amounts of snow and ice that must have been there to create such a ravine. It’s now empty except a small muddy stream trickle from the bottom of the melting glacier tail. Glacier studies have been recorded since the turn of the 19th Century, but seeing the whole spectacle with  your own eyes brings it acutely into view.

My youngest has been at camp for a solid week. It was at a YMCA camp, staffed the way they usually do the big summer camps – lots of imported students or fresh Uni grads, who agree to herd masses of rowdy kids through obstacle courses, swim tests and talent shows six days a week for an entire summer, in return for the “time abroad.” Sunday off, that’s it. This was the first week of camp, since school just quit last week, so the counselors were all green and expectant as we dropped kids off last Saturday. This was the first time he’d be away from friends and family for so long. This particular camp week was for ulcerative colitis and Crohn’s kids, to help them be a bit more self reliant and learn more about it in the safety of nurses and docs, with a group of similar kids. So after I prepped the nurse with all the injections, pills and regular other stuff that the other kids were also dealing with, I jumped in with his other “thing.” My 9-year-old, besides being an ulcerative colitis patient, also has PKU (phenylketonuria) which means he is restricted from eating protein, and required to drink a special formula to provide amino acid replacement for the whole proteins he can’t ingest. He’s relatively easy for an afternoon playdate or even a sleepover (I send snacks and his formula and keep it really simple), but a whole week away from anyone who had managed him before had me a little nervous. Camp policy said no outside food is allowed. Rats, mice and peanut allergies out in the boonies, and I can see why. I don’t prep people on PKU protocol very often because the learning curve is steep. I always follow, “Well, can he have…?” with, “he doesn’t eat: meat, fish, eggs, dairy, legumes, nuts, soy, whole grains, pasta, or anything that has lots of wheat flour in it.” Yes, then they look at me sideways, white-faced, blankly (like you might be now) and ask what he CAN have. “All fruits, most veggies, except the ones I just named.” It’s the dance. We’ve done it for almost ten years. I often forget how much I had to learn before I could condense it down to that short list. But the nurse and I had gone back and forth for several emails and phone calls before camp. She was confident they could feed him and substitute from the kitchen when they ran into a meal item he couldn’t have. It ended up that every main course was something he couldn’t have. Today I drove back to camp to fetch him after a week. I met with the nurse to see how the week went. She was in the middle of gushing over his effervescent personality when he appeared with one of this cabin counselors in tow. “Mama!!” He wrapped me in a waist-hug, beaming. I asked her how the foods went. She smiled and said he did very well except when they had to correct him a couple times. No bagels, no noodles. She motioned to the counselor who had followed saying that he had taken on my son’s extra food requirements personally. He nodded and stood silently behind my son. His name tag said Umear. I remembered meeting him at drop off. He was soft spoken, from England, with dark, gentle features and heavy glasses. I shook his hand and thanked him, then turned to leave. “He’s an amazing kid,” he managed to say before pulling off his glasses and wiping his eyes. I was shocked. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a college guy tear up. Then he collected himself and said, “he has given me a greater appreciation for life. He has been so uplifting for me…” then he broke down completely. He’d wiped his face twice already and was presently fighting himself to follow protocol and let us go, or tell me more. I hugged him, told him it meant a lot to me to hear that, and asked him for more. He sobbed openly and wiped his eyes again. “What he is doing is so hard. I mean, he couldn’t eat anything, but he was still so happy every day….” “Yeah.” I teared up too. “That is so hard! I mean, I am fasting right now, so I know how hard it is to watch everyone else have what you can’t have. And he is so good about it!” “Ramadan?” “Yeah.” I puzzled for a moment about how a 20-year-old guy could possibly wrangle camp kids all day without food or water during daylight hours, and whether Allah considered his followers above the 45th parallel when he decided Ramadan should ever fall in the month of summer solstice. Then I wondered if the camp was accommodating him by feeding him before 4 am and and after 10 pm. I didn’t ask. We walked together toward the pile of sleeping bags and gear as he continued.  “I had to take pasta away from him one dinnertime because he thought he could have it and then we found out he couldn’t. We saw it on the sheet you sent.” And this is when it occurred to me how much he had undertaken. My apprehension in the weeks before wasn’t in filling out piles of paperwork, sending refrigerated meds, or worrying that my bubbly, gregarious son would make friends. It was this. That someone else would have to take this on and succeed at it. “You did my job this week. I know how hard that is, and I’ve been doing it for nine years. We’ve had a little practice. But it sounds like you did great!” I thanked him again and asked what he was studying in school. “General nutrition medicine. But now, after this week, I think I want to work with special diet nutrition instead.” By this time we both had tears running down our faces. We exchanged information. I ask him to write to my son and began listing nutrition and special diet medical contacts, off the tip of my tongue, in case that might be of interest to him. He promised to write. My boy was standing between us, smiling and looking at both of us sideways, wondering what all the fuss was about. He hugged Umear, to which Umear said, “you keep drinking that shake of yours, okay?” then turned to me, “he was a leader all week. He was the front of the pack everywhere we went and helped the other kids all the time. He’s got great energy and enthusiasm… a great kid.” Then he turned to my son again, “you come back next year, okay, and I will try very hard to do the same.” They nodded at each other from across the parking lot. All the way home I asked about camp, with Harry Potter Number Seven muffling answers and stories. My kid has inspired a college kid to be something special; something more than he would otherwise want to be, if he hadn’t spent a week with my kid. I think I was teary about the whole exchange until we were off the peninsula, over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, and stuck in Tacoma traffic. And yes, he had a great time at camp.

Written Sunday morning at 5:40 am, after dawn, before the sun crawled out from behind Cascade ridges, during a 24-hour escape from regular life. I had a mouse on my head last night. I had just faded to sleep with the delightfully wild white noise of an alpine cascade at my feet. Something brushed my hair. I flipped over to see a small dark shadow rocket silently across my tent vestibule and escape under my rain fly. Fuzzy from new sleep, groggy from the evening hike in, I wondered if I imagined it. It could have been my eyes. It was past midnight, one week from solstice. There was still twilight on the west horizon. Bellingham and Anacortes city lights glowed orange below it. The entire Milky Way was streaming out of Mt Baker’s summit, just over my shoulder. I’d dreamed a mouse. He climbed up the mesh screen of my tent door and brushed my head. I checked the tent for holes. Mice can chew right through tent material to get inside. Then they chew through your food bag and get to what they want. But there was none of that. No proof of any of this. It must have been the light breeze pushing the screen into my hair. It must have been a dream. I drifted back to sleep. A while later, I woke to the screen brushing my hair again. I opened my eyes without moving. Starlight off the glacier snow cut the silhouette of a mouse hanging from the outside of the screen, directly above my face. “He’s back!” I yelled, waking the next tent. I smacked the screen, sending the furry nuisance flying to the far side of the rain fly where he landed and scurried away. Faint gray-blue light from the coming dawn illuminated my tent before 4 am. The nip and moisture in the air led me to believe we were fogged in. I unzipped to check. Clear blue. The magnificent Coleman glacier rested in its moraine just 100 feet away. Occasionally we could hear it groaning or cracking as it flowed slowly down the mountain. I crawled out and grabbed my camera to wait for sunrise. We’re at 5600 feet. Climbers are ascending from Hogsback, which we passed last night before reaching the lookout at trail’s end and setting camp. The strong smell of sulfur wafted through camp. Baker is an active volcano, I’m even pretty sure there used to be a sulfur mine up there early last century. “That’s pretty strong. All the way from the summit?” I ask. “Nah, probably from fumeroles further down.” My resident volcanologist suggests. But the breeze was precise and after half an hour, it shifted, sending the smell elsewhere. We watched puffs of steam appear and rise from the northwest corner of the summit before vanishing moments later. This year snow is gone early from this area, bringing July and August wild flowers before solstice. Penstamon, lupine, Indian paintbrush, yellow asters are all blooming now, surrounding my tent with the luxury of wild color. Some are a full two months early. Vertical patches of snow clung to high meadows. Our drinking water came from the waterfall creeks below them. At the present moment I am sitting against the base of a huge solid basalt hill several steps from our tents. The side of the rock has been rubbed smooth by glaciers which have long since retreated. I run my hand over it again and again, imagining the massive ice that ground it smooth as glass. Waterfalls along the path One of many creek crossings en route to the destination. Reached the Coleman glacier just before sunset Sunset Camp with Mt Baker and Coleman Glacier Resident volcanologist, glacier enthusiast, sunset chaser View looking northwest (Am I seeing Canada?) Glacier-rubbed rock with remnant glacier in the background. Top of the basalt rock Backlit glacier ice. A marmot before heading home.

Our group walked through a flat, red-rock area in Arizona. There was nothing for miles. We’d just come through Monument Valley and stopped our six-van caravan at a dirt pullout to let 23 kids stand on the freeway and do “the Forrest Gump running pose” all together. Most of them really wanted to do it, it didn’t mater that many of them had no idea what Forrest Gump was. But it was Route 66 (or darn near) and there were so few cars, we set up adult lookouts, then cleared the kids to “go play in traffic” (shhh, don’t tell the school district) so we could get a pic of them all running in that same spot ala the important plot point in the film. I haven’t seen the movie in 20 years and it’s a little foggy, so we shot a couple takes, clearing them off to let semi-trucks pass, chimp shots and repeat. “Can you get one a little wider?” “Let’s do it again.” “Yaaaaay!!!” It’s pretty amazing to watch kids who grew up in mandatory car seats and seat belts, who’ve never been on a bike without a helmet, who’ve never heard of Jarts or played at a park without supervision, run free on an active highway. I highly recommend it. Shortly after that we pulled into another dirt flat of red rock. Two Navajo ladies emerged from a wooden shack (the only structure in view  all the way to the horizon) and greeted us warmly. Christine was smiley and round with a long braid down her back. Marie was smaller, older, quieter. Moments later they were telling us stories in the style of Navajo legends as we walked over the fossilized footprints of velociraptor and dilophosaurus. Colorful stories rolled forth about chases, rubbing bones in the dirt, and a print of the mighty T-rex, who may or may not have wandered through a group of velociraptor nests, scattering the smaller bipeds and crushing eggs as he went, “See the crushed egg here, preserved forever in the red earth.” Peyote was missing as far as I know, but the stories were thick and deep and rich. As we were leaving, one of the girls in my van asked “What is that shape in the middle of the Navajo flag?” I explained the borders of the Navajo nation as we drove toward Mesa Verde. For the rest of the drive the kids discussed the idea of a nation. They wondered how it was formed, when it had grown in size beyond the original reservation boundaries, and then spent a long time pondering whether they had left their own nation when they visited this one. Outside a gas station, a Navajo girl entertains herself on the pay phone. No adults around.

Let it be known that if you catch a 5:20 am flight out of Seattle, you can shoot sunset at the Grand Canyon that same day. Even when you have 23 teenagers in tow. That’s what I did last month. I chaperoned a school trip which toured the desert Southwest, including the South Rim. Airplane sunrises give such a neat range of color. I haven’t color touched any of these, really. Rest stop number 327… yeah, you try to coordinate 23 kid bladders. This one had cactuses in bloom and a nice vista, anyway. Elk showed up at the water spout next to our campground … because it’s the desert, and elk are pretty smart. And after we pitched tents (for 30 people) we scampered to this overlook and watched. As is the way with this school, the kids are keeping a journal which is graded at the end of the trip. The teacher asks them to use word descriptions to describe the feelings of sunset here, overlooking this Wonder of the World. It was made more effective (to teens who might be a tad distracted from their present moment, by the chattering of their peers) when a Muslim man knelt down right at the edge of the precipice in front of them and said 5 minutes of chanted prayers as the kids were writing. Then the teacher (being as awesome as he is) invited the man to come over and describe what he was doing for the kids. I’ll try to summarize his beautiful words: As a Muslim I am required to pray right as the sun does down, wherever I find myself, to be thankful for all the beauty in the world and realize how small I am, you are, as an individual, but how we are all the same, no matter where we come from, and even through our diversity we can work together. It takes work, trust and kindness, but working all together toward peaceful  lives is the way. And that is what I was saying when I prayed in this beautiful place. It was well taken.

Of all the places your stuff could be from, Shanghai ranks at the top. It’s the place where new things are packed into innumerable colored boxes bigger than your living room. Those suburban living room sized boxes are stacked by the thousands like Legos and sent floating on the great blue, half way around the world to your local box store. I am a Story of Stuff person. Meaning, I subscribe to the thoughts they promote about mass production and the way we buy things. You should definitely watch the video above if you haven’t seen it, but I’ll Cliff Notes it for you as well: Make things better rather than make things more. You can’t make stuff (the stuff we buy, from running shoes to iPhones to TVs and party favors) the way we currently do and continue to survive on our Earth. It’s a linear system of production that relies on our planet’s resources too heavily to continue doing it indefinitely. We’ll mine, chop and harvest all our resources, leaving a barren, polluted world if we keep doing what we’re currently doing. So The Story of Stuff enlightens us to this and suggests that we buy less, buy smarter, reuse and quit thorwing things in the trash. Then be active about making manufacturers change the way they build things so we aren’t throwing out an iPhone every 13 months. Make things better rather than make things more. That’s the basic message. Because you’re wrecking the planet if you don’t. Ok, now back to photos of Shanghai and a few statistics that might explode your mind. The first time I went to Nepal we flew over Shanghai just after sunrise. I wanted to see China from the air, specifically, the largest city in the world. Shanghai was estimated in 2013 to be just short of 24 million people. Population density of the city proper is 9,700 people per square mile (3,700 per square km). Kind of makes you wonder how many people would live in your house if it was in Shanghai, huh? The city proper contains more people than all of Taiwan. So while I didn’t know any of these numbers while I was flying over it, I knew it was huge, dense and intriguing. Why not see that with my own eyes, right? Here’s a photo I shot from 38,000 feet. [Click photos for larger view.] Pretty stunning: a handful of towers on the lower left, factories on the right. Factories making stuff. My mind often thinks about what is being made in factories with white plumes coming out the stacks. I hope it’s really useful, reusable, green stuff, because while I’d like to believe that the photo quality is due to the airplane window, it’s more a result of the air quality. It’s seven miles of air we’re looking through here. Here’s a photo I took a moment later of another section of Shanghai. I was drawn to the colors (highly exaggerated here, they were pretty grayed out through the smog) and shapes, particularly the oil refineries – one on each river inlet – and the row of freighter docks in the upper right. There’s a park, too, and blocks and blocks of highrise dwellings. I studied the details of this photo for a while once I brought it home. Tonight while I was perusing my old photos I ran across these pictures again and I wondered if this section of Shanghai was identifiable enough that I could find it on a map. Google Earth didn’t let me down. I found it immediately – the same section of the city that I’d photographed four years before. The oil refineries made it easy (lower left and upper left). Then I noticed the water. Look what’s in the water in the upper right. Freighters. In this little clip below…   I counted 13 freighters in this little rectangle of water that Google captured. So I began to wonder about China exports and I looked up some numbers. Scale quickly becomes unimaginable, but I like to ponder my place in the world and the creation of stuff, so follow with me while I wrap my head around the scale of shipping in Shanghai… Imagine for a minute a single box of size 8 shoes, fresh out of one of those factories in the first photo. It sits on a pallet, shrinkwrapped with stacks 10 boxes high by 10 wide by 10 deep of its identical neighbors. That’s one pallet of 1000 pairs of shoes. Now load the pallets a couple high and a couple wide in a cargo shipping container twenty feet long. You’ve probably seen these metal boxes even if you don’t live in a port city. They are the universal unit that massive quantities of stuff is shipped in. This metal box is known in the cargo industry as one TEU (twenty-foot equivalent unit). Now stack 10,000 to 18,000 TEU on a single cargo ship and push it into the Pacific, bound for the USA. Imagine all the stuff that lives in just one of those boxes, or just one of those ships. Seattle accepted 900,000 TEU in 2010 and shipped out just over half that number. (LA received almost 4 million TEU in 2010 and exported just short of 2 million.) Shanghai became the first port to ship out over 30 million TEU, which it first did in 2011. Singapore is a half million TEU behind, in second place. If you want more statistics, there are about 17 million container boxes in the world and five to six million are in transit at any time. I get stuck on little things sometimes, so I also thought, if Seattle, LA and the rest of American ports accept twice as many full containers as they send (because we are the best. consumers. ever.), then we ship out half a million empty containers every year out of Seattle alone. Sending boats around the planet with nothing in them? What a waste! But wait! (Insert 2 am tv sales voice here.) There’s more waste! Also, 90% of the world’s goods are transported by ship and about 10,000 container boxes are lost at sea and according to this article, occasionally one of these lost containers has toxic chemicals (pesticides, industrial cleaners) end up in the world’s oceans and poison the fish you probably eat. And so, as I think through statistics, which are way more interesting to me than RBIs and OBP (due respect to baseball) I wish for less stuff. I hope you do too. I still like the view of Shanghai from 37,000 feet, though and I hope to pass over it again some day soon. And I hope the air is cleaner next time. Until then, Here are my initial reflections of the first time I saw Asia from the air.

How many pigeons? How long did it take you? Did your eyes deceive you?  (answer below) (Don’t count the tiny chunk of a tail on the far left) Did you count ten?     There are eleven pigeons. I looked at this image (it shows up on my computer desktop frequently) for about a year before I saw the eleventh pigeon. Maybe because I was busy looking at the marvelous instead of the mundane. But the other day my 9-year old told me, “I wish people could fly.” He meant like a bird, not in a machine. Like a pigeon. Not like a million pound jet airplane. Because it seemed more marvelous to him. And I love double checks like that because then I have to go back and decide what is mundane and what isn’t. Nothing in this photo is mundane, as far as I’m concerned. Neither is the million pound jet that takes me there.

The first full day in Bali, we toured a tropical botanical water gardens. I tiptoed through acres of flora I’d never met before. Glorious mists permeated the warm air. There were waterfalls and sweet little rattan tables with umbrellas, tons of food (we had someone crack open a fresh coconut for us) and fruity drinks and… and… waterslides. Okay, so we were at a waterpark. (It’s a family vacation after all.) But I preferred to think of it as a botanical garden, which was easy since the place was bursting with colors and giant leaves and butterflies. I was a fan of just laying in a tube on the lazy river. It passed under real banyan trees and palms and banana trees in climates that actually allowed them to flourish naturally. Novel for the waterparks I’m familiar with. The flora was covered in this post, so on to my people-watching escapades.  Aussies make up the lions share of Westerners here (Darwin is just a two-hour flight), and based on today’s survey, they aren’t far from Americans for girth. Often found over-baking in direct sun (Aussie lobsters, anyone?) in scant swimwear a few sizes too small. Their general tourist antics included hovering at the edge of the swim-up bar for a few too many and seeing how much of the path they could coat in the contents of their stomachs. I think it was their spring break week or something. Or one can hope. On the flip side, about half of the attendees were locals, or at least Indonesian/Islanders. So many petite, gorgeous, golden bodies in swimwear. Not far off of my perfect (Magnum PI) vision of Hawaii, really. Thinner, with more tattoos. And quite possibly the ultimate human contrast to the specimens of Australia we saw. I’m not a tat person, but one Balinese man, bronzed and sinewy, had Hindu gods inked all over – Shiva, Vishnu, Ganesh. All in monochrome except hints of red. It covered his chest, shoulders, upper arms and back in incredible detail. And on his shin: Jerry Garcia smoking a joint (to match?). Yes, I was staring, but I was on the lazy river and, well, he was nice to look at. As Indonesia is a Muslim country, (Bali holds its ground as the only Hindu island of the archipelago), I also learned what a Muslim swimsuit looks like: Full coverage, much like full rain gear, but closer fitting… and it works. And was interesting enough that I took it in with my eyes rather than from behind my camera. I spent most of the day floating on the lazy river under giant fig trees, hibiscus, plumeria and so many flowers I’d never seen before. There were even giant bees to match – about 2 inches long. But the sheer numbers of new flora was beaten out (narrowly) by the plethora of new foods I ate for the first time that day: fresh passion fruit, mangosteens (man, those are heaven!), Indonesian fried rice, traditional Balinese chicken something, achars, chutneys and salsas that I can’t even begin to describe effectively, spicy avocado gazpacho, Indonesian curried lamb, two bitter veggies I couldn’t identify, and, get this, beef bacon. Who knew you had to travel to a Hindu island (where cows are sacred?) to be offered beef bacon. The little guy with a fresh passionfruit But I still perfer to think of it as a tropical water garden. With food and tattoos.

The North Cascades in February. Usually this route is inaccessible until June. There is too much snow to manage, it’s prone to avalanches and requires too much plowing for winter maintenance, so they gate the road about 10 miles down, right before the perpetual gravel section that washes out every spring. But this year is an unusually low snow year (the East Coast has been greedy and is taking it all), and we’ve had warm temps and so many clear days (like at least 7 this winter), so while skiiers and snowshoers are grounded and slumped in their depression, we’re able to get on top of Mt Dickerman. The first half of the hike was littered with other exuberant hikers, but we were alone for the last four hours, and stayed to catch some golden light and returned to the lone car in a very dark parking lot. The coolest thing about this little summit is that is gets you a decent view of Glacier Peak – Washington’s fourth-highest mountain (Rainier, Adams, Baker, Glacier – the four above 10k feet). But Glacier gets largely ignored by the greater hiking community because of its remoteness. You can’t see it until you are deep in the Cascades, on another peak. And that’s in summer time. Remember, the winter view of the mountains around Seattle usually looks like this…     because of our lovely omnipresent cloudcover. But here’s what happens when we get an off year (which happens about every 10 years). Click any photo to see it larger.   Glacier Peak from the summit of Mt Dickerman Snowy trails near sunset A view to the Olympic Mountains – that’s The Brothers in the center. This is Monte Cristo just before sunset And this is a panorama from about 10 images. The original is larger size on Flicker.

One summer day in 1985, I stood with my brother and grandmonster (I had just seen St Elmos Fire) atop the twin towers, overlooking New York. I was 15, my brother was 13 and we were living for a week in Grandma’s one bedroom flat on the upper west side, about three blocks from Harlem, when such things seemed to matter more. We’d seen Radio City and Rockafeller, Coney Isle and Chinatown, but overlooking the whole of the city from the tallest roof, and from behind razor wire and a chain-link fence was most memorable. So no one jumps, Grandma stated matter-of-factly when I asked why we were caged in way up there. For about an hour I looked through the fence squares down at the tiny everything below. I have no photos of that trip.   On September 1 of 2001, my Maid of Honor sent me a beautiful email describing the view from her temp job on the 80th floor of the WTC. I was 9 months pregnant and thrilled for her to be living the big city dream she had envisioned after growing up in rural Michigan. ‘Airplanes below me’, ‘tiny boats on the Hudson,’ and a view forever of the most formidable city in the nation. The morning of the 11th, she managed to get a quick email out detailing her plan: walking home from Midtown across the Brooklyn bridge, from her newly assigned temp job. Then systems went down. Missed it by days. I was a mess for a while after that.    Twenty nine years passed between my first and second visit to NYC. I live on the other coast now, but traveled to NYC for a trade show last year. It was the first time I’d been to that city in 29 years. I spent Saturday morning in the financial district, hoping to see the new WTC building. I wandered through the deserted district on that clear, frosty morning, stunned that of the eight million people in this city, none of them were in sight. Not a one. I passed bronze memorial reliefs on adjacent walls, but couldn’t see in the complex for the construction barricades, so I walked to Battery Park just after sunrise. It gave the best photos that morning, with the top of the tower shining in the sun, except where there were still a few missing panes of glass at the very top corner.   This year is 30 years since I first visited NYC. In advance of my visit, I attempted to find observation deck hours, hoping they would mesh with my conference schedule. Open Spring 2015. January is decidely not spring, though one can hope…. It’s probably not consequential that I spent the whole weekend in NYC talking to people about climbing the highest mountain in the world. We all have our objectives. Some are closer than they seem. Some are farther. One of mine seems to be on the observation deck of a certain building. Maybe 31 years will be the time for me to stand up there again.

I find this a perfect moment to be completely inappropriate. In a story. On the way back from Nepal last year, our layover in Seoul was 18 hours. Once you’ve been trekking, living with the locals in the back country and without watches (or regular access to electricity) for a month, you have no idea how long 18 hours is, but my last 18 hour layover in Seoul (precisely two years prior) allowed me time to sleep eight hours, eat at two buffets, and pen one journal entry. In that order. This stop over was more interesting for a couple of reasons. Not the least of which was the fact that our pals in Pyonyang had decided to point their, uh, testosterone-soaked pride at South Korea while we were there. It’s refreshing to know that while I was in Nepal I stood next to AK-47s, and in Korea I had warheads pointed at me. Life is all about experiences, right? So, on this day we arrived in Seoul, airport security was noticably tight with extra screenings and deliberate movements in every direction. And what were two fancy-free ladies to do with 18 hours in that situation? We could have stayed in the hotel room, which was, in fact what I think they wanted us to do. Kick back and order room service? Take another Swiss shower? Figure out how the heated toilet with too many buttons and lights worked? (Quite possibly the source of the term “The Throne” right there in Incheon’s 19th floor hotel bathroom.) We could have stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows edged in double-pleated curtains with a fresh cuppa from the schmancy-maker-thingy in the room. But nah, not quite our style. (And quite uncomfortable, I have to admit, after unheated lodging, squat toilets and the organic, rolling dirt footpaths in Nepal.) Instead we were raring to go into Seoul’s old city and see the king’s palace. Something a little less nerve-racking than clean edges and fancy technology – go see pretty things of days gone by. So on a couple hours of sleep we binged at the morning buffet then attempted to navigate public transit from Incheon to downtown Seoul. Incheon, by the way, is a fantasy city. Originally a sleepy port town about an hour drive from Seoul, it has recently been methodically flattened, paved and fabricated into a spotless city of the future. One look out the hotel room window (nineteenth floor) showed eight lane roads with perfectly synchronized stoplights, and nary a car on them, nor a person walking the flawless, white sidewalks. No trash blowing in the wind, no trash cans to prohibit such. And across the street, the almost completed “tallest building in the…” something or other. Not quite opened yet. But spotless and shiny. So in our slap-happy sleepless fog, we ventured toward the bus. It was then that we were acosted by friendly people. A guy at the bus stop noted our non-Korean demeanor and approached, so we asked him the best way to purchase tickets, and where the nearest ticket booth was. He grabbed $20 from my hand and waved it at the bus driver who appeared and smiled from behind the freshly opened bus door, right on schedule. Slightly weird, thoroughly confusing, expecially coming from the barter and shift markets in Kathmandu. Somehow we ended up with two tickets to downtown and a receipt with change. The bus stop guy who had facilitated the transaction couldn’t make exact change for us in American money (who would expect that?) but rather than give us too little, he emptied his wallet of American cash, saying “I feel more comfortable to give you the money.” Something about a girl and a receipt. We attempted to argue and hand it back, but we didn’t win. He was gone in a flash, smiling as he walked through a revolving door. So we boarded the bus and sat in the back, passing a Samsung flat screen at the front, playing Gangnam Style across yogurt commmercials. Of course. Walking the streets was just as confusing. There were people in downtown Seoul, though. All on their way to somewhere, very methodically, with purposeful steps and straight direction. Every time we wandered a touch sidways, another person stopped to ask us where we were going and could they help us get there. It was is if everyone was trying to politely convince us that we were drunk. By the time we were wandering back, it was time for coffee. More wandering In Search Of…. One of us said to the other, “There’s a cute coffee shop!” to which the reply was, “It doesn’t  matter, we have no dong between us.”  (Sidebar, the Korean currency is wan, which we read as ‘dong’ at the airport for some unknown reason, and, of course, the term stuck from that moment onward. But it didn’t allow us to order coffee.) On the way back we pondered deep philosophy regarding currency, wondering what the largest dong note was… is there a megadong? and the like. But the perfect white sidewalks continued to confound, until one of us said, “what they lack in dirt and rough edges, they make up for in really kind, helpful, caring people.” And then we found ourselves on the train at the airport which said that is takes “approximately three minutes” to get from this stop to that one. So exactly three minutes and ten seconds later we were standing on the far platform asking ourselves about watches and clocks for the first time in a month. Somewhere in there we toured the king’s palace. And enjoyed it.            

I recently attended an unusual graduation ceremony. The graduates were fellows of iLEAP, an organization based in Seattle, with a mission of of training NGO managers how to be better, more effective leaders so they can return to their countries and affect the change their organizations are dedicated to making. This group of twelve graduating women was selected from over five hundred applicants wanting to enter the eight week iLEAP course, and came from nine countries spread across four continents. I met these women a month ago when I was invited to one of iLEAP’s functions, and they were such a dynamic, engaging bunch (as was the organization), that I decided to return when they opened the doors for their graduation ceremony. I was told it would be emotional for these fellows who had spent eight weeks together to split and return home. I was told the tissues would pass around the room. But what I didn’t anticipate was hearing in their own words what they had learned. The director, Britt Yamamoto, opened by explaining that the organization uses fire as a metaphor for the way the group works to ignite social change through teaching leadership. Then each graduate stood in front of the crowd to speak in English rather than their native language. As I listened, I noticed each one selected words that echoed their own native language and culture. In short, they shared an experience, but all had different things to say about it because of their background, language and the cause they are working on through their own organization back home. Their varied word selection and cultural differences made it a treat to hear. The audience got a glimpse into the way each fellow processed the group experience they shared during the past eight weeks. The messages of Micheline, Hotlin and Nicole resonated with me most. This is some of what was said (relayed the way I heard their words): Micheline from Congo – Hope needs power and love. Now I know you know about my country because you keep asking questions. Now you know who is my president, when my war ended and began, things like that. But most important you know there is hope. Sophea from Cambodia – People here are showing they care about the world, about our countries. I am a skeptical person and was skeptical about this program, and searched [everyone at iLEAP]… But  we will take this knowledge and rock the system. This is a grassroots community and our governments and corporations will hear from us! Must be change, to shift power of whole structures. Before I did not think in these terms. I thought not of myself. I care for self now. I am not just an activist with fight, but will work through love also. Johanna from Nicaragua – I will be ok because I met the Seattle community. I will be ok because this is not the end. This is a life trip for me. We continue sharing in all capacity even after. We are a movement, changing the world. It’s changing because of women. Thank you for sharing the power of community with me. Mariana from El Salvador – I am a happy feminist! I found power and love in my host family, my fellow sisters, the feminist movement, and I found words to change my society at home. Ohnmar from Burma (Mynamar) – I will reflect on fire as a metaphor, as I can now see that my role as a leader and mother bring responsibility which block our fire. Here I was able to see what was blocked for me. I have a deeper connection to self, community and experience for social change. Tamara from Nicaragua – We all come in with assumptions. Experience like this gives the opportunity to go deep and go past assumptions. Through this experience and the homestay, you learn a new country, and you learn you. Ha from Vietnam – A meaningful moment. I will bring home memories of cold weather, snow, and warm people. Will take home the fire of power and love. I am inspired through love. Trust and love. Growing as an individual, I can now better keep contributing to becoming a better society. Maritza from El Salvador – I learned that you have very cold weather, but very warm people. I learned I love Costco food! But mostly I learned about life. Fabiola from Bolivia – [She brought a backpack and unpacked it as she spoke] I have learned skills! [pulls out chopsticks] I can now use these! Thank you Seattle. These are just one of many tools we have learned. We have gained family, friends and tools. Thank you for helping me raise my voice. Bernarda from Guatemala – This was my first time out of my country ever. Unexpected surprises and gifts. I learned a lot from the moments we shared, and I learned that tissues are a very important part of the program. Hotlin from Indonesia – I am from a very different culture than the Latino ladies here. I used to be not expressive, I was always a hard, tough leader. Now I have more fun because of them. I have been to the US a lot, but this is first time in the US that I feel community. I feel part of the iLEAP community. Seattle taught me, at home sunny means warm, here, sunny means cold. The connection, to sisters in this group, and the coaching I received opened me up. My favorite food is rendang, a traditional food from my home. Uses many spices and it takes a long time, patience to make. It is a metaphor for being a leader. Leader must be authentic, but what do you add to effect other people, enjoyed by other people. Also, I learned a proverb from Africa: if you don’t believe small things can make a difference, sleep in a tent with one mosquito. Nicole from El Salvador – El Salvador is the land of eternal smile but also a land of problems. Violence against women in El Salvador is a problem. I can do the work now. I was fighting a monster with nothing – no weapons or even pots or pans. I still believe in kindness of strangers, magic of human beings. Your struggles are now ours. I believe it is possible to take these struggles of others because people have the power to heal each other. We are the crazy people who think social change can happen. And cuidado! [The fellows echoed back, Cuidado! Some fists raised in solidarity] Beware! Because now there are twelve more women with tools and our countries are going to deal with us! Did I mention that the gathering was a potluck? There was curry from four continents. And there might have been some rendang on the entree table. iLEAP is looking for Seattle homestay families for the next group of fellows. Fellows stay for two tp eight weeks. There is more info about what they do and how you can get involved on their website.  

[From an old blog ca: 2009] I could tell you that I summitted Mt Si with 2 guys I barely know. I could tell you they were a Boeing engineer and a radiologist. I could tell you they were both older than me. That’d all be true. But they were also an Aussie and an Irishman. These are 2 of my favorite accents to listen to, so when I realized that they’d be my companions for this most-of-a-day trip, I was thrilled to listen to the curly words, be they interesting in content or not. I had met the Aussie before, as he and I each have a 3 year old at the same preschool. Slight in build, and mild in manner, he was the catalyst for this trip. The Irishman was new to me, but quickly grew on me like an old friend, as he had the manner (to a tee) of Stephen, the Irishman from Braveheart. With a boisterous, growly voice that carried the length of the trail, I listened, grin on my face, and couldn’t help but want to hear, “Ireland, its moi oiland!” leave his lips. He looked akin to Alfred E Newman, from the Mad magazine cover, complete with large outstretched ears and wrinkled forehead. He lives in my town, and even knows the owner of my favorite Irish pub. Mostly he rattled on and on about how his engineering days were through and he needed to find something else. And how he was the 3rd youngest of seven in an Irish Catholic family. Also how he has lived all over the world, and didn’t now, but had had girlfriends, and, “aint shoor I’m deh merrien tayp”. The Aussie got words in edgewise, when the Irishman had to stop for breath, being that he had 55 pounds on his back, several on his belly, and had only quit smoking a year or two ago. When it was the Aussie’s turn to talk, he gave tips on climbing and mountaineering that he had learned in his recent classes, the Irishman following behind in the steps, uttering “roight, roight, got it.” Most of the rest of the conversation focused on “the trip”. Not the one we were on, but the one they were both signed up for. They are training to summit Mt McKinley, in Denali National Park in May. Onward for an hour, up switchbacks, with Denali this and Denali that. Bits about food, tents, snow, pulling 100 pound sleds, hypothermia, 20 days without showers, and their favorite, the carrying of “the buckets” up and down the 21,000 ft mountain. Seems Alaska’s national parks are going eco-friendly and requiring everything (and I mean everything) that is carried, consumed or expelled on the mountain be brought back down to the base. Lovely for guy-banter. They had a small spat about who was going to carry who’s shit up and down the mountain in May, then resumed the other Denali-this, Denali-that talk. I learned too much about crampons, pitons, jumars, ice axes, crevasse rescue, base camps, rope chains and harnesses. All interesting, but perhaps TMI to make me ever want to do that myself. Perhaps not. I interjected only occasionally, so as not to ruin the foreign cadence that my ears were so loving, but managed to ask several questions and answer some too. About 3 miles up, the Aussie, after noting several times that, “Erika, you must be bored for our rate with these packs” asked, in jest, if I wanted to carry his 55 pound pack for entertainment. To his surprise, I took him up on it and got to tread across snow and a couple switchbacks with the weight (and a very nice pack, I might add). I need to practice more, though I managed to keep a quicker pace than they did for the one-and-a-half switchbacks that I carried it. At the summit, the Irishman was transformed from growly and weathered into a schoolboy, due to the antics of the camp robbers. I put several nuts on his hand and listened to his amazement and wide-eyed giggling as each bird took turns landing on his hand and selecting a snack. I sat and dropped my pack in the snow. At least 3 feet of it. Snow was falling heavily and the best view was one down to the nearest row of trees. The guys both immediately opened their packs and emptied jugs and jugs of water which was the weight they had carried up. Empty jugs re-packed, less than 10 minutes later, we turned and headed for the “cah-pahk”, or parking lot, for those of you who don’t speak “international”. I learned about climbing pace, lactic acid and how to get the most out of a hike like Mt Si. I learned a lot about these two guys that I didn’t really know before. And I learned that even on a wet and snowy day in April, I can really enjoy a climb, if I have the right company.

My last post lamented a bunch of photos I’d lost due to file corruption. This is another. It would have been submitted to Nat Geo if I’d been able to retrieve the RAW file. As it is, it’s a JPEG only and unsubmitable (they require RAW files to validate authenticity and ownership).   Workers climb the steps of Boudhanath temple to tie prayer flags at the top before descending to connect at one of the four sacred corners. Boudhanath temple, Kathmandu, Nepal

The other day I got all psyched up to enter the annual Nat Geo photo contest. In case you’ve never done that, it takes a lot of small print reading, a lot of picking through files, and a lot of nerve. If you ever do it yourself, here’s a tip: Do NOT go out and look at what everyone else has submitted until after you have chosen your own. So I was happily, courageously picking through photos when I tripped over the reason I quit processing this set of Nepal photos over a year ago. Corrupted files. Not just one or two, but fifteen out of a string of 25 were damaged. That means I missed most of a thought. Most of an experience. The ones on either side are the preamble and the denouement. The guts are missing, the actual reason I had my camera clicking. Below is one of the images that was damaged and visible only in JPEG version (most cameras write a viewable JPEG with the RAW file so  you can see it on your LCD screen after it’s taken. But this was just the JPEG. The RAW file is unreadable. In essence, it’s only a skeleton of the original photo. I can’t open it in any program (save this little viewer) and I can’t edit or affect it. So I snapped a screen shot of it and cleaned it up in Photoshop as well as I could.     A woman loads bricks into her basket to carry them through the haze and heat of the day to a construction location. Bouda, Kathmandu, Nepal   Next post: The one I almost submitted.

I have a confession to make. I never finished going through my 4000 photos and 250 videos from my Nepal trip in 2013. Part of the reason was because when I first went though them after I got home, my first batch (out of 12 total) had a string of corrupted photos. None of my programs could read them. I was heartbroken because, of course, it was a series at Boudhanath, the largest Tibetan Buddhist temple in Nepal. The technical snafu was frustrating and I spent a week copying and trying to mend the damaged files. It discouraged me enough that I never got through that series. Long story short, I was looking through these photos yesterday and was able to reclaim some of the previously damaged photos! This is one of them. A monk works his paryer beads in the shade of Boudhanath temple, Kathmandu, Nepal  

How would your impression of a faraway place be different if you saw photos of everyday life there instead of the stories that the photographers and journalists want you to see? Think about that for a minute. You have all sorts of impressions of a place you’ve never been because of what journalists and photographers in shiny magazines have shown you. What if you saw the everyday images more prevalently than the exception-in-time photos? What if you heard about the family’s daily activities instead of the bomb raids and de-tusked elephants? Does it occur to you that Africa has cities with office buildings and people who go to malls? We never see that side of Africa. How would you think differently about a far away place if you weren’t given a specific impression by the imagery we’ve been shown in media?   Documentary photographer Peter DiCampo spoke at the conference I went to last weekend. These were the questions he posed. His talk lit me up because these are exactly the kind of photos I like taking most when I travel. So I revisited a small section of my old piles of images from my first trip to Nepal, ignoring the grand mountainscapes and flag-laden bridges, yaks and monkeys, and tourist destinations. Everyday life in a foreign place is incredible! These are the images that have always been most interesting to me anyway, so I was excited to go back through and re-look with that focus in mind. Here are a few. More to come soon.   A scooter turns down an alley painted with pink propaganda near Thamel, Kathmandu, Nepal   A lady walks below the razorwire-adorned wall of a police station, Kathmandu Nepal   A boy on a motorbike pulls up at a convenience store in Kathmandu. Don’t miss the advertising on the shop.  

This weekend I attended a photography conference in Seattle, called Collaborators for Cause. One of the keynote speakers was Aaron Huey. He’s a cultural photographer and activist and he blew me away for several reasons. Most of it was specific to the way he connected directly with me. (I still always see this sort of coincidence as gloriously serendipitous and it makes me giggly with joy when it happens.) The rest were the way his words supported his images perfectly. That was the biggie, actually. He has done extensive work with the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota (which contains the Lakota people – the tribe of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse). And this tribe, being one of the dominant peoples of the upper Midwest, where I grew up, is one I have known about (learned their history, art and cultural artifacts) since childhood. His TED talk stands out in my mind as one of the most evocative calls to action of any TED talk I’ve watched. His imagery and words had me in tears. And of course I related to it because of what I had learned in my childhood about people who used to live where I did. I could go on and on about that connection, but that’s just the first. When I talked to him afterwards, I asked if he’s a climber. Of course (sorry, I can peg those guys a mile away by now). Rock and free, not alpine, he said. That was my guess. During his talk he also spoke about Sherpas and some work he did in Nepal with the recent avalanche victims. And yes, of course he has a National Geographic story about it coming soon. And after reflecting on his work and our chat, he struck me very much the way Jimmy Chin did when I spoke to him. Really personable, and, for lack of a better descriptor, “climber-like” in disposition: relaxed and tenacious; driven and centered; skilled but not complacent in it. The way you need to be if you climb rocks and mountains as a hobby. I complimented his verbal presentation and asked if he polished his words for a talk like this, or if it came naturally. “I just fly by the seat of my pants on most of this stuff,” he said. Yep. Like a climber. And then I got to thinking about how that mentality has pushed so many climbers (and artists) into a successful zone for their life purposes. You have to be those things to succeed, and being a climber, you tend to have those characteristics (yeah, I am going to stereotype just a bit, forgive me). The ones that keep you from becoming too arrogant, confident in your direction, and too sure that you are the king of the rock. Because that’s when you often fall to an early death. But the drive, the tenacity to reach for the next hand hold even through the exhaustion of a seemingly endless puzzle is needed as well. It’s a balance of both. Like climbing. Oh, you thought I was talking about climbing? It’s art. Creating something with a larger purpose, using your talent, inginuity and creative thinking uses needs these same skills. Then I mulled over my fears and all the places that I’ve turned back, not taken the chance, or decided not to push myself to the limit. And then I listened to the few minutes I recorded from his talk on Friday night. (I found it serendipitous that he decided to say the things that were most crucial for me to hear while I was running my recorder. Because then I could listen to them again and share them with you.) And I really want to because I think they apply to everyone who is attempting to do something big, something outside the norm, where you have to stick your neck out so far, love something so much and fear it never getting found, and trip across a minefield of misses and failures, as is so often a creative person’s workflow. And then take a deep breath, pick yourself up and figure out how to go on against all that adversity…. But according to Aaron Huey, that’s looking at it wrong. Because failure equals salvation. “That’s very Stanford, really,” he said when he showed the slide with Failure=Salvation on it. And then what he said was this: This is about the long game. All you have is the integrity of your work. You’re surrounded by the sea of endless seismic shifts in the media landscape. There’s an earthquake all around us, lightning is striking all around us. If you can make friends with that, if you can cheer for the earthquakes and swallow the lightning… if you can see disruption as your friend and welcome it, then you are free. You can find opportunity everywhere you look. I don’t need to follow that with anything. Just read it again. Then go find your own lightning to swallow.

Even on my worst days, the thought that sticks with me all day is that I am following my passion. It doesn’t have to be perfect all the time, it just has to be my passion. Whether I focus on photography, writing or cultural travel as my passion, it helps to remember that pursuing it regardless of the pitfalls, means that I have a passion. I’ll take that a thousand times over never deciding I have a passion that needs to be followed. Thanks to the author of this article for a little inspiration today.  

While it also has the monikers City of Lakes and The Mini Apple, a name I never knew while I lived there was Mill City. Only once I went back to visit and became a tourist in my hometown did I realize how much the flour industry was centered in Minneapolis. The Mill City Museum sits on the grounds of the original General Mills Flour mill. As flour goes, the mill has a pretty vibrant history. Built in 1866, it was the largest flour mill in the world until it dramatically blew itself up in 1878. The mill explosion (which is re-created a number of ways throughout the museum) is still the largest explosion/didaster of its type in the city’s history. I also came away with the knowledge that finely milled flour is better at exploding than gunpowder. Neat! It was rebuilt and regained the largest mill title until Pillsbury built a larger one in 1905 across the street.Well, across the river, really. Which river? The Mighty Mississippi, of course. The Miss was the powerhouse providing all the power to run the giant, seven story mills. And the famous giant waterway is conveniently located at the east end of the Great Plains, so all the wheat from the Nation’s Breadbasket (or Grainbelt) was shipped on trains (more Minneapolis history: James J. Hill was a railroad tycoon and was to railroads what Carengie was to steel. As a side note, I went to school with his granddaughter.) While the Mill City history is interesting (there’s a fantastic 20-minute video of the 200-year history of Minneapolis at the Mill City Museum), I was at least as interested in taking photos. The architecture and ruins lend themselves perfectly to photography. Twice I have been there and both times the place flipped my creative switch and sent me running through it after creative photos like a dancer across a stage.       I’ve always loved old buildings and railroads. Here they are together.     Looking through the old broken windows to the Mississippi     This is the stuff that photo classes are made of.       From the top floor of Gold Medal to the water tower of Pillsbury.   Seven floors of these things turning by water power, all connected by belts. Imagine the noise!      One of my favs: The Stone Arch Bridge through the glass plate windows.    Same-ish view without the window.        This is what I-beams do in a fire. (The rebuilt mill burned and gutted in one of the city’s largest fires in 1991.)     View of the ruins (which is used as a wedding venue) through the thick glass windows.         The Mill City also reminded me that what we get here in Seattle is decidely not rain.  

This is a performance of the kecak dance in Bali. It is a traditional dance depiction of a Hindu epic story called the Ramayana.   Read more about it on my blog. Himalsong.blogspot.com

One of our first nights in Bali our guide, Wayan took us to a Kecak dance. This is a traditional Balinese telling of the Ramayana, one of the epic Hindu tales. Prince Rama is out hunting when his beautiful wife, Sita  is kidnapped by an evil king. There’s a crazy monkey creature involved and a bird-god, but the performance is style and mood-based rather than story-centric. I remembered that when I went back and looked at the photos. The memory took my breath away. Originally a tribal trance ritual, performed since the 1930s, kecak has evolved to include Hinduism and it is now considered a form modern art culture. The only music is an on-stage choir of men, chanting and calling “cak” in waves of chorus. They add arm waving and occasional dancing to punctuate the high points of the story. Between the lighting, chanting and exotic costumes, it’s a provocative spectacle. I’ve added a few of the most mood-evoking photos below.  Lighting the stage centerpiece at the beginning of the performance.  The sinew in his back…  Kecak chanters  A favorite shot of the night – one of the king’s daughters enters.  The evil king convinces Sita to stay with him.  Another favorite – Sita.  Sita’s mother gives the monkey a gift to convince him to help release her daughter. The second sister is imprisoned and awaits her sister’s return. I love the kecak chanters laying down around her.  My favorite Hindu god – the Garuda Bird arrives to help Rama retrieve his wife.  Climax of the trance-inducing dance and chant… …so that this guy (convincingly entranced) could dance on fire. No tricks here folks. Real fire, real dancing, real calluses on his bare feet.

I love people. I really love people. But I also love untrammeled wild spaces and I think that the North Cascades are one of those places where the masses shouldn’t go. I think it’s fine for most of humanity to approximate the experience by hiking Mt Si or Tiger Mountain, or any of the other bazillion easily accessible hikes off I-90 in the central Cascades. Most hikes are well documented on WTA or similar sites and people can pick from hundreds (yes, literally) in the state. So when a friend offered to go hiking on a less known trail up in the far reaches of the North Cascades, I couldn’t say no. The rest of the trip slowly revealed to us the reasons why this trail is rarely hiked (or rarely hiked reasons – RHR).   Sunday the parking lot looked like this. Pure heaven. Except for the biting flies. I won’t go into the drive details, but most cars with less clearance than this one wouldn’t make it up there. Rarely Hiked Reason #1 (RHR) The first thing we found on the trail was the hike registry log. No one had signed in or out since Friday. A dozen steps later, we ran onto a fresh pile of bear poo. Neat! A little later, elk tracks maybe a day old. I wondered for a moment if we were following deer runs rather than a hiking trail. The path was worn but thin and without a single boot track. Then we lost the trail for a while and rambled over some blow downs. (RHR#2)  My pants were soaked immediately from moisture-covered brush along the path (RHR#3). My face was covered with spider webs because no one else had gone through for a while (RHR#4). I felt a little like Indiana Jones in the opening scene of Raiders. Lots of spiders, bushwhacking a trail, and me without my machete.   As we went it was mostly shaded by trees, no views to tempt us (RHR#5) except a peek-a-boo here and there. Just forest and mud and dew. Until we reached the bog. I attempted to bushwhack around it because just getting to the edge we were both muddy up to ankles (RHR#6). And it’s August. The dry month. I crawled over alder and skunk cabbage before circling back and tromping through the middle of the bog. Of course I looked down into the water and of course I saw dead people. (Gees, I’ve been watching too many movies lately.) But I sang the Bog Down In The Valley-O song the rest of the trip. And in that bog there was a hoard of mosquitoes, a rare hoard, a ramblin’ hoard… and so we didn’t dally.   But there were huckleberries.  They were more plentiful than anywhere I’ve ever seen – even the blueberry farm. Unbelievable. We snacked and hiked and tried to ignore the near constant spider streamers across our faces.   We climbed up a shallow gully to a rock outcrop and found a couple of waterfalls. The sun kept some of the bugs off, so we rested on the boulders and had a little lunch while listening to the falls. We couldn’t see the falls too well from the trail (RHR#7), and the cliff edge prevented much exploration in that area.    But there were pretty flowers!   Wild azela     This looked like a necklace to me.   Wild spirea I’d guess.   Moments later we met up with the only people we’d see during the whole trip. A group of seven climbers had arrived on Friday, summited Saturday and were on their way back down. They looked beat but happy. This trail is an old climbing route that has been mostly abandoned because there are other shorter, more scenic, less labor intensive routes to summit. So unless you’re a climber who’s in no hurry, doesn’t like views, and loves to cut your own path en route to the actual climb, this isn’t the hike for you. We talked to them for a minute and as they left, they thanked us for clearing the bottom half of the path of spiders for them.     About an hour later, dew soaked and bug bitten, mud covered and footsore from attentively picking every step (RHR#8), we reached a clearing. Unfortunately the clouds didn’t clear.   But when a mountain hides, you have a few options, so we exercised all of them: Look at bits of the mountain as they peek out   Look for other, less majestic, but more cooperative mountains.   See the trees   Focus on nearer things…   Look for diamonds in the flowers   Encourage the mosquito eaters   Stalk the flowers Eat more berries Talk to the mountain and ask it to come out (note the Mountain Whisperer in the lower right) Shoot more wildflowers (wild violets) Have another lunch then wander a bit. We found a shotgun shell or two and remembered that bear hunting season is currently open. Didn’t see any bears, didn’t act like bears. But the horseflies were getting nasty (RHR#9) so we packed it in and headed back down in full anticipation of facing the spiders again. I nearly tripped over a pair of ptarmigan who were perfectly plumed to match the trail rocks. They fluttered and as they went and I didn’t see much of them, but the elusive chicken-like birds have few likenesses. It had to be ptarmigans. Something to check off in my bird book! And then I walked face-first into an inhabited orb.     Did I mention there were spiders? (RHR#10, 11, 12) My arm muscles are toast two days later because I waved a trekking pole in grand circles in front of me for two miles of trail. Despite the effort I still had enough webbing all over me to make a me-sized web. Instant Spider Girl. I think we were naming the ones we picked off of ourselves by the end. There were spider parties – three or more on a single web at chest level just hanging out and chatting. They quit talking when we approached. There were long strings with little guys hanging from the ends. Big ones right in my face, dripping off my elbows… “Oh, can you get that one, he’s in my hair.” Not a good place for arachnophobes. But they were pretty! We almost felt bad for wrecking all the work they had done… twice in one day.     And so now we know why it’s not a heavily frequented trail. And I hope it stays that way because it was a joy to have the solitude. It was a challenging adventure to bushwhack and trail find and ford streams. It was interesting to see flowers that no one else had seen, and it was fantastic to be completely still and hear nothing human but my own breath. Only the crack of a glacier and a hiss from a faraway creek and the wind in the trees. 

I have so much more story to tell about Bali. For now this will have to do. My quintessential pastoral photo of Bali: Notably:Gray skies threatening to either rain or turn blue.Rice fields full of workersOcean in the distanceGiant palm trees (You’ll have to imagine the equatorial steaminess)Workman’s hut or resting spot for rice field workersCow grass in the foregroundAnd a bit of a scooter

I’ve been local lately. Here is some of what my home area offers for photography. Hope you’re out enjoying summer too.

“You see that saddle over there? That’s where we’re going.” Note the knob on the left (mostly un-named on trail maps) and the peak on the right (Mt Ruth, 7115 feet elevation) as well as the tiny tuft of trees you can see in the middle. We hiked in about five miles to Hannigan Pass. Four hot hours later we were looking up a gully. It wasn’t too difficult, just hot and dry and mostly unshaded, leaving us sweat-and-dust covered, which helped keep the black flies off, I guess. They were relentless for the first half of the trail. There were still several creeks running across the path in early August though, which made cold, fresh water readily available. At the last creek, we took mini-baths in the 40 degree water. It was fabulous. I almost caught a tadpole, and the butterflies were varied and plentiful, fluttering around us, alighting on creek-side flowers. From the water we also surveyed our next move. This trail is marked only to Hannigan Pass, which was just up ahead. From there, it’s a convoluted climber’s trail to the summit of Mt Ruth. We planned to stay in the saddle just before the Mt Ruth climb, which would yield views of nearby peaks in all directions. But we purposely left our climbing gear at home. This is a photographer’s expedition, not a summit grab. The next bit is still a bit terrifying in my own mind. See that tan slide area in the center left of this photo? …the bit that looks like a vertical climb up a gully? It goes up about 400 feet from Hannigan Pass. “We’re not climbing that, right?” Rachel said. “No, we’ll go to the left on that bit there.” Steve returned confidently. It looked like a green switchbacking trail in the beginning, but the greenery hid most of the trail from view. For the next hour we tackled The Beast. Not the gully in this picture, but its smaller, almost as vertical little brother. For 350 vertical feet we tentatively selected footing, kicked loose rocks down the slope and relied occasionally on veggie belay (grabbing trees and roots to pull ourselves up). And we each have not-so-light backpacks tugging us mercilessly toward the bottom of the ravine with each step. “You see that root there – don’t use it, it’s cracked. Reach up to that tree; get a good hold on that before your next step. This is slippery.” Mud and water trickled down The Beast intermittently. Rachel led, I was middle, Steve guided us through each foot placement and had our backs should we slide or fall. The funny thing about this sort of climb, it can be a blast in the right mindset. But I was exhausted from the hot trek in, and in this fifth hour of exertion, my thighs hummed and my knees wobbled. Then I almost panicked. “Steve, my head is screaming at me. I’m going to say some irrational things in a minute. I just need you to talk me through it.” “In a minute, like now?” His voice was relaxed and that helped. Then I did, and he did. After that brief pause, we moved on. His wristwatch kept track of our altitude on ascent. He checked his watch. “You have 100 feet elevation left to the top. Or 250 if you turn around.” He should be a motivational speaker. While going up was terrifying in spots, the main thing that accosted me was the thought of going back down. How the hell was I going to get back down this with a pack? I voiced that thought and Steve again talked me through. Finally we topped out. The Beast had been conquered. Twenty minutes later we had crossed talus fields and snowy slopes. We were close to the golden hour of pre-sunset, and we hadn’t found a camp spot yet. Raindrops began falling just as we entered the saddle. In a small bowl along the ridge, we put up our tents while we listened to the tapping of raindrops on them. Mt Baker was in view, Mt Shuksan visible to its left. Beautiful location! But the clouds… and the rain. We prepared to get skunked for our first sunset. Steve surveying the clouds approaching from the east. Then the rain stopped. The low hanging clouds caught a little light and we waited. Might get something. Might all fade to gray. We waited some more. Then the clouds pulled back and the sky exploded. I was tickled to see Steve, who has been doing this sort of thing for almost 2 decades, react to the sunset. He lit up as much as the sky. Here is some of it.                 Once the show was over it was 10 pm and we hadn’t made dinner yet. Sporks and foons, food in the twilight, chats about the day and chimping shots. Moments later all was silent. I lost a little sleep over The Beast. About 2 am I got up and looked outside. The Milky Way shot out from the summit of Mt Ruth like a fountain across the sky. Two hours later there was light in the sky and I was up, awaiting sunrise.     Steve followed shortly, setting up before the first light hit the heather.           Over breakfast we pondered the day. It seemed to go on forever. We’d shot sunrise, wandered and enjoyed the space all around us, moved the tents around, posed and staged some shots for Steve, made food, looked at the views, had leisurely coffee in the fields of alpine heather. (There was no where else to sit.) It made a nice bed, too. I forgot to pack my sleeping pad. I realized it just as we arrived at our campsite, before I opened my pack. “Oh no! You’re kidding!” Rachel and Steve said in unison. But the heather was more comfortable than my Thermarest. Hummingbirds buzzed us. One paused and studied me long enough that I could see it was a male Rufous. Rachel lay in her tent, Steve was filtering water at a trickle below a snowfield about a quarter mile from our site, and I was deciding if I needed to do anything aside from digest breakfast. If we were back home, the day would be over, with all the time that ran across us. But it was barely 9 am. We looked at each other and marveled at how slowly the clock moved out there, and what do photographers do now that the golden light is gone for the morning. Light clouds drifted over Mt Baker casting shadows. Then Steve spotted a dark shape in the snow a little way up on Mt Ruth. “Hmm, that was weird, that rock looked like a bear, but it’s not moving… No! It’s a bear, it’s moving!”   Our only camp neighbors were along the same ridge, but closer to Mt Ruth. They had begun their ascent about 7:30 am, as we were finishing our morning camera time and deciding which dehydrated bag to pick for breakfast. They’d been making slow progress along the ridgeline and were two dots near the top now. The bear began loping faster, with intent, it seemed, up the snowbank, toward the climbers. The climbers were unaware of the furry creature pursuing them. We watched as our stoves heated breakfast and coffee. “I suppose we’d better look for a place to hang our food tonight, huh?” Steve said. And after breakfast we did. The bear took no interest in the climbers, but frolicked in the snow, enjoying the cool temps and probably escaping flies. He traversed the ridge and wandered across the base of the mountain toward some mountain goats who blended in well with the snow. They took notice and moved to a rock. Then we lost sight of the furry entertainment as it wandered into the distance. Mid morning. Light’s gone, might as well walk a bit. Took a lazy stroll toward Mt Ruth. I stopped in the shade of the few trees to sit and look around, smell some flowers, let the butterflies float by. Rachel had summit fever and wanted to go up a bit more. She and Steve kicked steps in the snow for a while until some of the fever subsided. Ice axes and crampons next time. It looks like a pretty nice walk up along the Ruth Glacier. By then the weekend summiters had made it from the parking lot and were on their way past our camp. A parade trickled by most of the first half of the day. Each group complimented our choice camp site.     Looking back to our campsite. Note the 2 dots just above the center of the frame.   Wild penstamon maybe? Mid afternoon. Considering lunch. Thunderheads built to the west. Summiters passing in the early afternoon lamented not bringing rain gear. Some were bent on sleeping at the summit of Ruth. What to do with the afternoon? Photographers nap, since they’re up at 4 am for sunrise and up at 11 pm for sunset and stars. A nap seems obvious at 2 pm. So I did. Storm clouds built to the east as well, and we wondered if we’d see sunset. Flat mountains and flowers in the mid-day sun. It was hard to take a bad photo up there, but if you were going to do it, it would be at 2 pm. The clouds thinned, so we had an early dinner and headed up to the top of the nearest peak for sunset. It’s opposite Mt Ruth from our campsite. (Remember the knob on the left in the first photo.)       Steve setting up in Sunset Location One While we didn’t climb Mt Ruth, we did summit our own little mountain. Here’s the view from the top in a 360 video. Then the light turned sweet again and the cameras clicked. A veil of clouds pulled back just as the sun ducked behind the mountains, and mad colors screamed across the sky.         “Funny thing is, people are going to think you Photoshopped that.” That’s what the climbers said to Steve when they saw his shots from the previous night. Yup. The last quarter moon crept toward Mt Baker on the horizon as we hiked back down the hill in twilight. The Milky Way reached up from the peak of Ruth all the way across the sky. We played with flashlights and long exposures. I don’ think I’ve ever had moonflare in a photo before. (That’s the red spot in the sky on the left. It’s the light of the moon refracting off my lens.) The sunrise the next morning was cloudless, so similar to the morning before, that I was not compelled to get up. We had breakfast and broke camp at 7:30 and were on our way back down just after 8 am. The Beast loomed, but in the end, thanks to Steve’s awesome guide skill, and his trekking poles, going down wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Slowly, tentatively, we picked foot spots and used veggie belays, making our way down a few feet at a time. I employed the crab walk at one point, and butt-friction at another, then I flipped around and backed down a bit that was too steep to go down forwards. These two photos were taken by a friend of Rachel’s who just happened by on the way up (with skis, no less) as we were coming down. It was flat enough here to stop for a photo.   Then, finally we could see the bottom about 50 feet below us. The Beast was conquered. We exchanged high fives and breathed deeply. Then it was just a quick, hot dusty four-mile slog back to the car.  

The camping season brings forth luscious images of swinging in a hammock under a huge tree, with a roaring campfire, s’mores and the comfy, cozy tent, does it not? Careless, lazy days out in the wilderness: that’s camping. However, I am about to leave for my second camping trip in as many weekends, and I admit that I have spent more hours planning, shopping, packing, preparing, pre-cooking, washing, listing and arranging than the whole of the time we will be actually at the camp site. That’s enough to discourage many would-be outdoor lovers from going. It’s work, it’s stressful, and it’s impossible to remember everything. Even with lists. There are several reasons why. But the most labor-intensive reason for me, is my child with very restrictive dietary issues and irritable bowel syndrome. Another is taking the whole family. More people equals more prep and planning. More permutations of needs. Maybe I don’t need to say more, but I’m going to spell out our operation, in case you are one of the people who dreads packing for camping, but does want to go. Because if I can do it, you can do it. First, let me say that I am a backpacking pro. I pack myself for a five day trip to the hinterlands with little effort. I can pack myself for a solo weekend on the trails in about three hours, including food prep and shopping. I have it down to a science and I know what I like to eat, drink, take, leave. But throw in a hubby who loves his giant cotton flannel sleeping bag (it weighs as much as my whole pack and takes up as much space) and a kid who requires special food prep and handling, it’s a whole different animal. It’s nowhere near backpacking with a car nearby. It’s the whole kitchen sink, and the trimmings, crammed in our SUV. We take pillows, the huge 12 by 12 by 7 tent, at least one other tent, balls, toys, all sorts of extras. And then I do the food planning. When I backpack, I have single portions of mostly dry foods (though, I have been known to carry diced celery and bell peppers, mandarin oranges and fresh fruit to mountain-tops). My meal making at camp usually requires boiling water over a mini stove to re-hydrate noodles, or a sauce mix. One pan, one person, easy. No, I don’t do those freeze-dried thingies – they’re nasty. And since I know you’re wondering, here’s my favorite backpacking recipe : Thai Curry Chicken and Noodles  1 packet coconut powder1 packet vacuum sealed chicken1 tsp Thai green curry pasteRice stick noodles (2-3 inch bundle, or a quarter package)Optional – celery and bell peppers, diced (I keep these in a snack sized ziplock)Optional – ground garlic to taste, or garlic powderBoil about 3 cups of water in a high-sided pot, add noodles. Just as they start to soften, add coconut powder and curry. Stir until consistent and slightly thick. Add veggies, chicken and garlic. Stir until heated through. Eat right from the pot (or share). Even if I made enough for two other people, it would fit in the pot I made it in.But when my family comes along, that easy, tasty meal doesn’t convert to car camping food. Why? The kids won’t eat the spice. And I don’t have the bandwidth to dump some out midstream (as I would at home) and add the curry to only half. Plus one of my kids can’t eat chicken, so I’d divide into 3 pots instead of two, and you can see how it’s easier to look for other options. Here’s a grid of the meal planning I did for last weekend. So we do kielbasa, which cooks up over a camp stove perfectly, with baked beans and broccoli – a perfect camping meal. Except my youngest can’t eat meat or beans. So I plan and make a whole separate meal for him on my two burner camp stove. Special veggie patty and a hash brown patty, and fruit. That works. We eat in shifts. And someone else does the dishes, fetches water and sets the table, thankfully. They’re old enough now that everyone is helpful and assertive in making camping work. And it’s a fun meal – I don’t have to yell if a piece ends up on the ground. They quickly learn that if you put a piece in the dirt, there’s less for you to eat. You know, simple life lessons that we don’t teach nearly enough anymore. Crumbs everywhere don’t require sweeping. I can let them have soda for dinner beverage (just this once), and if anyone is grumpy, they can go wander the camp trails or take a swim. Clean-up is easier, or maybe just different. And being outdoors while doing it all is a very worthwhile reward. We talk about the crows over head, waiting to see if we’ve left scraps big enough for them. We watch the sun move across the sky, and notice new animal sounds around us. The next obstacle, after meals, is the restroom issue. My youngest also wrestles irritable bowel (ulcerative colitis) and as a result, once he eats anything, we have very little warning before a bathroom is necessary (sometimes 30 seconds, often we’re lucky enough to get 5 minutes). This makes several camping activities difficult – getting there, namely. Don’t eat in the car. Or do it as you pull into the gas station, and just eat while stopped. Don’t hike, snack, hike some more, without a biff. Always carry toilet paper and extra undies. It’s not just camping, it’s our whole modus now, but when you’re out, away from everything, it’s more apparent, more stressful, and requires more planning. He has an awesome attitude about it, and takes it all in stride, often much more than the rest of us, thankfully. I was thinking this morning, as I was completing the plan for this coming camp, one where there will be a handful of mommies, a mess of kids and no adult male people (we call it Mom Camp), how unfortunate it is that we all prepare individual family meals a activities when we go do this group camp. It’s a perfect opportunity to band together, save some work, pool shopping cooking and cleanup. And some of that might happen, but I’m not the only mommy of a food-specific kid. I imagine, before I open my peanut butter, that I’ll ask the camp if anyone is anaphylactic, because that is a common courtesy now. Not only that, I could not effectively prepare a meal for a peanut-dairy-wheat allergy kid. It would stress me out. I know how to do PKU and ulcerative colitis. Another wrench in the works would take me out of commission. Too much stress, and I know this is true of other moms, as well. They’d stress entirely too much over my own kid’s needs in meal planning or taking a hike. Because everyone gets used to their own necessity, their own mode of operation. It works in your own nucleus. So we take a dozen nucleii outinto the group campsite. Last weekend we made it up to Mt Constitution, canoed in a lake, and made all sorts of other wonderful memories, the four of us, out on an island in the far corner of the country. We were all four happy, relaxed and refueling in the outdoors. It takes planning, it’s stressful, and it never works out the way you want it to. But we do it anyway. Because the rewards of having a weekend outdoors are far greater than the toil that goes into getting there. And sometimes you have to get that far away before you remember what’s really important.

The first family camp of the season is always an exercise in what we forgot. This year our long weekend on Orcas Island had a few extra quirks, namely that we brought a boat. We have a new canoe-kayak hybrid beast because my family can’t even be normal when we get a boat. We’ve had only one go of using it before this trip. That began and ended with us nearly swamping it in a rough Lake Washington with my dad at the helm instead of my husband, so hubby was still green on this Orcas trip. I was a veteran, of course, with  my one (nearly very wet) experience. After the extra half-hour it took to load the canoe on top of the SUV we realized that the access to the back hatch of the truck is blocked, not only by the canoe tie-downs that run from the roof to the bumper, but because the boat itself rests on the door.  No quick ice stop at Safeway. No lunch access on the ferry.     The drive from the ferry to the site is always serene and a few minutes too long. We passed some orange road signs. The first said “Fresh Oil” the second, “Loose Gravel.” It made us alert, but the road didn’t change. No clinking under the car, no shiny on the road. A couple miles up, another pair of signs. Chris read the first sign, speaking it out with a sing-song voice and feigned excitement, “Fresh Oil!” I echoed back enthusiastically, reading the second one, “Loose Gravel!” Fresh Oil, Loose Gravel all along the way. Just signs. On check-in the camp office told us we could change camp sites if we wanted to. We considered it over lunch and went to check out our reserved site. As we went to move the picnic table into shade, two of the spongy, moss-covered boards pulled off, revealing a sagging remnant of what used to be a table. We sat at it and ate. Our campsite was the last one available when I booked, and we’re situated next to Mr. Texas, with the giant RV and even larger, raucous family, decked out in gear. The only division between our sites is a three-foot hedge of wispy bushes. We’re staring at the side of his house-on-wheels as our entertainment during the meal. Before everyone else finished enjoying the entertainment, I rushed back to the office. Due to a stroke of luck, a cancellation had shifted several arrivals around and we were able to move to a broad, shaded, flat site with a new blonde pine picnic table. Tall trees surrounded and covered us. Tall brush separated us from the neighbors. We settled in. It’s open on one side so only one set of neighbors. We happily bid Mr. Texas adieu. When we devoured lunch – before we shifted spots, because we were ravenous – I realized our second exercise: no paper towels. The first exercise, Chris relayed once we allowed ourselves to relax on the ferry ride. We were watching the scenery from the outdoor deck when he turned to me and said, “Don’t be mad but we forgot something.” I looked at the level of annoyance on his face to determine the damage. “The paddles. We left the paddles at home.” While loading up in the dark the previous night, he asked me how we had managed to fit them in the back of the truck before, when it was just a canoe ride, not all of our camping gear. He was at work for the boat’s first dip. I made wide, diagonal motions indicating that the paddles had stretched across the whole back of our SUV. That’s when I said, “We’ll have to figure something else out.” It was the last time either of us thought about the canoe paddles until the ferry ride. So there we were carrying that darned boat on the roof of the truck, and all the life jackets – which pushed us from full to overflowing – for nothing. I let it go and wandered to the ferry railing. There were seals basking on islands as we passed. My camera was ready. I hadn’t forgotten that at least. Remember that, now. Hoisting the canoe back on the roof of the truck was easier the second time. Maybe it was lunch. We rolled through camp to number 47 and began unpacking again. We remembered tents, sleeping bags, flashlights. The kids even set up their own tent all by themselves. Basics covered, time for a little explore. Strolls on the rocky shore; watching gulls and vultures clean up fish scraps from this morning’s catch. The kids played tetherball while Chris and I wandered and took in the shoreline. How long until run?  We took a drive back to town to see if it has changed since last time we were there. Fresh Oil, Loose Gravel, Fresh Oil, Loose Gravel, and you’re there. It’s a beautiful little seaside town with expensive things you don’t need in all the shop windows, and summer reading books, blown glass decorations, metalwork, wood things, and trinket-crap-from-China with the name of the place on it… and not a single public restroom anywhere unless you buy some of those expensive things you don’t need. But I love it. It has great restaurants, beautifully flowered sidewalks with white picket fences, and my favorite view from any seaside town I have visited.     When we’re at home, my eight-year-old is happy to sit in front of screens. Not moving suits his desires fine but that’s only because video games are wildly addictive to sweet, young little minds. I always count the minutes once we’re away, until he quits asking for his DS, a phone to play, a video. Then it happened. We were returning from our jaunt into Eastsound, the quaint, main town on Orcas Island, when he asked if he could get out and walk from the entrance to the campsite rather than ride. We oblidged. He popped out of his seat and broke into a run to race the truck the whole way. He won of course, and my heart soared. Nothing beats that joyful juvenile smile after his body really goes. He ran each time we returned to camp for the rest of the trip. He raced the truck, his brother, me, whoever would race him. He loves to run. I like to let him. And now we return to the exercises in things we forgot… dinner prep begins. The exercise revealed garlic salt, curry powder, paper towels… did I say that already? Paper towels. How did I spend a full day packing and leave all this stuff behind? So we’re left with noodles, canned salmon, dried cherries… that goes together with… (imagine creative maneuvers and digging through bags, here) …mayo and honey mustard. Not curry and garlic. Sigh. (I spared you the food photos. Thank me later.) No one complains. We move on. Except I spent several prep moments shaving the broccoli. It was yellowing because I buy organic broccoli now and it stays green for about 8 minutes once out of the store. Because no chemicals. So the broccoli is slightly yellow. Since I only give my family… everything I can possibly manage, I used my camp knife to shave the almost-sprouted top off before cooking the evening’s blessed vegetable. Exercise almost complete for the day. The 12-year old, Alex and I carried the dirty pans and plates to the community sink outside the bathrooms so we could wash them. I never pack a sponge, not because I don’t want to use one, but because I usually leave the tertiary stuff to chance. Kitchen sink, you know… As a result I always end up washing pans with a paper towel. And  you know where we are with those. But it’s a private campground and my $70 per night for a camp site apparently also afforded me a kitchen sponge to wash dishes. Exercise. And there was warm water in the biffy, so Alex carried cups of it out to wash and rinse with. Almost like home.   Canoeing without paddles The San Juan Islands sit in the maw of Washington State’s missing corner. At least that’s how I’ve always seen it. Where Puget Sound opens to the straight of Juan de Fuca, right at that opening sits a scattering of islands. Their purity is kept unencumbered only because of their remoteness and relative inaccessibility. Our beloved ferry system (and I am not being sarcastic here: I love our ferries) takes us to only four of the islands in the San Juans. There are 428 to 743 San Juan Islands, depending on the tide. Which suggests the size of some of them, but the ferries take us to some of the largest. As the heat bleeds off of the day, we attempt the canoe. We’ve been told that if the camp’s rental canoes aren’t in use, we can borrow the paddles but once we load, drive, unload and prepare to set her afloat, we’re told the management has reconsidered. No can do. Full rental required. Chris stomps and pounds fists. They offer half-price for the last hour of the day (though there are only 45 minutes remaining) so we pay, grab the paddles and shove off. Over the kelp beds, around the point, into an inlet. This sea, the newly named Salish Sea is glassy perfection for the boat’s maiden sea voyage. We paddle. We float. We study the rock formations along the shore and under us in the clear water. Chris takes photos from the dock. A puffin surfaces nearby with three minnows in his beak. I point it out to the kids and it pauses for both to see before diving for another fish. I trade with Chris at the end of the dock, and catch a few photos of them reflecting as they paddle in the serene, fading day. Mr. Texas has the largest possible mobile home-thingy on the planet. One more inch in any direction and it wouldn’t be street legal. They would have been our neighbors if we have stayed at campsite 60. They have a full sized charcoal grill that is constantly puffing, piles of bikes, skateboards, helmets and hula hoops, and a row of solar path lights in faux stained glass pattern edging their “property.” Their new neighbors are grilling dogs in the dark at 10:30 pm as I pass by on my way to the bathroom. Marshmallows, popcorn, fire, sunset, and frog catching. The girls a few campsites over were at the sink after dinner, waiting to wash behind us. They were covered in swamp mud from toes to knees and fingers to elbows. “We’re catching bullfrogs!” The bubbly one said. I asked what they would do if they caught one, “Eat it!… No, I’m kidding.” I like her. But all the kids seem to be trying to catch the darned bullfrogs. Why does everyone need to catch a bullfrog? Poor frogs. Let them sing. They’re trying to make more frogs… so you can catch them.   Late into the evening, we sat together at camp. Our kids reflected the light of our little camp fire with wonder on their faces as popcorn kernels are devoured by the fire’s flame. The bright spotlight of a full moon lit the campground. The stars were all washed out. Our tiny campfire roasted extra jumbo marshmallows to a perfect golden brown. We fell asleep about 11:30 once the big loud neighbors settled down. It was only 90 minutes after the posted “10 pm to 8 am silent time – STRICTLY ENFORCED”. Good thing it was so highly advertised as strictly enforced because nobody adhered to it, nobody cared. Except us and the bike campers behind us. They were a church group or some other youth group, done with dinner by seven and round their own campfire singing gospel and Johnny Appleseed for us. The baby seal’s name is Marbles. He was abandoned in the last couple days and has been hanging around the resort boats. I first found him while strolling the docks. He startled me as I came around the end of a large boat. His tiny gray head bobbed in the water and looked up at me. He was snuffling and making puppy noises, sniffing the end of a large boat motor. Returning from the shore with one kid in each hand, they are relaxed, smiling contentedly, both loving on me, hugging. I feel myself relax completely for the first time. Everyone’s happy, we’re in a pretty place. These are the moments.   I woke at 3 am having to pee so badly that it drove me to dress, shoe, and headlamp. Though once I was out of the tent, I didn’t need the headlamp for the spotlight of a full moon that shone in the southwest sky. A pair of deer startled at my movement and took a few steps, wagging their black tails. I did flip on my headlamp for a second, to make sure they weren’t bears. To m dismay, they were bears!… No, I’m kidding. Then we, the deer and I, each went on our with our own business. Four am: Out of the dead silence, a metal shriek. Startled awake, I was sure a giant tree was about to fall on me, ending my life. My heart stopped cold. I gasped and gained enough consciousness to realize it was not a widow-maker, but the bike neighbors’ U-Haul door flying open at full speed. When I could breathe, I think I swore loud enough for them to hear, Chris echoed me. But I was relieved to be alive. Shuffles, packing. They were gone by five and I drifted back to sleep before the sun broke over the trees. God, I love sleeping in the wilderness… ahem, campground. Almost as quiet as back home.   Canoeing in Moran State Park It’s not so much that we forgot Chris’s water sandals for canoeing as they broke in Bali and we haven’t put forth the effort to replace them. Exercise dodged.   “That’s an awfully thin shirt.” “It’s comfortable… I’m camping! It’s hot.” “Yeah, but you’re not fooling anyone… Just saying.” I didn’t forget to pack my bra.    The gay couple two spots over, the ones with the beautiful 14-month-old daughter and the stylish George Foreman style grill, is making dinner and drying their daughter’s tiny red and black watershoes on their tent rain fly at the top. Their campsite is immaculate, in contrast to the group that separates us. I’ve watched them up the beach and down the dock with their happy, waify, double ponytailed girl. She’s quiet, wide-eyed and content to hop barefoot from board to board up the dock, her black ponytails bobbing on each side of her head. With one dad leading and one dad following her, all three seem relaxed and aglow. We’re out for the day. Fresh Oil, Loose Gravel, Fresh Oil, Loose Gravel and we end up at Moran State Park for some hiking, history, Mt Constitution, and canoeing, if there are… paddles.       Saturday evening Chris and I left the kids at camp for a quick sunset hike. Fresh Oil, Loose Gravel, tiny, empty parking lot, trailhead. We rushed up the hill just sure it was only 20 minutes away. That’s what the office clerk at the camp said. He’d never hiked it. Emphasis on “up.” When we’d been going for 40 minutes, I started to question the destination and whether we would make it before the sun went down. One at a time, we took turns encouraging each other up, around the next turn, running, hiking fast, run-walking, sweating, until finally after almost anhour had passed, we reached a lookout spot. We hauled ourselves up on the rocks and watched. After about 10 minutes, Chris said, “It’s pretty unusual to spend a gorgeous sunset in a place like this and feel like you really have it all to yourself. But this one does.” In the distance one boat went by, one airplane high in the sky. No other people. Just we two, and the islands and the sunset over the Pacific. I woke up before 5 AM on our last morning, determined to see the coastline and the shore before anything woke up. My camera and I wandered down.Was the baby seal still going to be there? The rest of the camp was still asleep. It was a silent morning. The persistent bullfrog was even sleeping. Once the sun rose a little bit an eagle broke the silence before landing in the top of a tall cedar. I noticed something swimming past the end of the dock. It was an otter. He didn’t notice me so I crept up until he did. Once he saw me move, he paused his manic motion and splashing to see what I was. Several times he poked his head up out of the water, showing his whiskered smile. I startled him enough that he went under the dock, growling and huffing at me from below my feet. I smiled silently. He was three feet long. We played a game for a moment: I tried to catch a picture of him, he tried not to be afraid of me. Neither of us got very far but it was a fun game. After a few moments he got tired of me (seeing that I had no oysters) and swam off. I went over to visit the baby seal. He was still there, still sleeping, so I photographed him and didn’t wake him. Poor little guy.       When the sun rose high enough that most of the color had faded from the horizon and the waves begin to raise on the glassy bay, I turned and headed back up the dock, only then passing the first two people of the day. I asked if the boat with the seal on it was theirs. Nope. The woman said, “I wouldn’t care except it’s a baby.” The man was less than indifferent. I’m sure I could see him hoping he didn’t have to kick a seal off his boat. When I returned to my campsite, all of the tents in every direction were sawing and snoring and growling. The animals.

I’ve always loved words that describe themselves well. Looking Glass is a beautiful descriptor. If you think about how little we actually look anymore, it becomes even more so. I can so easily see Alice, in her prim, white dress, slowly picking up a looking glass (also called a magnifying glass, for those of you less historically-oriented types), and taking a long time – moments and hours and days – being still, studying, examining whatever it is she sees through that looking glass.   Thoughtful contemplation is an art we are losing; an act that I love. My artist self has spent hours strolling through Monet’s garden, breathing the air in the Flemish countryside, and listening to conversations in Raphael’s School of Athens without ever having been there. It takes looking as though you have a looking glass.   So I took that image of Alice and the Looking Glass with me when we went to the Chihuly Garden this week. Here’s what I spent time looking at.              

I finally chose my major in college when they told me I couldn’t take any more credits until I declared one. I didn’t want to make a bad choice, so for a long time, I didn’t make a choice. Architecture, Geology, Philosophy, Drama and Biology all entered my mind as potential targets. But I chose Art. Fine Art, also called Studio Arts was my selection. (It conjures visions of the starving artist in a loft, no?) Then it was done. Seemingly cast in stone, I was on a path more specific than I ever had been before.   That year was also the year the University shut it’s hot glass kilns. They discontinued glass blowing as an area of study because the school couldn’t afford to pay for the gas kilns to run. So instead of being a glass blower, I am a photographer. Not that I didn’t do my fair share of glass work in college, it was just all cast glass, cold glass and neon. I still marvel as how much time I spent with torches, sticking together glass tubes full of phosphor, then running 15,000 volts through them and filling them with noble gas (neon or argon) and mercury. Yep, I’ll bet they don’t let college students play with mercury anymore. Or 15,000 volts. But I digress.   The whole point is, I still love hot glass and from the moment I moved to Seattle I’ve loved Dale Chihuly’s work (actually I love his creative process more than his work – genius, that). I’ve since seen half a dozen glass shops (Seattle is lousy with them) but I’ve never blown glass until last week when my son and I finally went and tried it at Rainier Glass Studio in SODO (the warehouse district of Seattle, which also has our baseball and football stadiums). The space itself was fantastic. So I took photos and marveled at how I really should have been a starving artist in a loft somewhere…    Color choices, kilns and sample finished pieces on the wall.   Adding colored flecks   Into the kiln   All by himself – he’s a natural   My turn – this feels like home.   Setting the finished piece in its molten base A week later when I went to pick the pieces up (they need to cool slowly over 4 days), I was alone, and just stood still in the space outside the kiln room, soaking up the feeling of the place.              Did I mention I love graffiti?   Truly, when I went back to NYC for the first time after almost 30 years, I was dismayed to find the subway trains completely free of their beautiful spray painted art.           So now I am on a glass kick. Next post will be about hot glass from another point of view.

Photos from a recent trip… and a story or two. I know, a zoo seems so un-exotic, doesn’t it? When you’ve been to the tropics of Bali, the vast snowy Himalayas, and spent time spinning around the chaos of Kathmandu, going to see a bunch of animals in cages seems mundane. But since I am given to watching animals be animals, rather than just rushing past their cages to see “is he in there?” I tend to get more out of a zoo visit “than the a-ver-age bear, Boo-boo”. We got there right at opening and sprinted to the big cats, since they’re most likely to be active then. Since I went with a photo-centric friend (who also brought the awesome lenses – Thanks Orion!) we got to skip the child whining, have to find a restroom, “I’m hungry, I’m tired” and bored, “are you done yet?”, “sure you don’t need a couple hundred more of that one cat?” spouses. All that tends to stifle a photographer’s need to be very still for the long, cat-lounging waiting game. You might remember that I love cheetahs. Streamlined, majestic, muscled-but-furry, and kinda sad-looking (look at that face), how can you not love the nature-technology in this creature. The timeless determination in the cheetah’s face, says to me, “I know, but I’m still here.” Endangered, there are only about 5000 left in the wild. (More on that and a cool video here.) The best at race and chase, and a kitty all in one perfectly evolved package. Yep, gotta love it. And they chirp rather than meowing. I love that, too.   This is one of two 14-year old cheetahs that Woodland Park Zoo has on loan from Oregon right now. She was out doing her morning laps.            The lion said so much without saying anything. I’ll tell you what he said, exactly: “This is me being patient. Ooooh, man, I hate waiting. Any minute though…”       I’m still waiting. This will be worth it.     Then the female, who was just several feet away, raised her head, got up and circled him. She bumped his forehead with hers, then walked back to her spot. He, having received the pertinent signal, got up and went over to her. Hey, it’s spring.     And then      Yeah, the life of the king.         Random bear in here for good measure. His toes were irresistible.   A white wolf paused between two trees and looked at me.   And then back to cats. About 15 years ago I was in Belize (it was our honeymoon) and one of the activities we picked was to visit a jaguar preserve. Actually, I had planned all of our excursions during the whole trip with the jaguar preserve in mind. I desperately wanted to see them in the wild. We stayed in a tiny village (and were the only guests at our hotel for a week save two couples who came through on single overnights), and I’d picked it because it was close to the preserve. All the tourists towns were a full-day drive from it. So the day we headed in, I was ready to be enchanted. But before we even got into the preserve, the gate attendant told us that the road had washed out recently (even a day or two before, maybe) and it was a half mile walk over unstable, muddy ground to get across it. So we opted for a waterfall hike, unearthed Mayan ruins and a tour of a demolished sugar mill from the early 1900s instead. It was a good substitution, but I still really wanted to see a jaguar. Our hike began with our guide taking us down an unused trail. He wanted to get off the beaten path. He did. He spent much of the first leg of the hike slashing through thick jungle with a machete (cue scene from Romancing the Stone) so we could walk. Then when the path met a more heavily traveled one, we were back on a dirt track again. One of the first things we saw was a jaguar footprint, 3-5 hours fresh, from the guide’s estimation. I took a photo and my heart raced to think we crossed his path… and we weren’t even in the preserve.    So in short, I love all the cats, but the jaguar, the largest New World cat, and the third largest cat in the world has a special place in my heart. There are about 10,000 of these amazing “fishing cats” left in the wild.   Here is Inka, the juvenile jaguar, just being herself. It was so much fun to watch her go.                            

Last night I did something out of character. I went out to be unsocial. I spent over an hour in Seattle rush hour traffic (alone) so I could sit in a room full of people I didn’t know, and not talk to them. Once a month Seattle has a Silent Reading Night at the Sorrento Hotel. Gobs of Seattle-style people cram into a beautiful, old-style hotel parlor and just sit there, drinking wine and not talking at all. Wait staff dressed in black quietly make hand and face gestures to patrons from across the room, then deliver their order. A harpist fills the would-be awkward silence with beautiful, unobtrusive, waves of glorious sound. The harpist happens to be my friend, which is part of the reason I was there. When I first thought about this event, it occurred to me that part of the draw was this: When I lived in the Midwest, before I moved out here, and used to watch Frasier, this is exactly the way I envisioned Seattle to be. High-society, sophisticated, city-ish, and just a bit odd. So there it is. Fifteen years after moving to Seattle, I got the “Frasier effect” I was looking for. Naturally, I love this sort of departure from my normal routine because I know it fires new synapses in the not-so-young brain. And it often triggers creativity for me as well. So I left the elegant boutique hotel and wandered in the First Hill neighborhood. While I am able to navigate downtown without too much problem, I am still mostly lost anywhere east of I-5. And I aim to fix that, so I spent six blocks walking the two blocks back to my car.  Then something completely unexpected happened. It felt like home: comfortable in sight and fragrance and feeling. It felt like my own neighborhood back in Minneapolis. The realization hit me so strongly that I stopped walking, and stood right in the middle of Madison street for a moment. Then I figured out what it was.  Pale yellow seedlings were floating from above, landing gently everywhere. Elm tree seeds. I looked up and there it was, a perfect elm tree from my past. We had one of these giant deciduous beauties in my back yard where I grew up. It yielded piles of leaves to jump in every fall, and shade from hot summer days, and occasionally it would yield green, 4-inch caterpillars that would turn into hand-sized cecropia moths.  Then, in about 1979, Dutch Elm disease ripped through Minneapolis. I remember how sad it was when our neighbor’s tree was branded with bright orange paint, signaling the arbor team to chop it. Every elm in the neighborhood was eventually taken, one by one, and within a year the giant fixture of my childhood backyard was gone. A mulberry bush grew from the stump a few years later, and elm trees became a memory.  All of this occurred to me in a single moment last night at dusk, when I saw piles of the seeds gathered in gutters, on car windshields and around the bases of the elms that made them. I was happy to stand under that one tree, but I noticed it was just the first in a two-block row of old elms. So I walked along the whole block, stopping to take photos, and grab a hand full of the crunchy seeds and throw them like a kid throwing maple helicopters.  Those of  you who live on First Hill are allowed to think me completely clinical, but Seattle is not flush with deciduous trees. Especially compared to the Midwest. Yes, we have alder and maple and the occasional ash, (God forbid we forget what raking is) but we’re the Emerald City because of our lush, giant, plentiful evergreens. In fifteen years, I’ve never seen an elm tree here. Not a 40-year old one, in seed like this, anyway. Not one that shouted out to me like this. So I let it feel like home while I wandered. But that wasn’t all there was to it. The church across the street felt very familiar, too. I grew up in a Polish Ukranian neighborhood where most of the houses were built about 1912. Not a lot of stuff, especially on Seattle’s east side, is that old. We get a little excited about a church built in the 50s where I live now. But I looked at the bricks and the style and decided that maybe this one could have been build in about 1912, like the house I grew up in and the churches around it. And then I ran across this and snapped a photo while giggling to myself. (Yeah, it tickles when I’m right sometimes.) Then I walked around the church to see more. The courtyard invited me in, so I went there, too.  Elm trees lined all four sides of the church block, but there were none in the courtyard, so I left and went back to the tree-surrounded exterior. Then, with the last of the twilight fading, I went home. But not before throwing one more hand full of seeds into the air.

One of our first nights in Bali we decided to forgo sleep and hike all night instead. We left at 10 pm and worked through the night to reach the top by sunrise. Once we reached a ridge we looked back through the darkness to the city of Denpasar at the far end of the island. Then we resumed the climb for several hours, passing acacia trees and evidence of monkeys. We even caught a civet cat’s eyes in our headlamps. While we didn’t reach the top, we stopped a very steep half-mile short and watched the day awaken from an open rock face below the summit. There wasn’t a summit to miss, so we weren’t heartbroken. And the view was stunning. On the way down we watched the temple at the base of the climb get closer and closer as our knees and leg muscles hummed.  

I still don’t know if this is something that only I love, or if it strikes most people, how beautiful and essential rice fields are. I’ve gone on about it in a past post, so this is the photo tour of the rice hike we did in Bali. Our guide, Wayan took us to a small village outside the cultural center of Ubud where we parked on the street and were immediately accosted by 8-year old girls selling post cards. Okay, so it’s not that far off the beaten path. Bali, when compared to the other Indonesian islands, is a tourist mecca, with its proximity to Australia, party-accommodating flavor and hotel-filled city. It’s a two-hour flight from Darwin, so it’s an easy choice for spring breakers and families looking for a weekend escape from Down Under. While the city of Denpasar succeeds in containing most of the weekend warriors and college craziness, the villages out of town offer a look at things like this. Take a walk with me. [Click the photos to see them in theater, large] The village This is one of the farmers who let us walk through his rice fields. He’s also a woven-palm-frond-hat salesman on the side. Have one? Down a steep, muddy trail, we rounded a corner and began walking among the paddies. This must be his resting shed or a storage hut. It’s away from all the village buildings, right in the middle of a hillside…. and not far from a bridge. The bridge we crossed to get across the ravine between the village and the paddies. All hand cut bamboo and lashing… and nothing else. Happy family at the other side. I love this image because it shows how big each of the terraces are. We walked up the sides of these to get between the levels. Occasionally a ladder is lashed in place (handmade bamboo, of course) but usually you just hoof it up and hope it’s not too slippery. She’s clearing weeds from the sides here, to keep them out of the paddies. Imagine the job this is, with the tropical, equatorial weather and moist volcanic earth. Taro and banana tree in the foreground, growing between the edges of the paddies, and the colored fabric on poles are makeshift scarecrows. This is another look at the vastness of the vertical farmland (don’t miss the person for scale). A far cry from the Great Plains farmland I grew up on. This is a shrine. They are sprinkled randomly across (or in the middle of) the paddies to please the gods. Offerings are left on the platform below the parasol. This one I love for the undulating, organic shapes of the land. It truly feels like a place where man and nature have come to a perfect compromise. Yes, the farm works, but no way are there straight rows or easy access. Hand tools only, no machines. The terrace heights and shapes are dictated by the mountain they are built on. Seemingly random red flowers add so much. Foot and tool paths in the mud of the foreground. Note here, that 100 square meters of fields yield 50 kilos of rice, three times a year. The average Bali resident eats 1 cup uncooked per day.  Then on to the next farmer’s paddies. He and his wife seemed to be expecting us. Wayan, our guide, kindly announced our presence and softened our encroachment on their farm. She dropped her hand tool and ran to help me down the steep, muddy bank. Already barefoot, she stepped into the paddy beside the path, and sank in calf-deep while positioning herself. Then she stepped up on the hillside and braced her tiny, sinewy frame to help me down, all the while issuing commands in mostly Balinese.  The rest of the family received the same cordial treatment.  In writing this post, I paused here because my memory of this moment in the trip is so strong. Our whole Bali experience had a sort of dark, blasé humor about it. For instance, the amazing effort it takes to build a shrine in the middle of a rice field, to offer some of your crop to gods, is laughed off when the birds (or rats) carry away the offering. Bat guano falls on your shoes overnight, or a monkey in the trees above poops just as you pass under (that’s good luck, right?). And the labor situation is beyond amazing. Dozens of nearly-starving people are cultivating grain with hand tools that look like samurai weapons, and the looks on their faces make you wonder if people go missing in rice fields sometimes. They cage tigers for tourists, but are often animal-preserving vegetarians. They put up five star hotels across the street from pythons. And the pythons occasionally strangle the hotel’s security guards to death (this happened several blocks from where we were staying, while we were there, and where we actually let our python-meal-sized children run across the street without us… at night.) You know, weird non-coincidences that leave you feeling unsettled when you’re supposed to be vacationing in a tropical paradise. So when this exchange happened with this couple of old rice farmers, my soul was already tenderized by those sorts of experiences. These two tiny, busy, happy farmers did their thing while we passed through. Or despite us passing through. When she forcefully reached out to me and issued her help down the bank, I almost cried. It’s a sort of social interaction that doesn’t happen back home (in that way, anyway) and it affected me, I guess. Maybe it’s just that I was in a rice field. And I apparently have a thing for those.  She directed a posed photo immediately as soon as we were down, but her husband decided he’d like it to be an action shot, so he tended the paddy directly in front of us while humming. We were advised by Wayan to pay them for being allowed to pass through. As kindly as he could, he explained that “heavy Americans easily smash the rims of the paddies” and the wad of bills we gave them fixed all that. I think he advised 20,000 IDR, or about $1.50 for their trouble (a small people with big numbers on their money).  My older son is about 5 feet tall here. She is smaller than him, but strong as an ox, judging by her firm grip. They went right back to tending paddies as we went on our way. Back up the other side of the ravine, we spied this lovely. The photo doesn’t do him justice, he was much bigger. The web was about 4 feet across and from leg tip to leg tip, the spider was about 8 inches. Mandibles to spinnerets, about 3 inches. But they’re garden spiders, and if you’d seen the giant wasps that live here, you would be happy to have this guy instead. Scarecrows are in use mostly in open paddies where crows and other large birds gather, but this one scared us on the way out.  Walking the road back to our vehicle, this is looking back at the fields we were just in, and the souvenir shops.

A small departure again today. A few of my girlfriends have taken it upon themselves to educate me in baseball movies (I had seen a grand total of one baseball movie, ever in my life, I was in need) and that’s what we’ve been doing for the past few months. So last night was “42” the story of Jackie Robinson, the first black player in MLB. The movie itself isn’t stellar. It’s an interesting story during an interesting time in our history, but the execution is formulaic, predictable, bland with several points that were introduced, but never followed through. The beautiful thing about it though, is the cinematography. I’ve taken just enough film classes to be dangerous, and with my visual art background I’m usually distracted by things like costuming when I am not riveted on the story line of a movie. Last night, because of the pedestrian execution, I noticed things that I probably wouldn’t have: Lighting, camera angles, voice quality, delivery and the way actors may have influenced their character’s demeanor. I was in the middle of these thoughts during the climax of the film (spoilers here), when Jackie has just taken his worst verbal racist beating from the opposing team’s manager (in a full stadium, center stage, amplified by the announcer). Jackie holds it together on the field, but then exits down the steps of the dugout and falls apart. This scene was expected and formulaic, like I said, but the visual precision here completely fascinated me. So I drew it. And even without knowing the story, you can read so much into this visual. These are the things that struck me immediately: -The number is prominent but upside down. And the number figures prominently throughout the movie.-This is as low as you ever see him, both visually and figuratively. At the bottom of the stairs, below the dugout, below the field, inverted. Shards of his bat lay beside him to accentuate the brokenness of the moment.-The dark figure is massive and adds so much to this scene. You know immediately who it is when watching, but in the still frame, it could be his oppressor or a god-like figure he is bowing to.-Best of all, he is bathed in white light. Kudos to the lighting director here. It could have been golden (to reflect historical reference) or red (to reflect anger and blood) or even reflect the green/brown of the field above, but they picked stark, blinding white and it falls on him from above, from behind, partially obscuring his number. I don’t think that was an accident.

It’s not international travel, but the Skagit Valley is home to the largest tulip growers in the US, so every spring, after the snow geese and bald eagles have flown to nesting grounds, the valley is covered in thousands of acres of stunning blooms. It also draws over a million people in six weeks while the blooms are on. We spent Easter afternoon strolling the show gardens and fields. All of these are taken with a 50mm 1.8, and Nature’s light box (overcast skies are best for shooting).The first few are to give you a sense of the show gardens. The last bit are flower stories that presented themselves to me. Princess Irene (my fav)  Undulating waves, replanted in a different pattern every fall. Firecracker pair – looking down inside Muddy reflection Impressionist Inspiration Couple entwined – You’re walking on a crowded street, everyone standing straight, minding their business, putting on their best show when you notice a couple kissing on a bench. It kinda feels like this. Look Beyond What You See. – Sometimes the stuff in the background (or frame) is what makes the photo. Mt Baker would be visible in the background here if it was out, and I love knowing it’s there, behind comfortable, repeating green rows and valley hills. Three Musketeers – Each has its own personality, but they are three of a group, obviously. Each makes the group stronger. That guy in the upper left must be d’Artagnan looking on.  Here’s another love story (flowers, love – it’s not a stretch). The couple in this one is surrounded by his family, and she doesn’t blend perfectly, but if they’ll let her, she’ll complement them well. The question is, will they let her? (Feel free to swap the his/her reference to be whatever you want – they’re flowers, which makes them hermaphrodites.) Ok, this one was just me having too much fun with f1.8, no other story, but you should make one up, it’s fun. Hours among colors like this can blind you to other things. I shot this one toward the end of our day, when the endless fields of red were overwhelming me, but the one face who looked back at me with a design and texture made me smile. He was different, damaged, tired and more beautiful because of it. It’s more apparent when you take away the color. So I did.  These fields are literally trampled by the million visitors who pass through. Both my kids read the 5-foot high signs that begged people to stay on the roads, out of the rows, then watched half the people crunch into fields, shoving flowers aside to climb over a row, get a photo, rip petals apart, and pick flowerheads clean off then drop them, spent on the ground. It felt akin to defacing art, a quintessential act of disrespecting the people who let you in to enjoy the beauty that you ruined. Most of the flowers survive, of course, and $5 admission times a million visitors probably covers most of their losses, but that didn’t matter to my kids. It made me proud that they have that much respect for property and disgust for people who don’t. 

Photos from an exotic vacation tend to be a smattering of all sorts of photography, from documenting the family trip, to unusual landscapes, to capturing the essence of a culture. Here is one of my favorites from the middle category – unusual landscapes. Maybe it’s just me, but the rice terraces of Asia seem completely under rated. They speak straight to my soul. Maybe it’s the simplicity of hand agriculture, or the fact that this one grain, rice, feeds the vast majority of the world. But the engineering marvel of capturing water from the mountains and directing it methodically through every farmer’s field, so each rice paddy is kept full (or dry) at the right time – that seems magical to me. And it’s all done with hand tools, in bare feet, often by toothless, smiling farmers. Beauty and simplicity. Then I look at the landscape. Even if I had never set foot in one of these fields, I’d love them. They are a visual treat, with organic, curving lines, soft, green leaves, and pools of calm water, thrust into a steep hillside, as if the hand of man has succeeded in making the mountain’s harshness yield, but only on nature’s own terms. Dotted with palm trees and taro and occasionally a thatched hut, it’s one of those places where I could sit and reflect on the beauty of the space and its purpose for a very long time. This image is one of  my favorites from our rice walk. The rest will go up in story form some day.

(A day late) Sunrise in Sanur, Bali For more photos and a lot more story, you can follow my blog posts here. Photos are all available for purchase. Please let me know if you see one that you love. Thanks for visiting.

Just some visual reminders of a place I love. Click a photo to see slide show. Boy at the motorbike fix-it shop   Protector god at Boudhanath temple, Kathmandu   Prayer wheels with golden light, at Swayambunath temple, Kathmandu   Instant good karma to fly with these guys, right? The logo is kind of interesting…   First few blocks out of the airport complex, Kathmandu   Older brother tending his charge (look at that face!)   Monks and street kid   “May peace prevail on earth” Monkeys and the wishing well at Swayambunath (monkey temple)   Found some fruit     Overlooking Kathmandu from the top of Swayambunath    

Saturday morning the trade show didn’t start until 11 am, so I got up at 5 and hoofed it down to the south end of the island for a little sunrise photo shoot. It was far from ordinary. Here’s some of what I found. The ride on the subway from Times Square to South Ferry was bizarre. I was in a train car completely alone for most of the ride. My car was stopped in a dark tunnel when the back door opened. A guy walked through to the front door and kept going. I was absorbed in the clatter and hiss of the exposed tracks until the door slammed shut. There was no one in the car behind me and one guy in the car in front of me. In a city of over eight million, I am the only bloody person on the #1 to Downtown. It was eerie to say the least. I sat in the empty car at the long stop, in the dark tunnel, and wondered if I should be more afraid than I was. Funny how when you hike a trail in the middle of nowhere, it’s unnerving when you run across another soul, but when you are sitting on a train in Manhattan, you are unnerved to not run across one. But I made it and surfaced at Trinity Church on Wall and Broadway. There are still tombstones in Manhattan. I wouldn’t have guessed, but Trinity has some. Had it not been 15 degrees I would’ve wandered among them looking at dates. You’re wondering why I opened the south side tour with tombstones. Or maybe you aren’t. It was a bit of foreshadowing for what came next. (I love the green lamps on the subway station on an otherwise almost gray photo.) I walked eight blocks through the financial district without seeing a soul. They say the city never sleeps, but the bars close at 4 and if you want to get around without crowds, I’d suggest Saturday at 6 am. It was eerie and slightly uncomfortable. With a little imagination, it could be post apocalypse or something. No zombies, but I spotted a police car parked here and there and they were always manned. I found a tiny corner store that promised New York coffee, so I went in. (NY coffee is the 7-Eleven variety – brewed thick in a glass pot with a small assortment of creams and flavors to mix in yourself at the counter. Caffeine sans frouf.) The clerk was still the only person I had seen since surfacing from the subway. I walked on. I wondered when they had put The Bull in a cage and if they’ll let him out someday.  I read history of the country, written in strips along the sidewalks. Then I rounded a corner and found what I was looking for.  It was pretty difficult to stand between the new World Trade Center building and this mural all alone. In the previous block I had passed the Brooks Brothers building (One Liberty Plaza) and noticed the black siding was damaged, singed from fire, paint peeling and such. It’s the building that was used as a morgue in the days following. The new World Trade building is very close to complete, but not quite. It is surrounded with construction fencing and things which block the view of the ground inside the perimeter. “May we never forget” is inscribed in this long mural. I left with tears in my eyes and headed toward Battery Park where I got a decent photo of the beautiful new building, not quite finished (tiles missing in the upper right). The winter skies and leafless trees added to the feelings of the morning, but soon the sun fell across Lady Liberty. I began to warm up in the sun while enjoyed finding these images at the park. Still no one here. This image feels lonely and distant to me. I like that. Amber waves of grain in the foreground, industry in the distance. Sun on sleeping trees and cold blue glass. I’ve always been enamored with military names on walls. When I was 14, I did a painting of the Vietnam Vets Memorial in DC from a photo I’d seen in National Geo. I never finished it but I still have it… All the memorials around me sparked the memory of that unfinished painting. Anyway, I found these Navy memorial walls and loved the way the morning light fell across them, casting shadows of the lamp posts and dead trees. Couldn’t decide which one I liked better, but the lower one has Liberty in it. The top one has all three lamp posts on the three walls. Then the light grew and people started to stir. Runners through the park, dog walkers, ferry-bound folks. So I walked toward Brooklyn to see a bridge. My friend Leslie and her husband Tim walked home from Manhattan, across the Brooklyn Bridge the day the towers fell in 2001 and for a long time after that I imagined walking across this bridge. But it wasn’t in me today. On my way back I passed a Vietnam Memorial and a dead bird. There was also a pigeon breastbone on the steps leading to the boardwalk. I couldn’t tell if a cat or a human had got a hold of it, but neither of the dead birds seemed inconsequential.  I walked back past the Staten Island ferry terminal and went inside to get this last photo before catching the train to Midtown for the open of the trade show. It was not a solo ride.

Once I committed to a fine art photography degree in college, I took an interest in animal photography. I spent hours in front of the Siberian Tiger exhibit at my local zoo, waiting for the four of them to do something interesting. Everything was still film then, so it was more waiting than anyone with a DSLR can imagine today (no test shots, no chimping). But all that time I wasn’t just waiting for the shot, I was learning the animals in their habitat. I wanted to know which one was dominant, which one was most receptive to new sounds, who roared loudest and who paced the most neurotically. It cemented my love of big cats to be that close to them, hear them, smell them and understand a little about how their days went by. Telling a story with photos demands getting to know your subject in some respect. That’s the part I appreciate most, I guess. I considered being a wildlife photographer for a moment, though I didn’t really know what that would entail outside of following Jane Goodall into the jungle. So I shot cityscapes and things that were more often around me, and told those stories instead. Siberian Tigers at the Minnesota Zoo circa 1991. Fast forward to some of my current photographic inspirations and their work. Art Wolfe just succeeded on his third and final attempt to capture snow leopards in the far reaches of the Himalayas. And this is where I get ambivalent about wildlife photography. I’d like to think that all the photographers who are inspired by Art Wolfe and the like, are doing so because the images evoke a love of the people and the animals that he captures; that he brings another world to us through images and we appreciate that subject more for the image he presents. The National Geographic thing, right? But that’s just my idyllic imagination, apparently. The saddest thing about the link above is the first comment and what it denotes: “What lens?” So many people are trying so hard to emulate “What Art did,” that they miss the point completely. Sigh.

When I was sixteen, my brother and I flew to NYC and stayed with my grandmother for a week. She did a really good job of showing us New York. We saw Radio City, Central Park, Madison Sq. Gardens, Empire State, NYSE (where I am certain we stood and looked down into the trading pits), Rockefeller, Chinatown, Coney Island, the subway system, the bus system, Greenwich Village, Little Italy, and the twin towers of the World Trade Center. I remember standing at the top of the World Trade Center, behind the mass of razor wire, and peering down to the tiny dots of people running like ants on the street below. The wind was so strong that a lady beside me a lady lost her beret even though she was gripping it tightly. I remember how brash Grandma’s answer seemed when I asked why there was razor wire. “So people don’t jump.” I don’t have any photos from that trip. I don’t know if I even took any. Times Square at night   tile inlay of the subway signs I remember Grandma’s tiny apartment in a five story brownstone just north of Columbia University. I remember studying the fire escape and wondering how it was more of a help than a hindrance to safety. I remember that The City had 212 and 718 (newly added in 1984) and that was the first time I tried to wrap my head around how many people were here – so many they needed 7 digits times two area codes. Now they have six. The thing that impressed me most of all was Chinatown. We ended up in Chinatown on a Friday at lunch time. We’d arrived about 10:30 and wandered the subdued streets. The only people there were tourists and shop keepers. Then at noon straight up, it was like a bell rang and the streets flooded with a sea of shiny black-haired heads, all heading to lunch. I remember that at 5’4” I could see over all but the very tallest of them, and I remember the feeling of holding Grandma’s hand while the sea ebbed around us. We selected a restaurant and she ordered chicken dumpling soup for all of us, then threw a fit at the guy behind the counter because she was sure they had served her pork instead of chicken. As she had just converted to Judiasm from atheism, and as she was known for her melodrama, we made quite a scene. I remember the line of people behind us rolling eyes and being far too patient.   I loved Chinatown. I remember the bamboo and paper fans, the woven coin purses, the lacquered chopsticks inlaid with mother of pearl, the painted pink fabric parasols, and the myriad of rice bowl designs. All of it was foreign and lovely and ridiculously cheap. I budgeted most of my allowance money on stuff in Chinatown and I had a pair of those chopsticks for about 10 years after that trip.    As we stood across the street from one of the larger Buddhist temples, I noticed people setting bottles of Mazola corn oil at the entrance to the temple. We crossed the street to get a better look, and the whole temple was full of identical bottles of Mazola that had been left as an offering, maybe a thousand of them. It was more confounding than alluring, but it apparently made an impression on me, since I still remember the details of the shrine, the gold Buddha, the red fabrics and the rows of oil bottles. For a very long time, that week was one of my greatest learning experiences. I’d already been to Boston, walked the Miracle Mile, seen George’s teeth, the North Church and Concord. I’d been to the Grand Canyon, Montreal, Niagara Falls, and watched Mt St Helens spout steam right after its big eruption, but NYC left an indelible mark like no other place I visited. New York felt like the thing that it was: That big city of opportunity, the flagship of the land of promise. From where I stood, it was a giant gateway to and from a much larger place. It was the first place that struck me as a window to the rest of the world.   Ferry and Lady Liberty from the Staten Island ferry terminal.

There were bats and rats and elephants… but I never did find no unicorn. (Modified lyrics from The Irish Rovers) Creatures are cool. You already know I like bats, and you might recall that I like cats (especially the big ones). But I actually find almost every kind of creature pretty fascinating. Here is a sampling of the fauna we ran into while we were in Bali.    We’ll start with the dainty and pretty. Butterflies of all colors and varieties were as plentiful as the tropical flowers. Bali is very near the equator, so there is no change in seasons. It’s butterfly weather all year long. Click any of the photos to see them larger.       Of course butterflies are always moving, and they are smallish and hard to get near, so I only got a couple photos of the bazillions that fluttered across my path. I found a dead cicada and he was really neat to study – two pockets on his underbelly amplify the buzzing sound that fills the trees in the mid-day heat. He is about 3 inches long.   A dead giant caterpillar. He’s all squished up, but stretched out he’s about 4-5 inches long when stretched out. He’s about 2 by 2.5 inches here. The red spot is a false eye and his head is actually at the other end. With a caterpillar this large, I really wanted to see what kind of butterfly or moth he turned into, alas, only 12 days in Bali…   Slithering things   A stone carving of a Komodo dragon. He was larger than life size. They have a few Komodo dragons on Bali, since the island of their source in only two islands to the east, but we only ran across this variety.   One of our frequent room guests. This is the spiny tailed house gecko, which isn’t always spiny-tailed, but is almost always in your house. They were all this color, except the larger ones, which were a different variety (below) which are Tokay geckos. They tick and squeak! It was so neat to be sitting at dinner and hear them on the wall behind you before you saw them. Tokay geckos are about 12 to 15 inches long.     A skink. I could spend all day trying to identify these guys, but I think this might be a Many-lined Sun Skink. We used to have skinks and newts in terrariums when I was a kid, so it was so fun to see these guys in the wild.   I called these guys rainbow lizards. They have colored lines that run from head to tail and each  line turns from blue to red, in the color of the rainbow as it goes. They were everywhere all over the villa grounds in the mornings and ran for cover at the first sight of movement, so they were hard to catch. This one is about 4 inches long, sitting on a statue.   Snakes. Thanks to those of you who didn’t quiver and wiggle when you saw this. There is far too much snake fear in the world. They are cool animals. On the right is a Sunbeam snake – he gets to 5 feet long, and on the left is a gold phase reticulated python. Oh, and my kids.   This was one of my more exciting finds. We were driving through a larger village just after a rain storm. The drainage ditches were full of water and the sidewalks and curbs had plenty of puddles, too. We rounded a corner and went past a water monitor. It’s a lizard. This one was about 4-5 feet long, but that’s me judging from only seeing his head and arms hanging out of the rain gutter. He was draped onto the sidewalk, his head sticking up, watching traffic, while his lower half got a bath, and people walked by not noticing him. HOW can you not notice a giant lizard on your sidewalk?! I didn’t get a photo of that particular one, but Chris got this photo of a much smaller one in the Monkey Forest.   The Malayan Water Monitor.      And speaking of Monkey Forest… I covered Monkey Forest here, but I’d love for you to caption this!    And of course there is a lot of animal personification in the Balinese art and Hindu stories. Please meet Hear, See and Speak…   And this is one of the Balinese Hindu characters who obviously enjoyed fraternizing with serpents…   And of course Bali is a wonderfully romantic place for any beast. It was almost dawn when I found this adoring pair.  They were friendly toads. I didn’t get a photo of the frogs, but their songs entertained us every evening and then changed once the sun came up.   The kids found hermit crabs and made them a home on the beach. Of course my son had to name them: Hermes the hermit crab, and his buddy Bacchus, who appeared drunk for all the wobbling and falling he did. Great fun!   Don’t cringe, these guys are good, too. There are giant hornets in Bali. Who do you think keeps those guys under control? This garden spider is about 5 inches from tip of toe to toe diagonally – not too large. The next one however…   This is a typical Bali garden spider – body length about 4 inches, full length, closer to 10 inches and he had a web that was several feet across. They’re hard to miss. Here’s a photo of one on a person’s arm to show 1) they’re docile, 2) they’re huge.   Yeah, there were a couple big ones in the bathrooms, too. We wrapped a towel around the light fixture one night because we couldn’t chase a big one (huntsman-variety spider that looked like this) out before we gave up. Man, he was fast. In case you think I am being cruel or trying to chase you away from this blog, rest assured, I am not. I left the ants and cockroaches out entirely.    Bats! These were chirpy, medium sized fruit bats that entertained us at dusk and before dawn. We’d often find evidence that they had visited our patio overnight.       And I missed the birds entirely. Birds during the rainy season is not a fun photographic endeavor. They have some beauties though – myna birds and all manner of song birds which were unfortunately most often seen caged at roadside stands. But one of my last shots was this one, walking home from the crazy-busy beach in Kuta, we followed a city stream and I saw a night heron sitting on a lump of trash, fishing in the light of the shop signs. This image just might inspire a painting or something.   And we’ll end with something feathered and something fuzzy. And toothed. Both from our safari evening. Feeding lionesses from inside our cage   I shall call him George.

I find bats intriguing rather than scary or freaky, and due to an incident in Central America years ago, I’ve had the rabies vaccinations, so unless it’s vampire bats, I’m good to go. This day was one of the most fun for me personally, of all the days we toured around Bali because it involved local people and bats: animal kingdom, and the kingdom of Hindu gods all together. But I’ll tell it in two parts. We stopped at Pura Goa Lowah, or The Bat Temple on the rainiest of our touring days. Pura Goa Lowah is one of the nine Directional Temples of Balinese Hinduism. I recounted another of the Directional Temples, Pura Lempuyang, the White Temple a couple posts ago. This one was more lively in many ways. Instead of being away from everything up in the remote mountains, the Bat Temple is right on the main coastal highway between the largest city and the quaint village where we stayed. So it was more active, more popular and, as a result, more saturated with vendors. Before we reached the entry stall, we were accosted by some sweet ladies who insisted on giving us necklaces. It would have been much like receiving a lei after stepping off a plane in Hawaii, but we knew it wasn’t that simple. It was a hook. Those sweet Bali mamas approached me and complimented my family over and over. One of them had a baby in tow. “Beautiful blond boys,” and “so happy you here in Bali” and all that. The one who introduced herself to me as Maday, was the most persistent of the group. She followed me from the parking lot to the entry station and managed to get beads over my 12-year old’s neck and my husband’s neck. I know this drill so I pushed her off a sixth and seventh time. “This is no string attached, I not ask you nothing, please take,” she pleaded. So now I am offending her if I don’t, right, but I know this is going to bite me in the end. She seemed happy once it was over my neck and finally gave us space to progress to the entrance and hire a guide. I turned around and noticed that Michelle and her family had also been hassled and are all wearing a set of the same necklaces. They’re rolling their eyes and gripping their belongings closely. It’s a little stressful if you aren’t used to the Asia-style hard sell. Looking at the photo below, the three ladies got all of us that might have been big enough to make a purchasing decision. (My little guy was spared.) On the way out they pulled out all the stops, guilting us for taking these necklaces and not buying any of their wares. “Why you not buy, it look so pretty on you. Take to your home with you for good luck.” I tried hard not to look at anything because then I knew I was sunk. “It’s for the baby!” she cooed. Meaning, ‘buy this so I can feed my child’. And that was a line that the eight of us lilted at each other for the rest of the trip. “It’s for the baby!” After she told me all the prices of all her items, I explained that I had 9000 rupiah on me (about 75 cents). “No, you have 200,000, this one is 400,000, but I give you for half. You buy it so pretty I make it for you.” Then the kicker, “I give you this necklace for free (grabbing the thing around my neck) and I make it, now you buy this here.” I threatened to give it back to her and she pretended not to understand. We were back out to the parking lot several minutes after I emptied my wallet in front of her, so she could see I had no more than 9000. Of course I handed it to her. She gave me a bracelet in exchange and thanked me warmly before disappearing. Now back inside the Bat temple: We shook it off and followed our guide. He lead us to the main door and offered to take a photo of us in front of it. It was still raining almost in sheets.       Looks like something out of Indiana Jones, eh? It’s said the site was selected because the bats bring people’s worship closer to nature, urging respect for the natural world. It was built in the 11th Century from lava rock of the active volcanoes on the island.  Many of the offerings include fruit and flowers which (of course) encourages the bats to stay. (The offerings are for the gods, not for the bats.) There is large altar just outside the entrance to the cave, and another smaller one just inside. I asked if anything else lives in the cave. Pythons. They eat the bats. Our guide says he’s been in there, but not for long because the snakes get pretty big and there are lots of them. Which dredged up more visions of Indiana Jones. But that’s not all. We were lucky visitors that day. There was a cremation ceremony about to begin, in the rain and everything. Parasol bearer – the guy who leads processions in and out of the temple.   Attendees in formal dress Our guide explained that cremation ceremonies are very expensive and a single family cannot afford it alone, so an entire village will gather once a month and hold a group ceremony, sharing the cost of the priest and and other services. Then each family brings an offering representing the deceased and presents is to the priest. One of the ceremonies I had read about and wanted to see in Bali was a cremation procession through town. I am intrigued with these aspects of culture, since they are so different from my own. I had heard that they wrap the deceased in white cloth (white is the death color) and place it on a large pyre then set it aflame and carry it as the whole village follows it through town. What a thing to witness, right? The actual cremations had already happened for these deceased, probably sometime in the last month, but this was the final step and the vital one that sends the relative forward successfully into the next life. Ladies dressed in lace and bright colors held tall offerings on their heads, each representing the deceased from their own family. One by one, they presented to the altar where the priest accepted and released the deceased on to the next life. Low rumbles of prayer floated through the wet air. A small group began singing dirges and laments. Women bearing bright, fresh offerings stood in a pack just inside the temple door, awaiting the priest’s bell. Sounds were low but people talked among themselves…. Ladies and offering baskets   Approaching the alter with her family’s offering in honor of the deceased relative. Between the umbrellas and the bright clothes and the rain ponchos, it was a visual cacophony. I was completely absorbed! I love this sort of ceremony. I had forgotten how hard it was raining and my camera took a bit of moisture, but it was worth it to capture some of what was going on. These images would have been my dream images, if it had been dry and bright. One day, when I go back… but then it won’t be raining on a cremation ceremony, which seems too perfect in itself. Priest about to receive offerings   Sweet onlooker   I guess it’s universal   Perhaps a widow, waiting for the priest to acknowledge her   I was going to write out more description of the sounds and activities, but then I remembered I have some video and it encapsulated the feeling pretty well. The video opens with the altars, cave entrance and people worshiping at the mouth of the cave. Listen for the bats.       

March and April of 2013 took me to Nepal for a second time, where I got elbow-deep in volunteer work and learning more about the culture. Mary Beth and I hiked through Solu, the region just below Everest, but the foothills and in the shadows of the high Himalayas, where we met an amazing village of people who don’t get much contact from the outside. They are a full day’s walk from the nearest road. We reached them by flying to the nearest airport, then walking two days, over 10,000 foot mountain ridges. It was challenging, beautiful and so very rewarding. Asia twice in a year. Some things you just can’t anticipate, but this past year took me to Asia two times. Neither trip was planned long in advance, and both were rewarding and very worthwhile. I am also working with a travel author who leads an organization to promote gap year travel for high school graduates. It’s a cause that feels so very worthy. Travel changes people for the better. It makes our world smaller and larger all at once. Different people become more like us and we understand things we never did before. So when I got the chance to take my kids and husband to Asia, it was a no-brainer for me. I convinced my family that we should spend Christmas in Bali. Pretty much the exact opposite end of the Asian experience, I’d bet. Tropical Southern Hemisphere breezes spoiled us, and so did the people. I filled my camera with pastoral rice filed scenes, and people working in the villages unlike they do anywhere on this continent. So I am unrolling that imagery and story on my photojournalism blog, as it comes to me. I’ve blogged about it extensively by now. You can see some of my past photo galleries here. If you see an image you love, please inquire. I am happy to print and ship it to you. Happy travels!

I’ve run down how we got to this villa and to Bali altogether, so here is the posh, high society bit. The villa we stayed in for a week (of our 15 days) was pretty fantastic. It’s in a quaint village that hasn’t quite been discovered by tourists yet. Six years ago, a Seattle furniture store owner decided to cash it in and build a villa in Bali. He stays in it about a month a year and donates it to auctions a week at a time for the rest of the year. And he takes reservations in case you’re interested. So when you book the place, you get the whole place: four villas that sleep two people each, the whole grounds, pool, Indian Ocean view, and dedicated staff of about six people to cook, drive and keep the grounds. And a couple ladies came up from the village to do massages. It was by far the most exotic, ritzy encounter my family has had, so I spent the last couple days putting together this video so you can see what it was like. Things I didn’t capture (in rambling-remember-style): -The roofs! I didn’t get any of the awesome grass thatched roofs in this video. The undersides were beautiful! Yet when I looked at all my video pieces, I seemed to be staring at the ground most of the time. Then I remembered, the sky was bright white and killed the exposure on my video every time I pointed it up at all, so imagine each of the buildings with an intricate circular thatch roof and radial bamboo supports on the underside. So pretty! -The animals: We had bats with about a foot-long wingspan that visited us each evening and stayed through dawn. They were fruit bats, so no darting over heads, they mostly acted like birds. The liked to hang from the undersides of aforementioned thatch roof supports, though, which was often right over our entry door. We often found remnants of their dinner, and guano, in a pile just outside our doors when we woke up. Bali has bigger bats – the flying foxes live there and they have a 4.5 foot wingspan (yeah, really) –  and I wanted to see them. They were on the far side of the island, so sadly, no flying foxes viewed, just the smaller guys. -Other animals: Toads and frogs sang in a chorus of different rhythms which changed from day to night. Crickets! Dang, I miss my Midwest crickets and they have some doozies in Bali. And giant cicadas in the daytime. They sounded like chainsaws, some of them. I found one in the botanical garden we visited and he was about three inches long. (Really big cockroaches, too.) Geckos, rainbow lizards, butterflies, birds and even a civet cat, I think (could have just been a regular cat, it was night). Oh, and that snake. We had a small snake on the kids’ patio one night. Of course the kids wanted to hold it (score one for Mom!) and of course I didn’t let them anywhere near it since I don’t know my Indonesian snakes, but I do know that there are five poisonous varieties in Bali. We encouraged him off the steps with a snorkeling fin and he dropped into a pond where he probably had fish for dinner. -Sounds: I stood on our patio one morning just to record audio of the sun rising. I captured the sounds of birds coming awake, frogs of all types, bats chirping and wind in the palms. And way in the distance, before it got loud, there were ocean waves crashing. I haven’t listened to it yet, but I’ll figure out what to do with it when I do. -Hot and Sticky: The only hints of the temp are the few foggy-lens shots I included of the pool. That was because the air-conditioned room cooled my lens overnight which then met 87 and 100% humidity first thing in the morning. It was really much warmer than it looks here. You can hear me struggling up the steps in the heat a couple to times though. Funny, living in the Seattle area, you can acclimate to Mt Everest Base Camp, but you can’t acclimate to Bali heat. Minnesota would do better for that. It was just like Minnesota (or New Orleans) in late July, but without so many bugs. Bigger bats instead. And snakes. You might have heard about the python that strangled a security guard in Bali recently. It happened while we were there, a few days after we left our first hotel which was about five blocks from where that happened. Ok, without further ado:

It’s said that there are over 10,000 temples on the island of Bali. After paying attention to the buildings along the roads for hours, I can actually believe that. They are scattered everywhere like stray dogs – varying sizes and levels of importance – or like bars in Lutheran neighborhoods. Luckily we researched them a bit before we visited, and had in mind about a dozen that would be a thrill to visit. They are of course the more showy, famous or popular ones, and all of them require traditional sarongs to enter. Women must also cover their shoulders and generally not show skin in a place of worship in Bali. That’s a bit of a challenge when it’s 90 degrees, but we all knew this going in and went to the trouble to buy ourselves each a sarong at the beginning of the visit. It was a good investment, as they lasted us the duration and made good souvenirs. One of the last temples we visited was Pura Lempuyang, also known as The White Temple. There are nine directional temples on Bali. They are the the highest and more important variety on the island, and with 10,000, it’s necessary to know which are more important than others. We fully anticipated visiting the most holy and important of the temples – Pura Besakih – The Mother Temple – on the flank of the highest mountain, Mount Agung, but, well, we ran out of time. It’s one of the reasons to go back, I guess. We did end up seeing three of the nine and one of them was Pura Lempuyang. Pura is a word that describes Balinese Hindu temples, specifically, and derives from the Sanscrit word ‘puri,’ meaning walled city or palace. Lempuyang is the name of the mountain where the temple resides. The origin of this word most closely matches to lampu (light) and hyang (god) or Light of God when put together. So its color is white, and its direction is East.     Our first view   Now we’ve climbed some steps and are standing at that door in the last photo   This is after more steps – I think “pura” really means “lots of steps” as this one has more than 1700 steps in all. Most of them seemed to have about 350.   Chris and the entry door, with Mt Agung in the background, just visible through the door (mostly cloud-shrouded).   I spent a fair amount of time with the dragon heads at the bottom of the steps here. Me on the right, Maddy on the left, two more of us going up already.   Chris and Michelle reaching the second doorway. Our guide unlocked each door for us and we were the only ones there. It’s busiest in the morning when it’s still cool enough that you don’t melt while climbing the steps (tourist error!).   I just finished the dragon steps and am entering into the main plaza area. Each entry is taken with care because there is often a protocol – you can’t go up those steps, or it’s closed right now. Balinese are called to make a pilgrimage to this temple twice a year during certain ceremonies. Actually, from what I gathered, they are called to make pilgrimages to all nine of the directional temples, and Besakih a couple extra times, plus their own village temples (of which there are three) and their own family temple. Add it all up and they’re coming or going to a temple most days of the year. And that’s what we witnessed in most cases. Temples and worship are a huge part of the culture, and like Buddhism in Nepal, they knit it into their everyday life constantly. Setting out incense and flowers is as routine and essential as donning shoes and walking to work. The look back to Mt Agung (the tallest mountain in Bali) from the second set of stairs.     With the plaza and stairs in view. Mt Agung in the clouds, but visible.   I loved all the faces of Bali. They were most prominent around the temples   Almost life-size statue on the way up the steps   Giant dragon-serpent creature was the casing for the stairs. Each of these guys was about 10 feet tall.   I think these are the faces of Good (rather than Evil) which is not probably what you might infer from their teeth and huge eyes.   This is a flying lion-monkey thing. I’m sure he has a name, but I don’t know it.   Kids at the top. They all got along swimmingly.    This is our guide resting while we took photos and wandered. Whenever you wandered near enough, he imparted some wisdom or told a story of the place. I could have listened to him all day. His name was Ketut, which means 4th born, but he is the eighth born in his family. The reason for this is Balinese have 4 names: Wayan, Maday, Nyoman and Ketut. They mean first born, second born, third born and fourth born. After the fourth child, they repeat names, so the fifth child and the first child are called the same. To keep from getting confused, they use nicknames a lot.   This was the last area we were allowed into. Had we been there at a reasonable hour (before 10 am) we would have been invited to take a bus ride or motorcycle ride up to the next section of the temple. You can see the next section in the distance right at the center of the photo. (click to enlarge)   There are seven sections of the temple complex, broken into three locations along the road up the mountain. From the video below, I think he says you can stay on steps all the way up between the other sections, but most visitors (who are not worshiping) take the road. It’s two km up the road to the next location, where sections 3,4 and 5 reside. Then another mile up to the very top where the last two sections are. The last one is the target, of course, but only 1 and 2 (this location) were open this late in the day. (Another reason to go again – I’d love to climb 1700 steps to the top!)   The steps back down were along the outside – I think this is protocol – up in the middle, down on the outside, but I can’t be sure. The guides might have just wanted to give us a different view.   Looking back up at the first temple door   Another entrance. I liked the lions on the gate.   Here’s a video and some of our guide’s description as I pan around the plaza.

Hungry? It’s time for the delectable entry from Bali. I took photos of much of the food we ate. A photographic tour of Balinese food! Grab a napkin and pull up a chair. Right off we got a hold of our first fresh, passionfruit and mangosteens (I didn’t get a photo). They were whole, unopened on our hotel breakfast buffet the first morning, so we went a little nuts. How to eat: press thumb into the crunchy shell until it yields, then pull it apart. Consume the entire interior with a giant smile on your face. I spent the entire rest of the trip asking for mangosteens and not finding them until I ran through a local market on one of our last days and found some just as they were closing. “End of day special,” she said to me as I gave her my last rupiah. A half kilo of mangosteens (5 of them) for $2. As an added bonus, they boil the dark purple rinds of the mangosteen to make a dye for their batik process.    Our hotel buffet breakfast cakes… and BMW, which was weird – they are too wide for the roads – so this was an anomaly that I just happened to capture. I could have eaten those little sugar cakes all day though.   Lunchtime fruit in a fresh coconut. This was my 12-year old’s favorite: chunks of fresh fruit swimming in a half coconut full of milk they had colored green. In the foreground, spice rubbed chicken with salsas.     There’s chicken under that pile of spiced peanut sauce. And field greens, no rice.   Small child, large pile of veggies. This dish is sayur urap – bean sprouts, green beans, spinach and toasted coconut covered in a flavorful sauce of tumeric, shallots, galangal (a spicy root like ginger), red chilies and keffir lime.     Coconut curry chicken with green beans and red peppers. The flowers were all over the ground and I thought I’d garnish the table with them.    Traditional Balinese roasted spiced chicken – Ayam betutu – which uses flavors from tumeric, caraway, coriander, cardamom, lemongrass and garlic. The spices are crushed into a paste and spread over the top side of the chicken before slow roasting. Roasted peanuts in a ginger-coconut salad and 2 amazing sauces to add.   Cashew chicken and a cone of garlic rice. Sweet tea to drink. And while you can’t drink the water without treating it, the ice cubes are government regulated and made with only purified water. Joe, sitting next to me had ginger coffee – fresh ginger and grounds brewed together right in the cup. Yum!   Now, my favorite restaurant of the whole trip: Cafe Wayan. You could think of it as a restaurant with a garden, but it was really the other way around.     Each table was secluded under its own thatched roof, open air, of course.   Traditionally dressed waiters brought food with a smile…   as if we were the only people they had to serve. It was luxurious in its space and place. The food was spectacular, too. This is where I had my first nasi campur which translates as “little taste of everything.” I expecially liked that they made a salsa boat out of a slice of banana leaf. The drink was broccoli pineapple something. I just remember it sounded weird but tasted wonderful and cooling. Bintang is one of the 2 local beers of Bali.    Video of the place below        

For those of you who have never traveled abroad, there are a fair number of things that the good ole US of A doesn’t allow that some of the rest of the world is okay with. I first learned of this disparity when I traveled to Central America and was climbing several hundred feet up the slippery limestone steps of an ancient Mayan pyramid. A thunderstorm blew in and three of us were stuck momentarily at the top, in a little stone cove where we watched the black clouds roll across the Guatemala border into Belize. That they let us up there isn’t the part that you’re looking for. That we climbed up way above the jungle tree tops on uneven, crumbling stone steps with no hand railings, handicapped access or signage of warning – that was the part that got me. The fall would have been clean off the side to the plaza below.   The part of this that lingers in my mind is how protected we are in our own country. There are laws, rules, right-of-way and lawyers for absolutely everything. We’re pretty laced up. We also expect to be protected since that is what we do here. So when you go to Asia and get to stand right in front of a three ton elephant, and aren’t told not to touch it, it’s a little daunting. In March I rubbed faces with an Asian elephant, and walked beside them with nothing in between me and them. Walking in the middle of five giant beasts, all headed to water break was thrilling – their size all around mine. And it was almost a run for me. It gives perspective as to how small a space I hold on the earth, that’s for sure. But I loved it. When I got up close to that giant shiny eye and long black eyelashes, I loved rubbing the rough skin of her nose and feeling her hot breath on my hands and cheek as she smelled me.   Then last Christmas we were in San Diego at the Wild Animal park and as a Christmas gift, my hubby gave me one of their “special encounters with a cheetah”. It was truly amazing for me as I have always loved the big cats and the cheetah, an endangered species, was 3 feet from me, in the same enclosure as me, breathing the same air. Her tail twitched at my feet. I sat in a chair with a handful of other lucky participants, as the cheetah handler answered our questions and moved her around so we could see her whole beautiful self. And I went to ask my most burning question, but it was answered before I even got the chance: Don’t touch. This beautiful, living, endangered, fascinating thing is three feet from you. DO NOT TOUCH. Why? Ha, you need to ask? Because it’s America and we have as many lawyers as we have stupid people who would ruin the experience for everyone else. Then they showed us her skill as a runner (as cheetahs are famous for doing) and she managed to out run the rabbit-on-a-reel that they used to train her. Sixty-something miles per hour for a straight quarter mile. It was all a very amazing experience and I wouldn’t take it back. I just wish it had happened in another country because then I might have been able to pet the coat of a cheetah. Here’s the video I took of the run.    Fast forward to this Christmas. More encounters with large cats. We went to the Safari Park in Bali and the eight of us (our family and the other family we traveled with) were put in a cage on the back of a truck and driven past the animals who were not caged, they could come right to the truck, and they did, because there was chicken. The guys in the cage with us dangled chunks of raw chicken for the lions and I was happy when one of them came to be fed, and the other decided he wasn’t hungry enough. I’ll take that as a sign that they don’t starve them to get them to perform for tourists. Next we fed elephants and zebra from our cage. They like carrots. The kids were thrilled. Camels and other exotic beasts in the dark; this was a night safari, it was all in the dark. Then the denouement: the tigers! Two tigers appeared from atop their giant rock perch, and approached the truck. The keeper/trainer spoke a couple of commands and the larger of the two (maybe he was just larger once he got that close to us?) hopped up on top of our cage. A 450 pound tiger on our heads. He stood for a moment then lay down to get closer to the snack. His head was right above Chris. I handed him my camera and watched the giant furry head and teeth at work. His belly was over me and I looked up at it. “Oh, I want to touch!” I said meekly, as though I knew it was a wish that couldn’t be fulfilled. “You can touch!” the guide said. I think I squeaked. Then I reached up and petted a tiger on the belly. And I did it again, pausing only when he quit chomping chicken for a moment and noticed my fingers poking through the cage. I withdrew in a rush of adrenaline then he returned to his snack. I smiled and looked at that giant furry orange head again before lifting each of my kids up to touch a tiger, too. Keep your eyes on those teeth when you do that!

Get comfy, this one’s a little thick. (If you must, skip the fat text and see the photo-story at the bottom.) We were in Bali for twenty four hours before we entered our first Hindu temple. That’s a long time! It’s said that there are over 10,000 temples on Bali, so finding one isn’t hard. Getting to the one you want proves a bit more difficult. This was our second temple visit, on day 2 of our journeys out. Pura Gunung Kawi is one of the oldest temples on the island, built in the 11th Century but perhaps founded in the 10th C. (There are at least two other temples that date from the 10th C as well.) Its highest structures are carved into the mountainside, right through the black lava flows to the limestone beneath, revealing the history of the active volcanoes on the island. Of course the oldest sections are simple caves carved into the limestone, used as living quarters for those who stayed and worshiped here, but the most interesting structures are the larger carved stone building faces (they don’t have doors or an inside.) I picked up a ton of random info on Balinese Hinduism, which is a unique in several ways compared to other Hinduism. Primarily it is monotheistic. Yep. Before Indians explored the area and brought both Buddhism and Hinduism to Bali, the island people were Animists and ancestor worshipers. Since Hinduism was added, several other religions have also colored the final product that is Balinese Hinduism. I heard this description from at least three different guides while we toured temples, so I gather they are pretty proud of their custom-made theology. “One same god” they kept saying. I surmised that the original islanders were very open to interpretations and ideas of other peoples. Or at least that’s what I took from the whole thing. Except, perhaps, for Islam. All of the rest of Indonesia is Muslim, this one island is a Hindu stronghold, so there is more than a little (thinly veiled) animosity toward the influx of people from other nearby islands. Mosques are being built in droves on Bali nonetheless. All of our guides readily explained that the negativity toward Javanese moving to Bali is exacerbated by two factors: 1) Balinese are very likely to have no more than two children these days (anyone in my generation or older may have been one of five or eight, though), while Indonesian Muslims are allowed to take multiple wives and generally have large families with each of them. (Sidebar: One of our guides pointed out that Java, the next island west, has over 125 million people alone. It is the most populous island while Bali – a much smaller island – has about four million. Indonesia is expected to overtake the USA as the third most populous country in the world within 10 years.)  2) Bali is the showy island, the tourist island, the hip-y, bust-y movie star of Indonesia. I gathered that there is a lot of money, success and glam here compared to the other Indonesian islands. Their infrastructure is a decent barometer of this – all the roads we traveled on were paved, well-striped and had at least two lanes, curbs and sidewalks, even. They didn’t have any power outages or blackouts, and they have an ever growing number of hotels and villas along the beaches to make way for more tourists with money. It will be interesting to see how the dynamic of the Balinese people and the island change as that balance shifts.  But back to Balinese Hinduism; in a nutshell for anyone interested: There are three primary deities, Brahma, the Creator, Vishnu, the Protector (of the living), and Shiva, the Recycler (what we’d call a death deity or undertaker, but none of them used that word). They are all incarnations of one god, their primary god, rather than separate entities, as they are viewed in Indian Hinduism. Each of these incarnations appears abundantly in their stories (many of the stories are close if not identical to those in India: Ramayana and Mahabharata, predominantly) and each incarnation has his own mode of transport. I like Vishnu’s transport, the Garuda Bird, which is a wildly decorated crazy looking beast. Wood statue of the Garuda Bird in our first hotel entry Beyond that, Hinduism seems to be a veneer over a much more intricate set of beliefs from Animism and ancestral worship. Everything living has a spirit and you must ask that spirit’s permission before you kill it. And many inanimate objects also have a spirit, so beware of motorbikes, books, stones and the like. And they believe that ghosts and evil spirits travel in the form of cats, naked women and crows. Black magic and the associated superstitions are intact as well. They also seem to have shirked the vegetarian bent of most Hindus. Balinese eat several kinds of meat at every meal (breakfast one morning offered curry chicken, bacon and even fish sausage. And their standard lunch dish, nasi campur, is usually three different meats in different preparations on one plate. They have no aversion to eating beef, and apparently cows are not sacred in Bali even though it is officially (and has worked hard to stay) a Hindu island. I confirmed the non-sacred cows fact with one of our guides late in the trip. I sited Kathmandu roads (Nepal is also officially a Hindu nation) with sacred cows regularly holding up traffic as my only comparison. Our guide got a big kick out of that. Nope, Gods first, people second, cows along with all the other animals in Balinese Hinduism. Sorry if I am boring you, I find this stuff fascinating. Maybe I should have majored in theology. So now to the photos of Pura Gunung Kawi (The Carved Mountain Temple), in story format (because I seem to have lots of words today). Entry booth where you pay a meager fee to get in (about 50 cents) and get loaned a sarong and sash which are required for adults and girls (boys just get sashes). I never tired of the traditional dress of the Balinese men. Beautiful, formal and relaxed all at once.    We went down about 320 stairs, past vendors, past rice fields, to the valley floor.  This is the river at the bottom and a standard basket offering to the gods with flowers, incense and a piece of candy. Then up some steps. Lots of steps, and they are larger than standard size. Wayan leads the boys toward the near set of carvings.  This  man was conducting a ritual offering with his wife. Often a flower is dipped in holy water and flung in the direction of the altar, temple or a person. I was sprinkled with holy water as a rite upon entering a few of the temples. Permission asked in advance, of course. The sacred water that flows from the carvings is also 1100 years old and ends at a pool of goldfish (ok, koi). I’m pretty sure they aren’t 1100 years old.  Looking from the near carvings, across the valley floor to the set on the other side.  Had to visit the river. And Chris sporting a traditional sarong with the colors of the two opposing gods who represent good and evil (though their colors are reversed from what you’d think: black is good). The broad plaid is their equivalent of the Yin Yang symbol.  Me and Wayan with the amazing hot jungle all around us.  All five of the carved faces on the near side, and holy water. Old stuff is really cool! This site is now on the historic national register (recently) so it’s now protected from development in the nearest areas. (Don’t take that for granted!)  Amazing gardens throughout and father and son in traditional dress entering for worship.    Standing at the entrance on one side of the main temple. Wayan’s sarong also has red, the color that represents Brahma, the creator deity, and yes, I plugged him for all this info en route. Yeah, I’m sure I’m a blast to travel with (ahem). We heard the bells and knew there was a ceremony in progress. We weren’t dissuaded from entering as long as we followed the rules: stay lower than the priest at all times, don’t place yourself between praying people and the altar, stay quiet, go barefoot where required. Now, remember all that, pay attention, follow signage and your guide, and get the perfect shot, without being rude, okay?  So far, so good, but the balance isn’t quite right.   The altar is beautiful, in a perfect setting, we’re quiet… The priest’s ringing bell stops and low chanting begins. People bow their heads to the ground and return. They talk among themselves, whisper prayers and murmur. Then the priest’s bell rings for another minute. This is my chance. We’re just tourists hanging out in the corner of your holy space, don’t mind us. Oops, spied. And it adds to the drama of the photographer’s missed shot that the lady is in perfect position, but the boy behind her is picking his nose. Well, there’s next time.    Over to the other side. Here the lava lays on top of the limestone. I love the dramatic two-tone effect.  Rice fields on the way out. Then 320 steps up. In the sticky heat. It took us a while. My little guy exchanging stories with a vendor who carves coconuts.

I was going to wait and make this pretty post later in the line up, but the flowers in Bali are unbelievable. Many were familiar from my past trips to Central America and Hawaii, but so many were new that I have numbered the ones I don’t know. Here’s your chance, savvy gardeners and horticulturists. If you know what it is, please help me out and list the number and the name. It’s all much more fun than sitting with Google for a couple hours. Here they are, the flora of Bali as I saw it.  First, the flowers that most of you might recognize from our annual gardens: New Guinea impatiens, and the flying flowers that go with them: black butterflies!   Alex and pummelos   Unknown #1   Unknown #2     Wild orchids   And some examples of what they do with flowers   Sprinklings of petals around the building posts, just because.    Hallowed garden within a garden    Adorning the temples    At the market, being made into offering baskets   I loved the flower ladies at the market   A bent palm frond over an entry to our hotel patio. They tied flowers on to each dangling leaf one morning.      Waterlilies      Unknown #3    Butterflies were plentiful. Here the gang stops to take a look at one.   Water hyacinth   Hibiscus    Halliconia (small one – about 18 inches of flower chain)   Halliconia (large – about 3 feet of flowers in the chain)    Bird of Paradise    Angel’s Trumpet (in peach, even!) Gloxinia (which I’ve only seen in pink and white until now)     These were bracts, not flowers – like poinsettia, but tree sized.    My fav!! Plumeria or in Indonesian: Frangipani     The white are jasmine in a random stone water bowl by the sea. The red are used primarily in offering baskets, but they are Unknown #4. Yellow ones are Unknown #5   Every morning one of the ladies from the villa staff put an offering and incense out in a cove by the pool.      Canna (that would never, ever grow that nice even for a single summer on my deck in Seattle, as much as I want them to.)    It took me almost two weeks to come up with the name of this one. Here it’s a vine: Mandevilla vine and is usually solid pink. There it’s a tree and two-tone.   True tropical water lily in the city. My mom can grow these in Minneapolis during the summer, but she has to start over every spring with new ones because of the cold. I could hear her in my head every time we passed one, “oh, they don’t have to take theirs in for the winter here… and they live!”

I lived in Michigan during my twenties and that was the first time I learned what piles of burning leaves smelled like. People would get nostalgic every fall when the leaves fell and everyone raked them into piles and set them ablaze. There were a lot of leaves in Michigan. Lots of burning, and the air would fill with the thick, heavy, unmistakable scent of damp, rotting leaves on fire. Some people swore the molds sprouted in the heat of the fire and it ignited their allergies, but the majority of people would get nostalgic and smile blissfully as they inhaled deeply with fond memories,”Aah, fall.” Me, I always thought it smelled rather noxious, unnatural and was too thick for too many miles. So I land in Bali and it hits me, this familiar smell of Asia – plastic burning, along with cooking fires and incense – mostly the former – is a very acquired smell. It’s not pleasant, even to me, one who is full of nostalgia for it. It smells unnatural as well, perhaps more-so than the Michigan leaves, but it’s associated with all sorts of lovely memories of my trips to Nepal where the smell is nearly identical, if not thicker. And this smell in Bali has an additional bit added: tropical flowers on the island breeze, so it’s sweeter, lighter and more friendly. Call me eclectic in my Asian travel choices, but I’ve been to the Asia three times and I am quite sure that between Nepal, Seoul and Bali I have a rough idea of the place. Very rough. And by that I mean I feel like I am justified in declaring my love for the continent. Sure, it has its problems, pollution, third-world poverty and way too many people, to name a few, but I see its problems as its strengths. The culture is so incredibly rich and vast. From the Pashtuns of Pakistan (I am reading I Am Malala right now) to the pagodas of Japan and the high snowy mountains and monasteries of Tibet, to the pre-Hindu-Buddhist tropical island culture of Bali, it seems endless and vast how many peoples have lived in so much contact with each other, learned from each other and assimilated each other’s ways over millennia. And the pollution, though more visible than ours is far less prolific per capita. In the places I’ve been (save Seoul) individuals and families are responsible for handling it all themselves (no garbage man, no landfills) so they have figured out ways to minimize it – both creating and reusing. (Those of you who are thinking I have an unnatural affection for the cycle of garbage are probably right, as shown in exhibit one and exhibit two. Maybe someday I’ll be known as That Crazy Garbage Lady.) At the very least, I am enthralled with this culture already and looking at its innards as much as possible. So now, as we drive along the eastern coast road to Monkey Forest, I am looking into the places, the people, the ways of life here and soaking each bit up as we pass it. I am sure that by day two I drove my family crazy by shouting, “oh, look that’s a…” and “ooh, ooh!” and “quick, look, look!” It’s my nature, I like to share. After they grew weary of my announcements, I began plugging our guide and driver, Wayan for information about the things we passed, place names, history, and anything else that came to mind. He did a remarkable job fielding it all. We entered the Monkey Forest, which is primarily a nature preserve with a Hindu temple from the 14th Century. We saw the first monkeys before we parked the car, and they kept appearing in herds (mobs? gaggles? Aah, I remembered… troops) along the steamy jungle walk into the forest valley. I was particularly interested in the faces on the sculptures – so ornate and emotive – that the monkeys were secondary for me. That didn’t keep me from snapping photos. I’d read ahead about their fearlessness. They are accustomed to human proximity as people feed them all the time. They mostly went about their business; males chasing each other for position, mothers caring for babies, adolescents fighting over banana scraps and males mounting females in the middle of a crowd, (you know, regular monkey stuff) as if we weren’t there. Photos of the day are below with my musings. (As always, clicking on a photo will make it larger.) Looking for a ride    Stone sculptures on the bridge and banyan trees     I really liked the stone faces in Bali! This is the entrance to the smaller prayer wing of the temple. I tried to find out how old it is, but could find no solid info. Could be a couple hundred years, could be a couple thousand.      Friendly, but keeping our distance. Monkey bites are nasty.    Main temple This one will inspire a pen and ink drawing or maybe charcoal     All together now, “awww, baby monkey!”  Double awwww.       Chris thinks he looks possessed – something out of Stephen King. I like to think he’s laughing at all the stupid humans who keep feeding him, but in reality, he’s yawning. With our guide Wayan at our lunch spot.

There is nothing that makes you appreciate a place more than having to fly for 25 hours (with 2 kids) to get there. It was 87 degrees when we landed, but not as steamy as I imagined. I kicked off this set of blog posts with this one, in case you want the full meal deal. The first night’s dinner was Indonesian curry and french fries (fries for me, curry for the kids, of course). We selected a hotel on a tourist beach in the city of Denpasar – the capitol of the island, which has several sections. We stayed in Sanur, the oldest and first tourist beach in the city, which feels very much like Kathmandu (except the beach part) for its family-filled mopeds and tiny, minimalist storefronts, narrow roads, fruit stands and the identical (familiar and friendly though not yummy) smell of trash fires mixed with incense and cooking fire, just like Kathmandu as well. It felt tropical and the air was thick with hot moisture even long after dinner. Family-filled mopeds Plumeria trees were in full bloom everywhere. They’re my favorite tropical flower and in Bali, they appeared endlessly in front of my feet, as though they’ve been dropped just before I step. They smell fabulous, too.  Pink plumeria at my feet. I feel like a princess! Dip in the hotel pool We took a much needed afternoon dip in the hotel’s infinity pool (ok, it was hot there compared to 40 degrees). Then a two-block walk through town, past Hindu temples and little offering baskets full of flowers, crackers and fruit, to azure-turquoise beach, Indian Ocean and sunset a couple moments after the sun sank below the horizon (it took us a while to get there). On the wander back we stopped at a quaint restaurant that looked inviting except that it was mostly empty. The two families that were there looked like they were probably family of the owner/cooks/waitress. I gave my first “what not to eat” speech (it’s basically like Mexico), then we ordered and enjoyed the food thoroughly. The only thing we enjoyed more was watching the geckos run up and down the restaurant walls after bugs. Gecko chasing bugs Some of them were nearly a foot long. They grow lots of things big in Bali. There was a scorpion perched on a painting high above our table and we watched it throughout the meal. It didn’t move, so we asked if it was real. “Yes, it’s real, but not alive. They don’t live here.” Sigh of relief. I know about snakes, spiders, and even Komodo dragons (the Island of Komodo is just three islands to the east, and they have some on Bali) but I have never had to live among 4-inch scorpions. I admit I was relieved when she said that. (We’ll get to the spiders later.)Crossing the busy road took a little getting used to (crosswalks, yeah, right!) because the scooters were coming around curves, from the darkness on the wrong side of the street. Left side driving.  View from our balcony First Bali sunrise With photos and musings, this may be a couple weeks in the unraveling. Since Facebook is being unusually unsharing lately, you’re likely to miss the next post when I put it up. Feel free to add this to your RSS, or follow the blog, or whatever floats your boat. Thanks for reading, commenting, sharing, etc.

This is the second year that my immediate family has kissed off the regular Christmas routine and headed to warmer climes. Last year we hit 4 theme parks in 5 days in San Diego. This year we went a little outside the box. We flew the four of us to Bali. It’s the showiest island of Indonesia. The tourist island, right next door to Java and across the archipelago from Sumatra and the giant and wild Borneo. And it’s south of the equator. So not only were we headed to the South Pacific, we were headed to summer during solstice. The coldest, darkest day in Seattle (less than 8.5 hours of daylight) to the tropics where daylight is a constant throughout the year. 6:00 am up, 6:30 down. Less than a half hour variance throughout the year. I know, crazy concept for those of you who have always lived near or above 45 degrees N latitude. But I digress. My point is, Shangri-La. That’s where we went (not entirely by chance) for 2 weeks over Christmas vacation. I’ll give you the short version of how we chose it: Our friends Michelle and Joe were at an auction, bid on a week at a high-end villa in Bali (with all the trimmings: staff of 7, driver, meals, massages, etc.) and won it. The villa was set for eight people but they are four. They offered us the other four spaces if we’d get ourselves there, so we did. We tacked on 5 extra days on either side of their week because, well, if you’re going that far, you better see all you can, right? Michelle and Joe’s clan headed to Singapore for the New Year, and then to Thailand, so they’re still en-route. So that’s how we got to Bali. A million thanks to Joe and Michelle for asking us! My husband ribbed me saying that I have now been to Asia three times (a destination I would have never chosen myself without prodding) and still have yet to get to Australia and New Zealand – places I’ve wanted to go since I was 4. Life is funny that way, but I take opportunities as they come. I keep digressing. I’m still not in this time zone, so you’ll just have to forgive me. Twenty five hours of flying later, we were hovering over Bali, eleventh in line to land. So we did circles. I love airplane circles because they give you a great aerial view if you’re at the window, which I was. And when we got down there, we had a great adventure. I’ll process the first photos soon, but these are the airplane circles. None of these are Bali, they’re most likely Lombok, East Java and surrounding little islands. But I can see myself down there swimming with manta rays, can’t you? That’s what summer in winter looks like from above.

I was inspired Friday night. We went to the Moore Theater to see Switchfoot’s current rock show. Who are they? They are the sweetest quint of San Diego surfer dudes to grace a rock and roll stage. And their music inspires me and lifts me up. I wrote this out as soon as I got home that night, but it was still too full of the moment, too plump with swirling emotion, specific to the artists I saw. I was so excited to tell you what I saw, how it made me feel that I missed my own point. Last night, the words that came were an extension of what Switchfoot conveyed: Don’t take today for granted, see the mundane for the beautiful thing that it is, and believe in love and people. And that’s all lovely. But it’s not what I meant to say when I went to write this. I meant to write about inspiration. I get caught up in being a fan. I fall into the whirl of the crowd, into the beat and the emotion that it draws out of me. But that’s not inspiration. Someone who successfully inspires me makes me want to walk further down my own creative path. When the pomp of the evening is over, the thing that is left is inspiration. It’s the thing that makes me write this again so that my words say what I want. The thing that connects those emotions of Friday night to my own endeavors. Because all those feelings are wonderful, but they result in nothing if they don’t illicit action as a result. Inspiration is the thing that churns in your guts until you pick a pen or a camera or a paintbrush. The desire to grab the moment and make it bloom in your creative work. I could tell you about the serendipity I saw in their show, the message of their new lyrics, or how they’ve remained beautifully true to their surfer boy roots even after twenty years of being on stages around the world. But that doesn’t probably inspire you. So I re-wrote it. I wrote it so I am not telling you their story, but so that I can further my own by telling you that they affected me, and then showing you what came of that inspiration. One of their songs says: Yesterday is a wrinkle on your foreheadYesterday is a promise that you’ve brokenDon’t close your eyes, don’t close your eyesThis is your life and today is all you’ve got nowYeah, and today is all you’ll ever haveDon’t close your eyesDon’t close your eyesThis is your life, are you who you want to be? And I love it when that question presents itself because it makes me want to go and create.I am inspired. It’s one of the best places to be.

This weekend was the Kenmore Camera Expo at the Lynnwood Convention Center. One of my stand-by events that I’ve attended since inception in about 2007. The keynote was particularly interesting this year. A White House photographer since LBJ and Nixon, he had full, unrestricted access to Ford and created some amazing images from that time. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for his work in the early 70s. I need to back up here and acknowledge that this sort of photography was never of interest to me in college. This is what everyone else was shooting in my college photo classes – current events, random, newsworthy happenings of the world. It was the reason I stayed in fine art photo school instead of b-lining for photojournalism. For instance, a group of my college photo classmates both demonstrated against and shot photos of the Minneapolis trash incinerator when it was built and put into production around 1990. That kind of stuff. Stuff that might become history. And it’s what never appealed to me. I am kind of an anti-historian… or, call me a late adopter. Someone who does better at looking back at events to see what happened rather than deciding how big a deal they are at the moment. But I am moved pretty deeply by historic imagery from moments in our historical past, so this presentation really affected me. I spent two hours listening to stories while David Hume Kennerly flipped through a selection of his photos. And it wasn’t the photography that inspired me, or even the people he shot, it was the fact that he had knit himself into history as a photographer. His images are the ones that have burned themselves into our mind’s eye when we think about recent history. Not just politics, but some of our sports heroes falling from grace, or music icons when they were young. He began “This one is…” a lot, followed by a story from the inside. He had full security clearance to be in the room during top secret negotiations during the Ford Administration, and he took full advantage of that. That section began with images of President Ford moving into an emptied White House, dichotomies of American people of the time, and of course this indellible image. He took that photo. He’s been on the cover of Time more than 20 times. He told us of the time he spent (over two years) covering the Vietnam War from within, and then told the story of covering Jamestown. He said that even after being in the middle of things in Vietnam, Jamestown was the one assignment that gave him nightmares. Everything he relayed spoke not of photography itself, but of the way he dealt with people in his midst. He photographed Sadat at Giza and told how working with a personality as strong as Sadat’s (right after the Sinai talks) led to a photo like his. And his iconic image of Betty Ford dancing on the Cabinet table. Kennerly explained that this happened at a time when women hadn’t filled many seats on the Cabinet (one or two to that point). Kennerly found her sitting at a window in the Cabinet room, looking out onto the lawn, perhaps imposing her presence as a female in the male-dominated business space. She saw him and said, “I’ve always wanted to dance on that table,” then, according to Kennerly, she (with only him in the room) kicked off her shoes, and did just that. According to Kennerly, President Ford wasn’t so pleased when he saw the photos much later, but the First Lady loved them. One of the attendees of the conference yesterday was the man who hosted Kennerly while he was in Vietnam all those years ago. They had only been reunited days ago and as Kennerly introduced him and had him stand, the crowd acknowledged him in applause. I caught some of their conversation after the talk when they were agreeing to meet up, “If only there was a pho gau place around…” I interrupted long enough to point them to the one ten steps outside the convention center where I’d just had lunch. Other photographic talks I’ve attended have been full of beautiful imagery, information or are technically fulfilling. This one did something else. It placed a historical figure in front of me and allowed him to tell history’s stories from behind the lens.

I’ve recently been spending time on my photojournalist blog, and a lot of my photos are ending up over there. I’ve done a fair amount of photo work and it sometimes ends up there as well, but as you might be able to tell from the name, From My ‘Art is where my heart is, even if it’s not where I always put my photos. Here are a few from a recent fall hike. We had a great day and the vine maples were painted in warm colors against mossy forest floors and azure blue skies. That doesn’t happen a lot here because the fall clouds and rain serve to moderate the temps, and the cold nights are what cause leaf colors to pop. Anyway, here is a quick look at the Talapus Lake trail on October 4.  Vine maples on arrival Light playing across mossy old log  Talus slope opening with light enough for vine maples to take hold Waterfall enroute to the lake. I didn’t expect waterfalls, so I had fun hand-holding these. Talapus Lake with a touch of fall color Falls detail

In a way I am relieved that the national parks are closed. The poor animals are getting a rest from the thousands of people-feet that tread through their homes all year. I wonder if it feels like a vacation to them. When we were at Glacier NP this summer, I paid special attention to the way the animals were treated by the hoards of roaming gawkers throughout the park. Just before reaching the high pass on our second day, we drove by a trio of mountain goats grazing in the afternoon shadows. Unfortunately, they weren’t alone. Dozens of cars converged on the few parking spots nearest them while frantic people poured out, often with iPad in hand, to snap one of a million photos.     What happened next was typical for mass mentality: viewers jockeyed for position to get the best angles of the goat family – a mother, father and fuzzy baby – as they slowly roamed down the hill toward the row of cars. They nibbled on the late summer flowers, yellow and thick in the shadows of the mountain above.   Daddy goat was closest to the people, but a stone wall separated us from them. It was a relatively docile scene, except for the mob of senseless people. They just wanted to point their i-Contraptions at the “wild fauna” and “get the shot.” The goats were  not amused. They continued grazing. The goats I met in the Enchantments were this same way – habituated to people and cute enough to make you drop your guard. But this is never a safe or healthy situation. Awe is not a good excuse for forgetting your wild animal fear. Undaunted and habituated, the father goat mostly ignored the people. Mama was more wary. Baby was in between, mostly taking Mama’s cues, but curious about what Daddy was thinking, where he was going. People pressed in to get the baby, but Daddy was after salt (like goats often are) and on a whim headed straight for the road and the people who now stacked up between cars and trucks which clogged the highway.   And they gawked and gathered, moving ever closer to the majestic wild creatures. Daddy paused at the wall and stood on it, deciding which direction to go, perhaps. This should have been a signal to the masses to move back and give him space to go where he will. Nope. Stupid masses. People crowded him, making him and Mama goat wary. He stopped cold in the road, not quite sure if the bipeds were going to feed him or harm him. My wild animal sense was going nuts. I encouraged my kids to watch and stay back. One of them wanted to go closer. I had my telephoto lens on my camera. No need to be as close as the iPeople. I kept them between my kids and the daddy goat. Then Daddy headed for an empty parking spot at the end of a parking row, and began licking the liquid car crap off the asphalt. People were amazed and worked their way mindlessly into a circle around the male goat. Mama bleated at Baby and Daddy in warning. She was uncomfortable. She could see it perfectly from her vantage – he was trapped – surrounded by people. The only thing going through  my head then was Mama goat, Mama bear, same thing. Don’t mess. At this point I forgot about my camera and put one hand on each kid, dragging them back to the safety of our car. Chris was ahead of us ushering them inside. Everyone else moved in closer. The story of the man who was gored in ONP is still too fresh in my mind even three years later. We left. The next day we were hiking in the pass beyond the reach of the masses. About an hour before sunset, only one other couple was on the trail with us when we reached the overlook of a beautiful alpine lake.     Just a bit further up the trail was a male mountain goat, coming right for us. Not running, but not wandering either. I explained to the couple that we should back up, give him space to go where he will, and he continued in our direction. We took a path offshoot hoping to get out of his way, and only then did I see what was driving him. A photographer was following him down the trail, hoping for “the shot”. When the goat moved, he picked up his rig, flipped his camera back over his shoulder, pointing his tripod legs forward, toward the goat. Walking toward the goat. Pursuing the goat, outfitted, conveniently, with huge, long horns. Of course it doesn’t occur to the photographer what a threat this is. But this big creature (he was a man of larger stature) had a daunting set of horns thrust skyward, in a manner that would have looked, to a male goat, like a threat. Stupid photographer. I explained to the couple and my son how it might appear to the goat to be chased by a creature with larger horns, then wondered to myself if maybe the goat was seeking us out as a herd. There were four of us and that might have looked like safety. We didn’t hang around to find out. The photographer was too far away to shout at or explain anything. We made our way down the trail toward the visitor’s center and left the goat to his space. I am hopeful that the light faded fast enough that the photographer did the same.  

Occasionally my job sends me on fun little non-climbing adventures that are as exciting as my own climbing adventures (almost). Tonight I am going to see an advance screening of The Summit which is the story of K2’s deadliest climbing day. It happened for real in 2008. This particular adventure has a special place in my heart.  Early last year at my bi-annual trade conference, I met one of the surviving climbers of this tragedy, Chhiring Dorje Sherpa, at a book signing in Salt Lake City. The book was written by Peter Zuckerman and Amanda Padoan, and I also met Amanda at the signing. She decided to write the story after her climbing partner, Karim, died in this tragedy. She wanted to research how he had died and write about it since in all the accounts she heard, there was no mention of him. So she roped in her cousin from Portland, OR, Peter Zuckerman to do the writing, since she was mostly a climber/adventurer and he was a reporter for the Oregonian. Amanda connected me with Peter after the book signing and he and I became fast friends. I’ve interviewed him and reviewed their book, which was my favorite non-fiction read of 2012.  But meeting Chirring Dorje was an amazing moment. I was still puffed up from my first visit to Nepal when I met him in the book signing line, so he and I went back and forth with Sherpas we both knew, short stories, the stuff I was accustomed to batting around with the people I know in the Sherpa culture. He spent several extra minutes with me, enjoying the exchange, even though the signing line was long. When he signed my copy of Peter and Amanda’s book, he went to the trouble to tell me the meaning that his name carried. The script that I watched his knotty, stubby hand write is the most treasured and beautiful thing about my copy of this story. God, I wish I had written his exact words down next to his name (I have an aversion to writing in books). All I can recover now is that Chirring means long life, and Dorje means lightning bolt. When ‘virtue names’ are combined, the meaning shifts some, but I remember him saying something like “This is how you write my name, it means ‘blessed by the enlightenment of long life.'” And only after reading the book and knowing the full story does that tug on me with full effect. As to the story of the tragedy itself, it’s a grisly tale of people dying on a mountain. Going into the movie tonight will most likely remind me of walking into the theater to see Titanic. Chris said to me, “So you know, this isn’t a happy ending…” But it’s not the death and tragedy of the story that I cling to, it’s the culture of the whole thing: What drives people to do this insane thing – to risk their lives to stand on a hunk of rock and snow? And how are those people different from the rest of us? How does their culture and their desire and their drive push them to do these things that they may or may not survive? So I go in tonight knowing I won’t get the juicy backstory that exists in Peter’s book. He relentlessly researched Chirring and Pasang’s lives and chronicled the early years and culture of their upbringing. And that added so much to the story. As he says, “When your life hangs from a rope, it’s important to know who tied it.” But I’ll still love the tragic story and seeing the new perspective of its telling, and know that I shook hands with the real guy up there who tied the knots and hung from a rope and survived. In case you want a quick synopsis of the tragedy, Outside Mag ran it down 2 months after it happened.

Hopefully by now you’ve seen the Louis CK bit where he explains exactly why he won’t get a smart phone for his kids. The clip itself is great and if you haven’t seen it you should click right now and watch (or watch again). But I got a hold of a longer version of the same clip and there’s a bit that resonated with me. The ten seconds before the viral clip is where he really shows what he’s made of; the bit where he talks about making your kids happy. See, I’ve always been a non-helicopter mommy. I’ve always justified it by knowing that I’m just a little bit selfish. And until now I haven’t had the words to put to it, specifically while I was in the thick of doing mommy-things all day every day. Then once I was out of that fog of thinking only mommy-thoughts day in and day out, I quit obsessing about it and moved on without understanding it completely. I left the mommy help sites behind and quit blogging “I’m a great mommy-stuff ” at all hours. But I still didn’t know why I was the kind of mom I am. But here, a male comedian (not a somber mommy) hits on exactly the reason. At 20:20 in the full episode, Conan points out that for kids at this age (Louis’ kids are 8 and 11, which are exactly my kids ages, by the way) it’s hard to not buy your kids a smart phone, “it’s tough,” Conan says. Without missing a beat Louis says, “Yeah, it’s easy, I just don’t let them have it. You say, ‘no, you can’t have it.'” To which the producers put in the laugh track and Conan is obviously thrown by this comment. The idea that Louis says “no” to his kids is laughable. Conan and his side kick are taking it as a joke. Louis goes on in a mock conversation with his daughter, “‘It’s bad for you,’ ‘but I want it,’ ‘yeah I don’t care what you want,'” enter laugh track and the real audience matching up. Most would take it as a good comedy routine. Then the brilliance of his whole persona kicks in. His real self in full honest Louis, “I’m not there to make them happy.” And the crowd goes wild, just sure he is kidding. The heart of his meaning he delivers next: “The children I am raising, I’m raising to be the adults they are going to be. So I have to give them the tools to get through a terrible life.” It’s the thing I love about Louis CK and the reason I think his comedy is so effective. He doesn’t own all that societal crap that is shoveled at us by the truckload, in this case about making your kids happy. He lives the other side of it, and I love his resilience and resistance to it. It’s beautifully real and the place where I have been trying to live for a long time with respect to my kids. It’s hard not to get caught up in following the masses and what is expected of you as a parent. Shit, none of us are given a manual with the delivery of a kid. It’s a blind walk down a rough road full of pitfalls. Sometimes we grab the nearest outstretched hand to keep from falling even if it’s to our detriment. So the stuff that we make up as we go is what it is – the best we can do at the moment. I used to obsess a lot about what I was and wasn’t doing to raise my kids right. Soccer, music classes, playdates, socialization, trampoline lessons, education, cool jeans, an email address, awareness of the myriad of things they should be aware of – self, other people, environment, the pudding on the floor. I’ve always known that it wasn’t my job to make my kids happy. That’s their job, just like it’s everyone’s own job to make themselves happy. It’s my job to give my kids the tools to make their own way toward happiness without just handing it to them. And I think that’s at the belly of being a good parent. It’s easy to hand your child things. I’ve been party to conversations among moms of tweens where they admitted to doing their kids’ homework for them so they would get the grade. The whole lot of them was in agreement that this was The Way. We’re programmed to push our kids through the system and give them a leg up, give them a perfect life, by giving them everything. So many parents just hand their kids “happy” by giving them what they want – like a smart phone. And that’s a cop out. It’s the easy way to a hard life… for your child. So Louis says, “I don’t care what you want,” and that is a beautiful, honest, difficult answer. Giving them the tools is far more valuable than giving them happiness. And it’s far more difficult to do. It takes work, but I believe that in the long run it makes for more prepared, self-sufficient, confident people. Cheers Louis, for re-lighting the path and reminding us in such an effective way.

I am shirking my work to write this. I’ve been wanting to blog all week, but I am in catch-up mode, as usual. I woke up this morning determined to get a certain list of things accomplished. I hammered, I processed, I answered mail. Then one of my authors sent me an email titled “Bonus Article” so I opened it because I simply can’t ignore gifts like that from authors I like. Great, I thought, I can get another article in this week, and I added it to my list. But as I read it, his descriptions of what he saw along the trail, of what he was thinking about, I was reduced to tears. Here are his words: “With an afternoon of downtime, I thought about taking my laptop down to the hotel pool to get a little work done. I’ve got some free time. I should go work. Ridiculous, right? I planned on plugging in my headset, launching Spotify, answering emails, and making myself available to any coworkers who might need to call or text me. And I almost did it. Instead, I went hiking.” Further on he says: “And that’s when I really started thinking…. And that’s what hiking offers: time to think. I doubt that I would have had any of these thoughts if I’d stayed back at the hotel, deliberately trying to have them. I would have been tethered to the expectation of coming up with something brilliant, and probably slinking off to Facebook when lightning failed to strike.” And this hit me hard because this is me, he is exactly me right there. I know I come up with most of my best stuff when I am on the trails, or running or traveling, out, away from machines and confining, square workspace and rapid-fire distractions. Yet we force ourselves to stay here in it. He continues: “I think hikers are thoughtful people. Look at a sampling of those who went into the wilderness and came out with something worth writing down and talking about: Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, Meriwether Lewis, Thoreau, Emerson, John Muir. Even every U.S. President since FDR has left the Beltway for Camp David. That’s because hiking gives us what so many of our tools steal: the time and the solitude to think our own thoughts.” It was a perfect reminder of why I began this outdoor magazine project in the first place; of how much more effective, productive and happy we are when we’re out there.    

I drove a carpool of kids to camp today. My own son and two other boys in the 6th grade, all of whom are new to the school this year. As you might imagine, I took it upon myself to get them to know each other better during the hour-long drive to camp. I told my son, A, to put his book away and be social on the ride in, since no one knew each other. I prodded conversation along for a few minutes, then once we were into construction and diverted off the designated course toward camp, I focused on the drive, leaving them in silence in the seat behind me. Me: Really, if you want to pull out books or something to do, I don’t mean to take that from you. A opens his book again. (silence) Me: I can’t really turn on the radio or anything because I don’t know the school rules on that stuff. It’s not hard to imagine me flipping to a music channel and getting Thriftshop uncensored (which I swear I heard on The End not too long ago). Or maybe a strategically placed Viagra ad? The mommy-sense is tingling, so I was glad when they didn’t argue. R: I didn’t bring a book. (silence) I thought to myself just then: It’s going to be a long ride. D: I brought a spinning cube game but it’s in my duffel, in the other car. A: You mean a Rubik’s Cube? D: Yeah. A: I love those. D: I did it in 57 seconds the other day. A: What? You can do it in under a minute? Wow. Silence. A went back to his book. Apparently I hate silence in my car. Me: Would someone like to read the directions to me? We’re at number 4. R accepts the paper and reads number five. Silence. I prodded them for conversation again. After we went over siblings and favorite things at the new school, we got to the fun part. D: I don’t have any siblings or cousins and that’s the way it is often, where I come from. Me: Where are you from? D: Romania Me: And there aren’t a lot of brothers and sisters there? D: Well for many of the families like mine, yes. But some do. Then they started talking about math. Well, D did, because he had more words than the rest. D: They made us learn decimals and fractions in 3rd grade basically to confuse us. A: By learning too much too early? A looks up from his book intrigued, since he’s never been taught too much math too early. I am just happy he said something because his nose has been in a dragon book basically since we got in the car. D: Well yes, the president wants to ultimately confuse everyone so they keep voting for him every 3 years and so he made them teach math that is too hard for 3rd graders, so we stay confused. And then in 3 years he gets to change the rules again and they will vote for him again. My gas gauge has been on E for a half hour and I am focused on turns in unfamiliar territory, but I am also listening through a sieve of what his parent told him and what he understands of it but it’s clear that math didn’t really end up daunting him. Me: What’s the president’s name? D after a pause: I don’t know how you say it in English. Me: Well it’s probably the same as in Romanian, just like in Romania you say “Barack Obama” or something very close. We probably try to say it close to the way you do. Still he doesn’t offer it. R: Did your president really do that to confuse you in math so he would get re-elected? D: Yes, it is very usually the way it is. And the people who live in… I think you call it ‘country side’… they only learn up to 5th grade. Me: And the people who live in the city get more education? D: Yes very often. Me: R, what is your home language? R is obviously Indian by heritage, but I haven’t heard him speak enough to determine his native language. R: English is what I speak at home, but I know a little Hindi. Me: So do your parents speak to each other in English or Hindi? This is a fascination of mine. I have several friends who speak in English to their spouses, though English is a second or third language for them. In most cases it’s because the only language they have in common is English. I’ve thought a lot about how my conversations with my spouse would be different if I had to do it in my third language. R: My mother speaks Telugu and my dad speaks Bengali, so they talk to each other in English mostly, but sometimes in Hindi. Me: And that’s how you’ve learned Hindi? I was fishing to see if they send him to language school, which is a pretty popular thing around here. He didn’t offer it. D: I can understand a little Spanish because it is similar to Romanian. Me: Really, it’s a Romantic language? (I haven’t had enough coffee yet and meant Romance, not Romantic) D: I don’t know. I just know a lot of the words are the same in Romanian and Spanish. Me: That’s really interesting. I thought Romanian was similar to Russian. D: No, I don’t think so. Romanian is close to Spanish like Germany is close to… Dutchland, I mean… Dutch? Oh, wait, aren’t those the same country? I straighten out the Netherlands and Germany for him and we go onward. A: Mom, what do you mean by Romance language? Me: I should have said Latin-based language. The languages that use Latin as their root are often referred to as Romance languages: Spanish, French, Portuguese, Italian and I guess, Romanian. So you would understand many of their words. A: Yeah from Latin, I guess. R: Your next turn is on Main Street. You should turn left. We arrived at camp on fumes. The boys piled out, grabbed their packs and waved good bye. As I looped around and headed back down the two track, coasting in neutral on my way to the nearest gas station (I made it), I flipped on the radio. Very first thing I heard? A vibrator ad from Lovers. Good to know the mommy-sense is still intact.

One day while exploring in Glacier National Park, en route to this place,  where we relaxed into the last full day in this landscape, and let the beauty of the place wash over us, we passed out of the park on a dirt road. And while we were out of the park, we ran across a tiny outpost, not even a town, just a couple of old buildings – a mercantile and a bakery – and a fill-up pump (not even a station) that charged over $6 for gas. A last resort. A place where you stopped only if you were bound there in the first place, or if you really, badly needed to stop. Outside the park was open range for miles and miles. Nothing but cowboys and dusty dirt roads leading to nowhere. The battered wood buildings were dried in the sun. A post on the community information board recounted a fire which took most of the buildings and some lives here. Weathered signs told stories of days long gone.  The locals were friendly but kept to themselves, just familiar enough with tourists to keep a healthy distance and go about their business. I watched as they did. And they moved so incredibly slowly and deliberately because, of course, there was nowhere to go and not much that needed doing. Occasionally one of the men would saunter into the bakery and thin down the line of overfed tourists, each waiting impatiently for a giant bear claw or sweet roll. So while my kids played on the old aluminum jungle gym, I wandered the grounds and let my camera see what it would. Hops clung to the corner of the old wood shop, casting joyful shadows. A hand built lean-to housed vines and firewood.  Hops brushed against Montana sky. I followed my nose into the bakery to find treasures on the high walls. Rifles, rusty saw blades, gold pans, and The Saturday Evening Post, original copies it seemed, from the early days of Norman Rockwell. I studied them and wondered if they really were original. December 1931 – 5 cents the copy, it read. A powder horn and old mountain boots framed them perfectly. The bright light stung my eyes as I let go the wood frame screen door. An old Yellow Pages tucked into an incomplete wine barrel which housed a pay phone. No cell signal here. But the views made up for that and then some.  Rocky Mountains in their back yard, the bakery in the front, and nothing beeping or ringing to call them back to work. It slowed me down. As I walked, I realized I had a broad, comfortable smile on my face. I crossed the large field away from the buildings. A gas generator sat humming, coughing diesel and supplying power to something. A mass of grasshoppers sprayed in all directions as my feet hit the tallest grass, which made me recall how much my grandma hates those little buggers. She remembers the locust plagues of the 30s, when they came one night and cleared her family’s crops before leaving in a giant cloud the next morning, hissing, hungry, endless across the prairies. But I have no such memory. I think their legs are pretty neat. Ragged and red, they pop without warning, sending the winged critters unreasonably far away, to safety, to another blade of grass. As I wandered, time moved more slowly and I saw my surroundings more completely, each curve of vines, each ripple in the wood. And then something unexpected appeared. Solar panels. They seemed completely out of place. I had to walk all the way around them. I tried to discern what they powered and why they were paired with a diesel sucking generator. It seemed counter productive. But there they were, pretty to my eyes, matching the sky, framing the mountains. The mountains framing everything else. “Look at that! Off the grid, completely self sufficient, even in this climate. Wouldn’t that be a great place to live? Away from it all?” he said after reading the post. “No!” I replied before he had another moment to consider it. “Sorry. No. I am a more social creature than that.” And after we finished our own bear claw, we headed off, away from the outpost to our destination.

The serene image of a monk praying delights me. The Tibetan Buddhist monks of Nepal could take the interest of my camera for an entire year, I am certain. The colors and folds of their robes, the bright light on their shaven heads could sustain me, just the imagery alone, but the incantations also tickle my soul. I often catch myself with a broad grin as I am photographing them or even just in their presence. I think in photography, studies are becoming more and more important for me and perhaps for the larger community. We look at everything, but because there is so much to see, we rarely study anything. Our frenetic world doesn’t ask for it and doesn’t allow it unless you fight for the time to study. Here then, is one monk and one image I took on my last trip, in a series of studies. Each one has certain lines, shadows or organic curves that attracted me to it. I’ve spelled out my thoughts about why I selected each. The complete photo, the one each of these is taken from, is last. Monk at Boudhanath. He could be sleeping or texting on a phone or reading a newspaper. This study is not about what he is doing, it is about how calm and centered he is. Echoed lines on each side of his neck give balance, while the nip of sunlight on his forehead makes him feel natural and outdoors. The gold horn on a red rope could be the focus here, but it is overshadowed by the repeating brown beads and even the shadow of the beads. Repeating things stand out, especially in diagonal lines. Tiny bits of yellow at the top add interest. There is no part of the monk’s person in this photo, only his clothes and belongings, which is interesting in itself because a monk’s belongings are not supposed to be anything of interest. The shape and activity of hands are telling in any portrait, here they are caressing each prayer bead as the words are spoken. I imagine that he has done this thousands of times, yet he still takes each bead in turn, carefully, as if it was the first time. Shadows on the yellow cloth add texture and dimension. This was one of the most successful photos of my second trip. I loved the subject from the moment I saw him. He was completely enveloped in his activities, undaunted by the tourist chatter and chaotic hum all around him. Perhaps his umbrella shielded him from it? He was an island of calm and he drew me in with it.  

It’s one of the must see places right now. So we decided back in March that our family summer vacation would be to Glacier National Park. Beauty, drama, mountains and wildlife all in one place. Perfect. I couldn’t wait to get there and set eyes on all the beauty of white caps and capture them forever on film before they are gone. Because scientists now (mostly) agree that they really are vanishing.    We loaded up the family truckster, complete with bike rack and 4 bikes, cooler-o-goodies and drove for 12 hours. I was in the middle of reading a memoir of a famous mountain climber, so I had visions of freezing on frosty mountainsides, ice axes, crevasses, and endless formidable white mountainsides of snow running through my mind. But I have also seen the movie Chasing Ice, a recent documentary about glaciers all over the world receding and the repercussions, and it cut me deeply. (My friend Erik wrote a great review of it, and I think every human on the planet should see the movie.) I’ve seen the glorious photos of the northern Rockies all covered in a beautiful white blanket. That winter cover continues to return every year, but glaciers are not just annual accumulation of winter snowfall. They are the long-term incremental build up and sustained masses of ice and snow that remain and move through a cycle over centuries, not over a season. And I wanted to see them. I hoped I could get near enough I might hear one groan as gravity tugged it down a high valley. I hoped I’d spy crevasses and perhaps a climbing route.       The first day we drove through the entire park on the Going to the Sun road. On that tour, I felt the same sort of enlightenment that I did the first time I traveled abroad: The things you learn that cannot be taught until you experience them yourself. And the feeling sunk in, and it festered as a pit in my stomach. There are no glaciers in Glacier National Park. The info boards posted at lookout spots underscore the reality. The older ones say “Glaciers may vanish from the park by 2030.” Those are from the late 1990s or early 2000s. The more recent placards say “In 1850 there were over 150 active glaciers in the park. By 2020 they may all be gone.” Some of those placards referenced 2005, so I know they aren’t more than 8 years old, yet even 2020, a mere 7 years from now, was too optimistic. There are none, now, in late August of 2013. We read a poster that said almost all of the remaining visible snow is considered “snowfield” rather than glacial snow. Meaning, the baby part, or beginnings of a glacier (or end); that part without movement, or significant accumulation to be considered a glacier. And so we spent 2 days driving around, looking at gorgeous mountains, spotting tiny patches of high snow on distant peaks, and watching the still-icy blue-green water rush by our feet in streams, gathering in glacial lakes. After a couple days, it’s pretty easy (because humans are lulled by shock and awe) to become complacent about the surroundings the way they are. We stopped at Many Glacier, a destination with a large hotel overlooking a gorgeous glacial lake, and the best views of glacier-covered peaks in the park. But the mountains are all bare right now. As I walked down the halls of the hotel, I stopped at each of the photos that lined the walls. Some were taken as early as 1910, when all the 150 glaciers were still there in their majesty. Most of the photos were taken in August, the same month I was there, just 100+ years earlier. Next to each was a more recent photo, often from 1998, or 2000 or 2005, of the same location, taken in August. The difference is stunning, stirring and appalling. At one point, down the longest hall I choked up and looked down at the carpet, then walked away. There are gaping holes in the landscape that should be filled with white. Acres and miles. I was explaining all this to a friend yesterday when he stopped me and said, “This happened on our watch, you know.”   We had a lovely vacation. It’s a gorgeous park and a truly amazing place. Rushing water, soaring striped peaks, meadows of wildflowers and baby mountain goats grazing just off the highway. We swam in glacier-carved lakes, and skipped stones in icy trout streams flowing from just-melted snow. We saw bears and big horn sheep. It’s a pretty phenomenal place. But my heart misses the glaciers. It’s 2013 and for all intents and purposes they’re already gone.  

I went home for Christmas alone that year. I was separated from my husband and had traveled home for some shelter and comfort from the emotional drain that would become divorce and starting over. I had just finished my pilot’s training that fall and was excited to talk with my grandpa about flying. He and Grandma and I had been at an air show a couple years before and it was at that airshow on that day that I decided to learn to fly. I remember the feeling of shaking the hands of the Blue Angles pilots as they walked past the crowd. One of them paused in front of Grandpa and acknowledged that he was also a flyer. They traded words and the Angel pilot issued a grateful gesture to Grandpa, acknowledging his service during the war. Grandpa had earned his wings in the 1940s, during the middle of WWII, then became a bomber pilot and had flown missions over Normandy and Germany. He had shrapnel stories and target-and-turnaround stories. I wanted to hear them all. I was excited for him to congratulate me in person for my accomplishment. My aunt had earned her licence a couple years before, so we were a trio of pilots from three generations. I was interested in everything flying then, and also looking back to family for bonds and support during the tumult of a relationship failure. My brother was freshly discharged from the Marines and still getting a handle on regular life. He was mostly MIA from family functions, but since I’d moved away I had only seen him at my wedding about 4 years before. I pleaded for him to join us for Christmas and he begrudgingly obliged. Mom was fighting with her boyfriend this Christmas, so he stayed behind leaving the three of us to trek across the frozen tundra to the house where I’d spent Christmas for the past 25 years. The drive from Minneapolis to South Dakota in December is never one to take for granted. Weather was warmer than normal, leaving wet snow and lots of it in a pre-Christmas storm. Mom wanted to back out at the last minute because she didn’t want the wrath of family for her own relationship failings. I had to nudge her out the door. I’d flown from Michigan to be with family and didn’t want to spend it with a depressed mother, alone in a house that wasn’t decorated or feeling very festive. I offered to drive. My brother didn’t show. Phone calls and a couple hours later Mom convinced him he could buck up, and we drove northeast with snow falling, to load him into the car before heading west, back across the slick, snowy city and out onto the prairies of the Great Plains. I followed the plow for the first 50 miles. It took 3 hours, but I felt safe in the tunnel of snow. There was one car ahead of me and 3 behind. We all followed the plows in a line at slow pace. Once we were clear of town we passed maybe 5 cars. The plows were pushing so much snow that they were cutting through about 6 feet of white in order to clear the roads. They had effectively cut a trench the width of the highway. We drove through it. The worst that could happen was I’d slide around a bit and maybe side swipe the snow-wall on either side of the highway. Mom was white knuckled and silent in the passenger seat from the experience of years of driving this route. She knew the risks. Years before, we had been along this same road on a Christmas eve. I was about eleven when we left a stoplight and spun across the highway in a full 360, across the 4-lane highway, and into the opposite ditch, into two feet of snow, hitting a giant Yield sign with the passenger’s side of the car. After my dad pulled my mom back together, we walked half a mile to the only door we could find and knocked on it. The shop owners were just locking doors and refused to open up. My mom shouted, full of anxiety and adrenaline, but stopped short of tears, as her young family stood outside, wrapped up and staring in the locked door window on Christmas Eve in the middle of nowhere. After much persistence and rapping at the frosted window the owner reluctantly unlocked and helped my dad push the car out of the snowy ditch and allowed us to use the phone to call my grandparents and let them know we’d be late. Luckily the car was still in driving condition, though the passenger window had shattered and lay in tiny cubes all over the floor of the car. My dad drove the rest of the way while picking glass shards from his lip and cheek. My mom huddled in the passenger seat, holding a plastic sheet across the window so we wouldn’t freeze for the next two hours before we arrived. My brother and I huddled in the floor of the backseat under pillows and extra coats to avoid the swirling wind. So with that history, Mom was a little nervous to say the least. I took cues from both of them in the car as I drove, and there might have been talk about turning around, but the storm was over the top of us and we were about half way through the drive at that point. We could either turn back, under the east-moving storm, and sit, defeated in an empty house, or fight through to the frightened and waiting arms of family.   We stopped along the road a couple of times just to get out of the car and breathe. Night had not yet fallen and the tension in the car was palpable, so stepping out into the 20 degree air relieved a bit of that. Three more hours passed, then a couple more. We made another call to check in. Everyone at the Christmas house was waiting white knuckled as well. I drove. My brother told stories of his Marine experience to pull our minds from the angst of the road. Eventually, long after dark, we rolled into the driveway and walked through the front door at Grandma’s. I took a deep breath and dropped the keys on the table. Mom broke down into tears of relief. Now she had to face family without a partner again and the arrival and relief from the road forced her to think about that again.   Everyone put on happy faces and exchanged presents. We ate Grandma’s feast. We tried to relax into the comfort of years past and the full, warm house, but no one talked about any of the separations or relationship problems that hovered over us. We all just marched silently over the obvious pain. Then Grandpa pulled something out of his pocket and placed it in my hand. It was his pilot’s wings from World War II. “Figured you’d appreciate these,” he said. I did. It’s still one of the treasures I hold most dear almost 20 years later.    Then all too soon it was time to drive back. The storm was over and the roads were clear. But before we left, Grandpa took my hands and said, “there are old pilots and there are bold pilots, young lady, and if you fly the way you drive, you won’t be a pilot for long.” I was crushed. It wasn’t the congratulations I’d wanted. I left the house with a lump in my throat and drove all the way back with dead silence in the car. I dropped my brother at his house then turned the car off in Mom’s driveway. She broke into tears again and apologized for Grandpa’s reprimand.    It was a messy Christmas. It was a messy time of life, but I enjoy the memories of that time when flying was new, when I was a bit more bold than I am now, and when I inherited angel’s wings.

On the way to Nepal this time, I watched movies since the flight was too bumpy to sleep. One of them was Great Expectations (Helena Bonham Carter is a fabulous Havisham, by the way). And watching it dredged up this memory. We were about a third of the way through the laborious class reading of the longest novel I had ever read. Maybe a bit more than a third, but not yet half. Still, the class had become comfortable enough with our teacher, Mr Meacock, and several of the more sassy boys had taken to mimicking him as he cleared his throat, clasped his hands properly, faced the room and declared, “Roight, now!” In a very authoritarian tone and British accent.  It was our cue to quit jabbering and fidgeting and listen up. Instead, “Roight, now,” would echo back at him in insufferable exacerbated accents, and he tolerated it, but just barely some days. I was quiet. I was terrified of English. Not a reader in my younger days, I had completed exactly two novels of my own accord before entering 7th grade that year. They were thrust upon me gingerly, in advance of my first year’s attendance of this new school. I’d moved from a small, family-like Montessori, my graduating 6th grade class of twelve students, to a prep academy with 100 in 7th grade. The contrast was stark, primarily in expectations for things like, well, reading. I was expected to struggle a bit, but homework took two to three hours every night, and that was after I got home from almost three hours of gymnastics practice. Mom spent almost every night sitting up with me, reading through history and English in an attempt to keep me up to pace with the class. She’s always loved history, particularly the Civil War, since she was raised in border states, south of the line. After we struggled through Dickens’ required chapters of Great Expectations, she kept me awake and on target by reading my history text to me, remembering the names and dates herself and often interjecting her own stories. Then one morning in English, we entered the room to find a Union Jack hung properly sideways across the blackboard in the center of the room. One of the boys tossed out a comment about this being America, and waving a dismissive hand toward the front of the room. Just then, a ruler hit an empty desk with a smack and everyone fell silent. I’ll never forget the graceful explanation he gave to us that day. Pride oozed out of him as he explained very matter-of-factly that his heart was heavy because his country was about to go to war with Argentina over some islands off the coast of South America (the Faulklands). I think I almost cried then. I’d been reading about death and war in history for months. It made an impression, to say the least. Mr Meacock didn’t have to clear his throat or say anything else before he started the lesson that day. I remember that he spent most of class explaining misreadings. Someone in an earlier class who read aloud had braided words from three different lines together, which not only hinted at a touch of dyslexia, but also completely changed the meaning of the sentence in question. I remember the huge relief it was to see those words circled out of order on the three lines on the board next to the Union Jack. I did that kind of thing all the time. I was so glad someone else did, too. And knowing that someone else was struggling through this God-forsaken story about a kid a hundred years ago who got rich somehow, that made it better. I survived 7th grade English. I survived Great Expectations and passed most of the pop quizzes. I think I even got a B in the class. Until I saw the movie a few months ago, I had almost forgotten crux of the story completely. But that man who made me read Dickens at twelve years old… I’ll never forget him.

A standard Northwest blanket of fluffy coastal clouds holds back the early morning sun. Mist in the distance obscures the horizon. I’ve peeled off my outer layers and am plodding through dry sand toward the receding surf. Ocean mornings always beckon me to go for a run. A quiet beach reveals so many things to me and I am out earlier than most. A few hearty souls slept through the night time festivities and are rested enough to be sifting sand for treasures. Last night mini-parties clustered, each around their own bonfire, all across the beach by the dozens. The hooting lasted into the wee hours. I noticed even at 4 am that several were still burning and people were roaming and prancing across the vast sandy expanse. Now’s my chance to see what the morning light reveals. The sand artist left his post before dinner time last night with a wad of cash and a smile, but his creation remains mostly untouched even now, even though countless tourists have approached her and posed with her, giggled and poked at her. She’s still smiling, but her nose has fallen off and there’s a dent in her tail. He so lovingly cared for her all day, preening and combing her with a small piece of driftwood, pausing to enjoy his work and ask passing tourists for donations to support “the arts.” Running barefoot across mounds of soft golden sand is harder than kicking steps up a snowy mountain side. I heave breaths for over a quarter mile until I reach the damp, hard sand that’s revealed itself since yesterday. Then I hit a rhythm and my breathing matches my steps. The serene Pacific stretches eternally in three directions: behind me to the south where it rounds an evergreen curve, before me to the north where it disappears into the morning mist, and west where it slides over the curve of the earth near infinity. My warm, naked feet are padding almost silently on damp, cold sand. I jump over rocks and dried up jellyfish beached by yesterday’s tide. Gulls chase each other, fighting over breakfast scraps and patrolling for the catch of the day. Crabs legs large and small lay strewn about and a distant sound of sea birds makes a constant ruckus above the timeless hiss of waves and wind. Pillaged sand dollar shells lay broken open by the dozens. They pass under my feet. I occasionally step over a whole one, then turn it over to see if anyone’s home. In several minutes of running I’ve stopped half a dozen times to flip over a whole shell, just to see. I gently unearth it from the soupy wet sand and look. Then one of them surprises me. Hundreds of black velvet feet wave from below a perfect white circle. I watch for a moment to see all the tiny feet moving together in the same direction, like wind over a wheat field, looking for traction and escape, but in slow motion. I take two running steps toward the surf and chuck him in as far as I can, hoping to spare him from becoming a seagull snack. He skips sideways and flips awkwardly over two waves then disappears to the bottom. I begin running again. I slow down to step over rivulets draining out of an estuary in the east. A lone heron stalks in still waters too deep for gulls. The packed sand turns bumpy where water has rushed over it making sand waves. Something man-made has collected mussels and barnacles. They are reaching out with tiny comb-like hands for food even though there is no sea within reach to feed them. The mass of them all together makes a crackling sound as each shell opens, reaches, and breathes. A casualty of the night lays untouched, undiscovered except by flies. The morning is growing older. People are digging where the heron was just a few minutes ago. They’re looking for clams or shells or something that requires buckets. Sand castles and footrpints begin to appear. The sun warms the sand lifting the mist. As I return to the cement steps leading off the beach, I notice the sand artist has returned. I ask what his creation will be today. “She’s in good shape, I think I’ll keep her.” I ask how many days she’s been with him and he says that two days is the longest he ever keeps a creation. “If she’s still in good shape tomorrow morning, I’ll wreck her myself. You’ll see a new one tomorrow for sure. But today, she stays. I can fix her.”

This weekend the outdoor industry had a local public event. My magazine was there and I gave a talk about Nepal on day two of the expo. It’s mostly business, but I love my industry and the people in it, so it’s also an occasion where I get to smile and reconnect with the core players in the local outdoor industry, since they are all manning their own booths, too. On day one of the expo, I got to meet the first American to summit Mt Everest, Jim Whittaker. He summitted the big E, as you would expect, with a trusty Sherpa guide, Nawang Gombu at his side as his climbing partner. After a full month of marching 19 climbers, 32 Sherpa guides and over 900 porters (carrying over 27 tons of gear and food) from Kathmandu to the base camp (185 miles over Himalayan ridges), the climbing team spent another 2 months on the mountain getting to the top. That was 50 years ago this May 1. So it seemed appropriate to have such a person give the keynote address for the expo this weekend. He’s a local guy, was one of the founders of REI, grew up climbing Mt Rainier and led the International Peace Climb of Everest in 1990, when he was over 60 years old. He’s been here, in my neighborhood and in my industry forever. I finally caught up with him on Saturday. I expected an 84-year old man to show up a half hour before his talk, hang around for a few autographs afterwards, then dash for the couch and let his staff sell the rest of his books. Not Jim. He was scoping the show floor Saturday morning before the doors opened to the public, and he stood post at his booth display all day, both days, cordially answering questions for each expectant fan. When I walked over to shake hands late morning on Saturday, A bubbly lady in her sixties greeted me. The two of them were bantering like an old married couple, just friendly pokes and smiles. I was caught in the middle, she was unloading books on one side of me, as I shook hands with Jim. “How do you two know each other?” I said, not sure who they had paired with Jim to complete his book’s purchase transactions. “Oh, she and I’ve been married over 40 years.” Jim offered. Aah, of course it would be his wife in the supporting role. But I didn’t know who she was. As it turns out, Dianne Roberts has been paired with Jim since they met in climbing circles in the golden age of climbing, and she’s a photographer. I realized that once she took my camera from me and said in a playful tone, “Yeah, I think I know how to run one of these.” She framed the first shot of Jim and me. I was intrigued spent a couple more minutes talking with her. Jim wasted no time shining the light on her as soon as I asked. “How did I not know this about you?” I said. “Oh, I fly mostly under the radar.” She returned without missing a beat. And that’s certainly true. She has no Wiki page, no Google results that aren’t encircled with Mr. Whittaker, and no photo webpage. But now, at that moment, she became the more interesting of the pair and I listened as Jim spelled out some of her credits. A National Geographic photographer, she was also on the first American K2 climb with Jim and Lou (Jim’s twin brother), when they didn’t summit. She returned again when the team tried for a second (and successful) climb of The Savage Mountain, where she made it to 26,000 feet, herself. Dianne Roberts was the first woman to attempt to climb on K2. Ever. It’s a fact that is underscored by the following: Only four women have ever successfully climbed K2. None of them are living today. She said that back then, many of the Pakistani porters and guides didn’t know how to handle her, since they had never seen a Western woman before. She was tasked with photographing the climb for National Geo. I marveled. Not that Jim doesn’t have an endless list of credits of his own. You tend to get attention when you are “the first” and Jim has had that. I purchased a book and offered Jim something in return. He agreed to pose with it. Turnabout is fair play, right? But after the photo shoot and our chat, and the book signing and trade, the thing that stuck in my head all day and the next was, the first female K2 climber, Nat Geo photographer, and downright kind, sweet, and obviously extremely supportive lady, held my camera and took this photo. K2 Climbing Update: One female K2 summiter has posted since I last checked my facts.  Gerlinde Kaltenbrunner summitted and returned to tell about it in 2011.

My brother called me this evening. We usually talk about work, the family, how many bass he caught last weekend and what the kids are up to, then we don’t usually have much else. He’s a brother of few words. I just saw him last week in Minnesota, so we were all caught up, or so I thought. But he called for a reason. Today he ran into someone who explained in detail a Tibetan Buddhism class he had taken. It was taught by a Nepali guy. I haven’t heard my little brother so intrigued in a subject since he called to tell me his daughter was born. He spent a half hour asking about Nepal, the people, the culture, the religion, and about my photos from the trip, some of which I showed him just a few days ago. Then he made me cry. “This used to be a hobby for you and I never understood it. You know, you can take pictures anywhere, so I just thought you were looking for a good excuse to take pictures… but after talking to this guy, I get it. I totally get it…. This is your mission, isn’t it? I appreciate the things you are sharing through your photos…. I want to thank you for doing what you are doing… you’re making a difference and I am proud of you.” Yes, people have been surprised, or impressed, or awed by all this before and I always appreciate hearing about it. Some have gone on and on and made me feel really good, but that set of words, just that small, simple set was pure gold. Thanks bro.

After a week home only a small handful of people have been able to ask me about the trip. The stories are beginning to unfold, but I am still very much in re-entry mode, so even now it mostly comes out all jumbled. I remember that last time this phase was particularly hard with respect to reasonable communication, so I let the listener ask the questions and I end up answering interview-style. It saves a lot of rambling that way. I love the questions because I get lots insight into what people find interesting (they’re breaking ground so the rest of you don’t have to listen to the boring parts). But it also shows me the things that I take for granted about a month of travel in a foreign country. “How far is it?” one listener asked (remember, most things in Nepal are measured in time, not miles or kilometers). We spent 8 hours in a jeep on a gravel, half-paved road getting from Kathmandu to Chitwan (it’s 110 miles). At the time, we took a deep breath, yes, but it wasn’t daunting. It’s just the way you travel in Nepal, unless you have access to a helicopter, or want to spend almost the equivalent amount of time in tiny, hot airports. Eight hours in my life at home is enough time to manage my business, volunteer in one of my kids’ schools, drop off, pick up said kids, grocery shop, get kids to their afternoon sports obligations and make dinner. It’s a lot of time at home that would be lost, or would trip up the system if it was interrupted. Eight hours on the road in Nepal is completely different. It’s time to learn new songs, see amazing landscape, (dodge cows and water buffalo) and watch communities go about their lives from the windows. It’s time to talk to people in your language and in theirs, to feel the hot, moist air and just enjoy being still while all else around you is moving. Eight hours in a car here at home is enough to get us from Seattle to Glacier National Park, or from Detroit to DC (Both are about 500 miles). The purpose of my “stunning graphic” is to show you the elevation change from the north border to the south border of this amazing country. Keep in mind it’s about the same size and shape as Tennessee. It’s an average of 100 km (60 miles) from the south border to the north border, but the elevation difference is a lot harder to conceive. The north border runs along the spine (the high ridge) of the Himalayas. Eight of the nine tallest mountains in the world are here. Only K2 is missing (it’s in Pakastan). Ninety peaks over 7000 meters (23,000 feet) run along that borderline. That’s taller than any mountains on any of the other continents (next highest is Aconcagua in Argentina at 22,841 or 6962 meters). It’s a thing that most people can’t imagine. You have to see it (you should). The south border feels like another part of the world, but it’s only 60 miles away. It runs along India’s north border, in the Terai region which is also described as the Gangetic Plain. The Ganges created its own flat, lowland which hosts rich farmland. Nepal’s south edge is in this hot, dry, dusty tropics, near sea level. So here’s a little activity: Pick a spot on the south border (red lines are border) then pick the closest north border you can find. In those 65 miles, the land goes from zero to about 18,000 feet. That’s crazy! It’s the reason Nepal has the second highest hydropower potential in the world (Brazil is first, with the Amazon and their giant size). But with all of Nepal’s elevation change, it’s pretty difficult to build roads, homes, farmland or anything that remains accessible through the monsoon season (June to August). It’s all just amazing stuff to ponder while you are driving 110 miles over 8 hours. Other points of interest in the map: Yellow on the right is our very approximate trekking route. It was about 70 miles of walking total. Blue in the upper right is Mt Everest Blue in the south is Chitwan National Park Blue in the west is the city of Pokhara which is ‘on the way’ to Chitwan from Kathmandu (No, really, it is, ahem.) Kathmandu is the underline in the center You are seeing about two thirds of Nepal. Most of the west and some of the southeast is missing. Kathmandu’s weather is subtropical. They grow bananas and papayas, grapes and tomatoes. Chitwan is fully tropical – sugar cane, coconut palms. It was 90 and sticky every day (in March), cooling to 60 at night. With the mosquitoes, it reminded me of a Minnesota summer, except the elephants and rhinos threw it off. The Sagamartha (Everest) area is completely different simply because of the elevation. The beginning of our trek was about 7500 feet and we finished just shy of 14,000 feet. There was leftover snow still piled in the shadows at the top. That’s considerable since they are just finishing the dry season. It was 20 at night the coolest night and almost 50 during the day. (You don’t get to pet elephants there.)

This is a tough one. There is so much to digest that I probably shouldn’t be writing about it yet. Chitwan is an amazing place. It has shown me things and allowed me things that wouldn’t have happened to me elsewhere in the world. During the car ride out of the National Park, I sat in silence and felt every emotion except hate. I don’t think I hate anything or anyone here, but I feel sadness and hope and desperation…and loss and potential and love, curiosity and wonder. But mostly I want to do something. Two years ago I walked a piece of the Everest Highway with Milan Lama, a famous Nepali musician from Chitwan. His music is known, loved and emulated across the country. But he is from this tropical, unique, magical place and it is very dear to him. When we spoke, the thing he wanted more than anything was to make a difference for the kids in his home area. He asked for my help. He wanted to improve schools so that children in his community could have hope and a chance for something more than sustenance farming life near the border of India. Shortly after I returned from that trip, I did some research and looked into helping schools in Chitwan. I spoke to him on the phone several times and tried to coordinate something with the school in the village where he grew up. I planted a bug in AC’s ear. That was the impetus for the side-spur trip to Chitwan this time. 7 hours in a jeep over switchbacking dirt roads later, we arrived at Chitwan National Park. Chitwan National Park offers safaris. Today I got to see a similar village in a nearby area, to see where we, as outsiders can help, what kind of help is needed and what can be done to improve teaching and schools in the area. This happened after 2 days of “safari” or something that was billed as such. It was really more of a circus, similar to Disneyland but with real animals. The National Park was founded in 1974 (it was the first NP in Nepal) to save the Asian one horned rhinoceros that lives here and nowhere else (except maybe in the mirrored national park in India, just a few miles away). The jumble of hotels that have jammed themselves together inside the park make up a pseudo city and operate like a tourist island and jumping-off point. Mostly-giant European groups book “package deals” which include bird watching, boat rides and elephant baths. Remember when you were a kid and they let you ride the camel around the circle at the zoo? Yeah, it’s that but on meth. There are elephants and rhinos and deer of all sorts. There are two varieties of crocodile and hundreds of bird species, some of which live nowhere else. Cranes and kingfishers and a critically endangered vulture. I expected it to be a sort of eco-safari. “Through the jungle” they kept saying. The clouded leopard, fishing cat, jungle cat and highest population of sloth bears are all here. And the Bengal tiger. God, I wanted to see one of those… I imagined something that allowed me to see wildlife in its habitat like um, Africa? Instead, 20 elephants took off tromping through the jungle together in search of wild animals. Each had 4-5 people on it’s back plus a driver. That’s over 100 people, hooting, gawking, doing those ridiculous crowd-mentality things that people do when in such numbers. And while some of them were Nepali, all of them were tourists. Except the elephant drivers who wielded metal hooks with pokers on them and shouted commands. They’re rough around the edges. There are a lot of needs just to handle the park. One of the local tribes that were displaced, in order to found the park are the Tharu people. They live in stick and mud houses and forage the jungle for most of their needs. They have been allowed to stay inside the park and continue utilizing the jungle and park for their sustenance. So not only does the park need naturalists, vets, and botanists, in order to realize all that there is to lose, they need docs, anthropologists, and diplomats to both blend and improve the situation for the people as well as the animals. A pretty impossible undertaking when you consider the fact that the core government serves no useful function down here. God, there is so much need, just for the national park. And did I mention the burning? Oh, yeah, the title. One of the “management practices” they use here is to burn the jungle (‘to emulate forest fires” we were told) and encourage the growth of new grasses to feed the rhinos. Except that from what I see, something like 60-80% of the jungle is burned, charred, still smoking, or not yet re-grown. Maybe all that changes in 2 months when the rains come, but right now the skies are a sullen shade of gray. We never saw the sun during the day. It rose and set ruby-red through the haze, then disappeared behind thin gray layers like it does in Seattle. Except hotter. Tropical. Fire smoke was so prevalent that my nose ran and eyes burned for most of the time. You’ll see it in the photos. It feels desolate and desperate like a stone cast into a pond to see what the ripples do. I was left with a ton of questions. But it was time to move on.

My head has been spinning far too hard lately and I am anxious for that to stop. Packing, setting the kids up, planning the itinerary, matching up with people I want to see when I am there…  The 36 hours of flying is like a portal from the angst of US culture and speed, to the unorganized chaos of Kathmandu. Life just moves differently there and the flight across so many hours is the doorway (or tunnel) that we pass through in order to get there. The two of us sat in the airport in Seattle at a full bench of seats. People clicked on laptops, slurped sodas and cuddled their smartphones. We began studying the maps to determine the elevations of some of our first destinations. Where is Jiri, how high is Tapting, Pikey Peak is in between? We both noticed a blue pattern on the map that is not indicated on the key. Must be the glacier areas of Mt Everest and other surrounding mountains. Mary Beth looked up and said “Wait, where is everybody?” just as the PA announced “final boarding call” for our flight. I guess we were a little wrapped up in the map. Even after dark LA smog was apparent on landing. The beautiful, perfectly coiffed agent at Korean Air checked us in and then said, “You are seated next to each other for the duration of this flight. Is that all right with you?” We looked at each other, then at him, “It’s a 13-hour flight, I just want to make sure.” he continued. And we boarded and entered The Portal. Seattle is one of the last major time zones, so everything happens to us last. Asia gets all the new things first. I have a friend living in Hanoi, Vietnam who regularly reports “from the future”. New Years Eve celebrations, the end to the Mayan Calendar and Superbowl results all happen in Asia first, right? But the actual flight across the dateline is not so fun. It’s long and cramped, but it works. I watched Life of Pi before considering dozing off. But the air over the Pacific is often bumpy, I guess. The Boeing 777 bumped and jostled us most of the night. I napped in 20 minute increments between announcements to buckle up. The man in the seat behind me had no trouble, however. His purr-snores were constant and not completely lost in the engine noise. I am certain I can speak in Koren these words: “Ladies and gentlemen, we continue to experience turbulence, please return to your seats.” I shifted, stretched and traded a tingly left leg for a tingly right one. Mary Beth looked over at me about half way through and whispered, “brutal.” And it is, if you expected to get any sleep. The stewardii made rounds with guava nectar and water, then hot face towels. I watched Great Expectations then napped another half hour before breakfast was served. Right now the sun is rising on Monday in Seoul (the future!)… It’s so pristine here. Prettier than our best malls with gorgeous models on larger-than-life perfume posters and stacks of gourmet dried fish heads on carts, rolling through the airport. One more flight and we’ll land in Kathmandu about noon, which will be midnight in Seattle. We’ll step out of The Portal and somehow be on the other side of the world. 

I was going to write this post about trash cleanup volunteering in Tapting. I am excited to get into that part, but so much needs to happen face to face that planning is not moving forward right at this moment and there is not a lot to tell, so I’ll show the impetus instead.    Here are a couple images that demonstrate why I want to be involved with the refuse handling in this area. Keep in mind there are not roads that carry wheels. There are no public trash cans on the street like we have, and no public employees to remove it, anyway. Tapting is a two day walk from the nearest airport. (click each photo to see it bigger)     Overlooking a creek from a bridge in Salleri     A little boy plays with the water pipe in his back yard

I was lamenting all the things I will miss here at home while I am away in Nepal for a month. Maybe that sounds ridiculous, but last time I missed my 5 year old losing his first tooth. And his second. I wanted to stop the clock at home and make everything stop until I got back. I missed Ultimate Frisbee games and whole-family ski trips. Here’s what I know I’ll be missing this time: My 11-year old’s play performance in his last year at this school. My 7-year old’s Little League season. He is poised to rock it. Spring Break – this is the first year in five that both kids have spring break in the same week. We could have actually taken a family vacation this year! Heart is playing at Benaroya. Chris said did you hear, I said yes, he said, “I would have taken you if…” But “If” is a terrible thing because there will always be something you can regret. In being in a designated place, you necessarily exclude yourself from other things. One of the songs from my childhood that resonates today is Roger Whittaker’s “I Don’t Believe in If”. Every so often I catch myself “if-ing” to myself, regretting something. So I sing this to myself to dissolve the angst that comes from missing out. In reality, I will always miss an opportunity of some sort because life is about making choices. If I had looked at all the things I’d be missing here as a limiting factor, I would never have gone to Nepal the first time and I would not be going this time. So I don’t believe in ‘if’ anymore. If I knew then what I know now(I thought I did you know somehow)If I could have the time againI’d take the sunshine leave the rainIf only time would trickle slowLike rain that melts the fallen snowIf only Lord if onlyIf only Lord if only

One of the things that I didn’t anticipate happening when I entered the world of publishing and authors was, I somehow obtained the guts to reach out and talk to published authors (yes the more well-known variety, with world-wide distribution and translations of their works into a handful of obscure languages). It’s still a very strange experience that feels somehow like breaking an unwritten rule, or like I was granted a back-stage pass; the idea that I can just ‘talk’ to them. I recently had an exchange with one of my favorite authors, Mil Millington. (Actually, I’d call him my favorite living British author, if I’d have read more than one of his books.) He writes about the painful humor of relationships, mostly of the ridiculous-but-relatable variety. I remember tears of laughter running down my face while I read “Love and Other Near-Death Experiences.” Following my reading of that book I was led to his webpage which has a running stream of his thoughts, similar to those in his novels. I managed to find and subscribe to his newsletter, albeit long after he had curtailed populating and sending it out. It didn’t dissuade me from adding him to my RSS feeds, in case he ever did decide to send anything out. But it was quiet and Mil’s stream of consciousness humor faded slowly into the background of my everyday. A couple years ago I received some electronic Christmas cards, the most entertaining of which (by far) was Mil’s. He sent it to his family, friends, then gave his newsletter subscribers a big e-hug by including us in the same letter (well, I have to assume that it was the same, since that’s what he told us). I giggled through it, read it twice (at least) and shared it with a few friends. Then I got caught in the whirlwind of my own book last year and forgot all about Mil, until this year’s Christmas cards came. Mil’s card was again the most entertaining, so I posted it on my Facebook  page for all to enjoy, which a few did. But this letter came on a certain day: the day of the Sandy Hook shooting in Connecticut. I read it late in the day after I was saturated with grief and anger-filled posts and articles. And you know what? Mil made me laugh at a perfect moment when I could have spiraled into an abyss of dismal thoughts. And that felt so nice that I was moved to tell him (or whoever handles his newsletter) how much I appreciated it. To my surprise, he replied to me (and not just a little bit). He offered perspective and wit without my urging. I received it on Christmas Day which may or may not have been intentional. Below is our exchange. So that you have a taste for his style and flavor, I have included his email and card in the beginning. As those of you who know will know, every year I pass on to you, dear Listers, precisely the same Christmas card that Margret and I send to our friends, family, and co-workers. This naturally implies that, as Listers, you reside within the same circle of Peter Singer-style empathy for me as do our kith, our kin, and our kolleagues. Rather than implying that I’m too lazy to write two cards. http://tinyurl.com/mil-card So, Listers, a happy one to you all. May adequacy be unfettered, may contentment be at wholly passable levels, and may you sit smiling and wriggle-toed before a bustling fireplace and enjoy many a mince pie without an unsuspected nut allergy or gluten intolerance ending the festivities in anaphylactic shock and intestinal cramping.  Mil. Dearest Mil, What a beautiful thing you did on a day when we needed it here over in the US. You made us laugh when we needed it most. Thank you, and keep on writing, please, oh, please!! Your adoring fan, Erika His reply: I didn’t know about the shooting at the time I sent the Mail, of course. I’d written the card days before, and sent it to friends and family. And because of the time it takes to work through the system, even when I set about starting to send the Mail to the Listers there was nothing around but a breaking story that ‘two or three people may have been injured at a school shooting in America, details are still unclear’. Here’s the truly tragic thing about the timing of things I write and horrific mass shootings in America, though: it’s more or less unavoidable. I was talking to one of your countrymen recently about the subject of gun control. (You can imagine our two positions – they are standard to the point of cliche: the three things people in England/Europe generally just cannot understand about Americans are Why they don’t change their gun laws, Why they believe in God, and Why they don’t want a health service that’s free at the point of delivery. It’s the juxtaposition of the familial and the alien that makes it so strange. That is, especially in Britain, we think of Americans as ‘more or less the same as us’ – they speak English (as I say, more or less); our lifestyles are nearly identical; like us, they’d like to do the kind and decent thing personally, nationally and internationally – even if they screw it up occasionally, they’d *like* to do it; we watch the same films, much of the same TV, and listen to the same music; etc. So, family. But then they have these three things that aren’t just nuts, but *nuts on methadone*; it’s as though you’re having a normal family dinner with your mother, and then she suddenly, but calmly, climbs onto the table and starts rubbing gravy into her hair.) Anyway, I send him an email, listing my considered objections to his pro-gun stance. He replies accusingly, “Right – you waited until *now* to send that reply, didn’t you?” I hadn’t waited until anything, I’d just sent it; but, later on the day I sent it, there was that shooting at the Batman premier. And that’s the real tragedy of the timing, you see. If one writes for even a fairly modest amount of time, one can guarantee that something one writes will coincide with a horrific mass shooting in America. Even something as inexpressibly awful as what happened at Sandy would be better if one thought it was at least the last time something like that will occur; yet we know that something like it will not only happen again but it’ll be *things* like that, and they’ll happen *regularly*. I could cry. I really could. Your servant, Mil. I then asked his permission to post his words here, because his demeanor and point are made in such a beautifully un-American way that it was at once refreshing and effective. He agreed, then he continued in such a lovely manner that I thought I’d include it too, because it illustrated quite clearly how most of the rest of the world must see the US in situations like this: [What I wrote] didn’t, and doesn’t, strike me as insightful or incisive. Though I suppose that’s part of the issue with this: everything is plain – there’s nothing hidden to be unearthed. One would like there to be a secret solution just out of sight, yet within the reach of deep reflection, new thinking, or a brilliant intellect. But no – what it is, is what it is. In fact, those who say, “Ahh, but what you’re not seeing is that…” aren’t people who are more subtle thinkers, they are instead the staggeringly, obscenely unhinged… Anyway, do with it as you wish. I suspect the, ‘Why don’t they change their gun laws’ sounds unintentionally glib. I realise that you can’t: you just *can’t*. You have a gun culture, and avid supporters of it make up a very significant proportion of the citizens of the country. Even more important, to remove the Second Amendment would require majorities – super majorities, in fact – that are simple political impossibilities. Regard our astonishment like this: suppose, as Americans, you looked at country that seemed to be full of people just like you… yet rather than democratic government, and everyone being born equal with the same chances of success and betterment based on their own efforts and skills, they were ruled by an unelected, hereditary monarchy (pulled from a family of no great intelligence or talent). Politically, this can’t be changed by legal methods because of the way the legal systems works, and (at least) 30% of the people *very strongly* support this system anyway and would mobilise against any move to change it. You’d understand the reality of the situation. But your basic reaction would still be a feeling of ‘What the *hell*?’ 

This unsolicited email came to me today from someone I don’t know at all. It was exactly what I needed. Dear AC and Erika Read “Song of Chomolungma” last night and want to praise AC for being smart enough to talk Erika into going on and documenting the 2011 Everest Highway journey trip and Erika for doing such wonderful work on the book’s text and photography. The book is beautifully crafted showing the soaring physical wonders of the Himalayas and the beautiful people who live there. Erika is especially able to look into people’s eyes and hearts and understand some of their strengths and weaknesses and make this understanding accessible to those who were not there. Mike

I am due to post photos on this site. It is after all a photo site. Really, I take photos sometimes! And I even get them put on this site occasionally, too. Stay tuned. It’s coming.

Original questions are great, but the repeat questions, the ones that keep coming up, are great at showing me where there are gaps in successfully conveying information. I have been asked repeatedly, mostly author-editor-types, “who is the publisher, who printed it, is it on Amazon.com” type questions. So here is a brief Q&A, in case it saves any would-be published authors some footwork. The long answer and related stories are below. Who is the publisher?  Me. I self-published, in the most stripped-down sense of the term. So you did it all yourself? Well, I had 3 people pre-read early drafts and give in-depth feedback, then I asked a million questions of about 15 people, then it got a final proofread by Chris. But besides all that help, yes. Who designed and layed out the cover?  Me (the art degree does occasionally come in handy). Same with the pagination, photos and formatting?  Yup. And conversion to PDF, for which my printer supplied special drivers to create the finished print-ready format. Who printed it?  DiggyPOD (their link is in text below) and they did an awesome job with both customer service and quality. Is it on Amazon.com?   Nope. It might be someday, but my margin is too slim to kiss it away to them in this printing round. Where can I get a copy?  Direct from my website or at SoulFood Books. Is it available as an e-book? Not now. More specifics about why in the text below. What is your cut of the cover price? About the same as a traditional publisher gives to an author – 10% to 15% depending on how you calculate it. And for the in-depth story of how the book became a physical book, read below: During the writing process, once I decided that I actually would have to print this thing, I looked at traditional publishers and thought about pitching to a traditional press. I fast learned that the vision of what I had in my head: a novel-style story, interweaved with color, coffee table-style photos, was not something that any traditional publisher will touch with a ten foot pole (the exception being universal guidebooks and ‘how to’ books). So I looked at self-publishing houses. That, I thought, would save me the trouble of pitching to a publisher, cost me a bit, give me a decent marketing, some distribution, along with an ISBN and listing on Amazon.com and even final editorial, if I wanted to pay extra for it. Lovely. How enticing! But after a little more investigation, I found that not only do self-publishing houses want you to jump through a bunch of hoops and don’t really do anything significant to market their authors, but none of them offered the finished print option I had envisioned either. That’s right, even if I payed them for the service, they would not print it the way I wanted them to. So much for “self-publishing”. So I went to the version of publishing that would allow me to select my own printer, and thus allow me to print a mostly word-style book with a bunch of full color photos inside, exactly where I wanted them (not just 10 plates in the center) and not charge me for full 4-color press across every page of the book. (Those of you who care, will find it interesting that color printing is about 8-10 times as expensive as black and white, novel-style printing for both the publisher and the printer. And I found that most print houses won’t split a print job into partial black and white, partial color because collating and bindery becomes unmanageable. They want to either print all color or all black and white). Here is where I segued into considering digital-only mediums like e-books. But that was short lived. My vision was for a solid-state book that can be held in the hand and flipped through. An actual physical book, with paper pages feels more timeless, less disposable and more “completed” in my mind. These things were all important to me. I wanted my grandma to be able to read it, and my grand kids (without retro software). I realize that many readers think this is old-school and that I should buck up and allow the book to be sold for $4 in a digital format. I am not there yet. I am thankful that just as many of you have piped up and agreed with me that print is a “more fitting” medium for this particular book. When all of the standard digital readers display gorgeous photos by default AND e-book conversion prices go down (yes, you have to pay to license each of the reader-friendly formats so that they can convert your book) then I’ll consider it. Back in the world of print, I spent about 8 hours online (in bite-sized chunks) scouring the internet for a printer that would print color pages in black and white books and place them where I wanted. I have printed with Blurb before, and they do a decent job printing all-color books at a premium. I priced this book out and it came to $129 per copy – just my cost to print it. That didn’t include shipping. I checked other similar printer/binderies and found $86 was the lowest price for printing each individual book in full color, regardless of quantity. Then, one night while I was picking through print shops, distributions houses and 4 color presses online, I must have entered just the right combination of keywords into Google, because I magically found DiggyPOD and they somehow managed to fit all my criteria: Mostly black and white pages, but color pages too, as many as I decided, quality paper choices, perfect bound, manageable quantities, print from PDF, printed in USA. And they could do it for a price that I thought people could afford. Magic. So nope, you can’t get it on Amazon, you can’t get it at BN, but you can get it right here. And I have about 40 copies left from the first printing. SoulFood Books is the exclusive retailer. They also have a few left last time I checked, in case you are a fan of in-person purchases. Once the first printing runs out, I do have a longer term plan, but you’ll have to wait and see how that unfolds in a future post.

A photo of us and the plane we took from Lukla to Phaplu. The runway is just behind the plane – yup gravel strip at 7800 feet. Pilots are in the photo and the only other thing missing is Numbur Himal. No, wait – half of the entire tour group is missing! But Numbur Himal was right behind the plane wing (looking back at the Himalaya here, to the North). The rest of the group was (seemingly) farther than that. It was a 7 minute flight that took hours to arrange and board. The story is, of course, in the book.    

Are you one of those readers that likes to know what a foreign word sounds like before you read it in a book? I am. I’ll stop reading in the middle, pay attention and repeat it out loud to  myself until I can say it right. But it’s an easy thing to take for granted once you’ve seen and heard the word. I’ve been there, I’ve listened to Nepali for a solid month and when I read emails from my Nepali friends, I hear their accent on the English words as I read them. The conversion the other direction has been harder. It’s very hard to convey to my American friends and family what Nepali sounds like, how their pronunciation works. I attempted to do this in the very first written page of the book (Linguistics and Pronunciation) but I know that it doesn’t cure everything. Moments after I got home from the book release party, it occurred to me that no one, including myself had said the name of the book out loud during the release. Yes, of course the pronunciation of Chomolungma is in the glossary, but that only helps a little. I really meant to say it out loud in my American accent as best I could, so it could be heard. And maybe that’s not as big a deal to most of you as it is to me. I love paying attention to the correct way to say things. This is a Sherpa word, which derives from Tibetan. The first sound is slightly different in Tibetan than Sherpa, so you’ll see it spelled with a Q instead of a Ch sometimes. Truth is, it’s a letter blend sound we don’t make regularly. But to get close, say Song of “Chum-a-lung-ma” with emphasis on syllables 1 & 3. And that’s the closest we’ll get with an American tongue. Happy reading.

One of the things I really enjoyed in writing the book, was using words to describe sound. Music is, by definition, an aural experience. The challenge of conveying that in words was a fun one to undertake. But I also brought back video, which captures both the audio and some of the visual that I described as well. I have to admit that reviewing video was crucial for me in being able to reconstruct many parts of the book. This video was interesting enough to me that I described exactly what’s unfolding on the video, and thought I did a pretty good job, but the video still eclipses it in my opinion. You just can’t convey the essence of voice in words. And that’s a good thing. If you have the book, re-read the last paragraph on page 168, then watch the video and note the following: -Pemba, is next to me on the left in the red cap distributing tea, no doubt -The police officer on the far left was with our company and did the silly dance with Milan and Maina. Here he is doing his regular job as security at the concert. -People have asked me what Nepali language sounds like. To me, it sounds like he is singing in Italian. -Milan must have been standing just behind me because he shouts “Yes!” when the kids sing along. -You can hear the kids behind me singing even before Mingma gives the ones in front a chance to sing. -The orange light humming. -Mingma singing at 12,000 feet – amazing voice and how did he do that (they all did) so effortlessly with so little air! He even has enough extra to holler out to the crowd in the middle of the verse. Heh. Yes, I am still marveling! Hope you are too.

[I know, the photo runs over the edge, but I needed it this size so you can see details] I took this as a simple documentary photo. I meant to capture the group, pre-dawn, in front of Everest, getting ready for an event. I know it’s nothing spectacular (or even close) visually, since I was shooting right into the coming dawn, against the mountains, but I got more than a simple document to remember. When I looked back at this photo (after almost forgetting about it) I saw small story points in it that made it more valuable to my memory. They are things that I didn’t catch while I was there, so it serves as a window into a place I have only partially been. It feels like a photo that someone else took. Here are some of the things that occurred to me only long after I’d been home: -The repeating pillows of moss-covered rock at our feet was different than everywhere else we’d walked. It looks like pillow lava here and I remember how difficult it was to walk across. The spaces between some of the pillows were the exact right size to wedge a foot and twist an ankle. -Everyone was moving slow – it was about 6 am, air was thin, but there is one of the musicians in the upper left, posing and playing to cameras even on the tough terrain at this hour. Typical and ticklish to realize. I guess I’d gotten used to that variety of theatrics by that point. It was all around me, but I didn’t notice it happening at this moment until I saw the photo back home. It’s even more amusing when you realize that the police man has been employed to take the posed photo (the kneeling guy in blue fatigues). -The 12 string guitar is laying unattended on the rocks, half covered by the banner, in the middle of the activity, noted but unharmed. I think we were about 3 minutes from standing in a shivering pile and singing when I snapped this. Nuptse dwarfs Everest from this vantage (Nuptse on the right, Everest dark in the center behind the ridge). Chomolungma doesn’t look like the tallest even from here.

On occasion I think of a description or passage that existed in one of my early drafts, and I don’t remember if it made the final cut. Then I sprint to my nearest copy and flip through pages until I find the answer. Here is some description of the flight over China and Korea that is not in the book. It’s one of my first impressions of Asia. We pass over Shanghai at 38,000 feet. Neatly-placed blocks of repeating towers and towers of high-rise buildings cluster in impossible numbers. It resembles my living room floor after a full-blown Lego city event. Even from this far above I can see how tall the buildings are, and how plentiful and dense. Inner city circles of buildings crowd in perfectly spaced, packed rows.   The view of Eastern China from way up here is farmland, vast and repeating. Factories spread tendrils of white smoke along the coastline and high-voltage power lines reach from them in ordered rows, sprawling toward cities. An open pit mine reveals the heart of one unlucky mountain. Here and there, dams, breakwaters and irrigation run for miles. Blue-green roofs over long rectangular buildings must be greenhouses or shelter for livestock; they sit in small groups like stacks of bricks waiting to be built into a wall. Clouds below us thicken and cover the unfamiliar hills which sprout up organically out of the manicured rows of farms. They are the only reminder of nature from way up here. The rest is evidence of man’s heavy hand, working in all directions of view until it fades into the blue horizon.          

Larger version of the photo here   I have studied many of my photos over and over. This is one. It tells a million stories just in itself. For me anyway. I’ll try to encapsulate a few of them here.   Visually this appeals to me. Textures were somehow more dynamic here. The grass wall texture against the stacked stones with the laundry is delicious visually. The porters’ baskets add. And they sit across the frame from the 3 empty gas cylinders, which are already tied together, awaiting the next porter heading back down the trail. They are echoed in the rows of soda bottles in the shop window. The doorway divides the photo into 2 parts very plainly, while the center character and the stone wall beneath binds them all together.   This was one of my very favorite high villages. We stopped and had lunch here, so I had time to get briefly acquainted with this place. The people were active and engaged. I was able to photograph several of them just going about their daily activities before we moved on again. The girl with the baby just out of frame to the right was one of the most intriguing. The “porter in training” photo from page 107 in the book was from this town. She is just a bit further right, out of the frame. Women were washing clothes near the creek, a row of men were lined up on a wall on a break, smoking and watching people pass through their town. Porters rested their baskets on the stone wall before continuing up the trail.   This is AC in the center of the photo. When I first went to take this photo, I was struck by the way he fit so naturally into the setting. He walked up the steps and sat among the villagers as they passed by behind him, occasionally stopping to talk. He sat quietly, indifferently surveying the village, perhaps taking a solo moment away from the chaos of his gregarious trekking group. I took 3 other photos before this one. Then he saw my camera and flashed the deuces and stuck out his tongue (can you see that in this photo?). He’s being playful. For me it shows how comfortable he was with the camera, with me and his surroundings. But photographically it also adds the variety of levity that was prevalent here. I often found the gravity of the living conditions very serious as I passed through, but here is it punctuated with the playful humor that is just as prevalent.    Then I remember that AC bridges two cultures so very gracefully, humorously and naturally just as his figure connects the 2 sides of this photo.The juxtaposition of these is what makes me look back at this one. 

Some of my early drafts had stories that I later cut for various reasons. Most were cut because I felt they didn’t add to the story or to anyone’s character. But I forgot that I cut this one. And in retrospect I probably should have left it. It serves to close a small loop from the beginning of the book, and perhaps fleshes out a few of the characters in minute ways, but is otherwise inconsequential. ~~ Time moves slowly here. There are not even any rushed tourists on their way to somewhere, and I feel the beat of rural Solu full force. It moves me. But beyond that, I have been hiking for 5-ish hours every day for the last 2 weeks, and now we are sitting, resting, not moving all at once. My muscles are itchy and want some exercise. I find a quiet corner of the patio to turn some cartwheels and press into a few handstands. Young Sonam finds it interesting. I know he has done some yoga, and I caught him in Tengboche flipping around in the grass beside the trail. “Handstand contest, Sonam?” I challenge him. “Ok, handstand, go!” he grins at me, kicking up in the middle of the patio. We spend several minutes upside down, walking on hands across the open cement area. Sonam drops back to his feet.  “Again!” I challenge, giving him a second chance. It occurs to me then that he’s half my age. I probably shouldn’t have done that. We kick up again and I drop down first. Mausami is watching intently, calling the winner each time. Sonam misses my meaning when I call “best of three.” “Do it again!” Mingma calls over the rest of the guys at the table on the opposite corner of the patio, Mausami encourages him as well. We oblige. I notice it’s easier to do handstands than usual. I am lighter. I wonder how much weight I’ve lost along the trek. He falls a short second before I do, and nods to me conceding the win before grabbing a stock pot to aid the cooks. Muscles happily exerted, I return to a seat in the sun. 

This is a long one with a moral. Grab a cup of tea and get comfy. A story that didn’t make it into the book: Off the Everest Highway, away from the tourists and the more “primped” towns that are on display for all  (still nothing near Waikiki) there is noticeably more trash along the roads, in the streams, well, everywhere. It’s clear to me that this country is in a state of change, between adopting Western practices and utilizing their own traditional means. I never did get used to the trash and the way it collected in waterways and ditches. While sitting next to an airstrip awaiting incoming flights, I chatted with a nurse from an NGO. She spelled it out plainly, and for the first time I totally understood why there seems to be so much trash. “Traditionally, they eat a potato or an orange and the peel goes on the ground, to be turned in and used to fertilize the next planting. There is no harm in dropping a banana peel or even a chicken bone on the dirt road because it degrades and benefits the land it came from. But our Western culture has imposed plastic wrappers and cellophane covering everything, and tin cans and water bottles.” And now it lives in high villages of Nepal, where there is no garbage truck, no system or service in place to routinely remove the waste that it creates.  I took pictures of some of the most disturbing images I found, but have resisted showing any of them. I am not sure that’s my place. One day our group was out along the road waiting for things to happen. One of the younger Sherpa assistants on the trek who I’d gotten to know pretty well was standing above the road on a stone wall. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a snack, then tossed the wrapper down into the muddy ditch along with 2 dozen others of the same. Without thinking, my knee-jerk, mommy reaction blurted out, “Oh, no-no! Pick that up!” Exactly like I would say if my own kid did such a thing here. But I was not here, I was in Nepal. John and Clint had been talking with me in a close triangle and John abruptly stopped, grabbed my wrist and chided me for yelling at him. “No, no… it’s not our place.. no, no Sis….” I felt terrible. I knew John was speaking from a place of cultural sensitivity, and I was intruding. I was completely out of place to bark like that. Not that they agreed with the action. They both spent the entire trip hauling used cigarette butts in their pockets until an acceptable rubbish can was found. Sometimes that was an entire day or more. So I wrestled internally with the issue of culture versus progress. Was it better to overstep and perhaps make a positive difference, or resist imposing more of my Western eye on the situation? The offending trash-tosser climbed down the wall and approached the discarded wrapper, carefully considering it. It was mud-covered, yak dung-covered, certainly not anything you’d want to touch or carry around. But I got the desired result. He saw an outsider’s reaction and considered what he’d done. I expressed to John that this is all I wanted, that it was important to me, for this young Nepali to understand that he had another choice. And I think he did. But the guilty feeling of yelling at him, of stepping out of place and over cultural bounds really gnawed at my insides for a long time afterwards. Today AC and I were talking about volunteer cleanups and trash removal in that very area of Nepal. He said to me, “I am so glad you yelled at that guy for throwing his trash…” “Really?” I blurted, cutting him off, “because I felt really bad after I did that.” Then AC went on to explain how the locals will have to be educated on trash collection, most likely from the youth upward, instead of the other way around. And I think he is right. He has plans to implement a repeating cleanup program for some villages in Solu. I think that’s a mission I can get behind, so I’d like to help. I can see myself standing in galoshes in the streams of Solu, picking out wrappers and broken bottles. And I can also see myself talking (not yelling) to the local youth about how they can make their home village more beautiful, in hopes that they will tell their elders. I do believe that one person can make a difference, particularly when they are driven by the heart. But I think it also multiplies when the sentiment is taught, learned and spreads as a result of that one person. Let me know if you want to join me.

Not all the stories that I brought home made it into the book. Some were just not complete enough or interesting enough to put in. Some were interesting, like this one, but really didn’t fit in any specific place without disrupting the overall story flow. Others I wriggled the best bits from and put them into others. It’s a lot like weaving. You pick the best threads and put the necessary filler threads where they must go. Following are some of my notes, direct from my journal of a few visual experiences I had early in the trek. There are close to 3200 photos now. 3 concerts to go and new landscape from here to Salleri. I have many more to take, but there are several that I have not taken and until I pound them out in words, they’ll haunt me. There are photos that I have resisted taking out of respect, but others I was not allowed. Words will serve to describe them when my camera cannot. -There are signs on the outside of police buildings in Kathmandu that say “No photographs here” in English, of course. Just outside, near the razor wire and tall stone walls, stands a single officer in camo gear with a semi–automatic weapon across his chest. -Along side a stream in a village, a baby sits alone and plays with yak dung and a crushed Snickers wrapper. -A limbless beggar, crumpled up (probably from polio) near a stone wall at the largest Buddhist temple in Kathmandu, leans longingly out toward tourists with a string and bucket around his neck. -My friends praying in monasteries, bowing to the floor multiple times, uttering words I don’t understand, but sentiments that breach all barriers. -Old ladies in local villages, ever watchful eyes who seem so tired of cameras being pointed at their weathered, weary faces. -2 ladies in dresses and fuzzy, fur, 3-flap hats (just like the ones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Nepal scene), walking into a lodge for a celebration.

Yesterday was the official book release party. It was an emotional, fun, energetic, soulful way to kick off a book. I am pretty sure it was unique as book releases go. You can see the live stream here. Then skip the first 10 minutes. The stream started on time, we started late. We sang, we read from the book, we cried. Really. It’s very strange to read your own emotionally crafted words out loud to a room. New and scary experience. Remember, I come from a photography background. I am not used to being the one on stage. But I wasn’t the only one who cried. Which helped me validate my unruly emotions and showed me that perhaps this book is about a subject that many people will be able to relate to on some level. I hope so. But now the book is out and had been distributed. Lots of people spent today diving in. I can’t wait to hear the feedback whether it be negative, positive, commentary, confusion or empathy. But regardless of what it is, I want to hear it. Because one of the things I learned about this whole project is, the hardest part about putting yourself out there is listening to the silence afterwards. Find me here.

There are several stories in the book that were inconsequential when I first heard them in Nepal. Once I was home, I could reflect differently on the experiences and this helped fill out the skeleton of notes in my journals. Much of the time I spent in writing stories into the book involved talking to the people who were there, getting the story straight and complete. This process was a joy for me. I loved hearing how other members of the group perceived the encounters we had. When I got to Gambu’s story I found a bunch of scrawl in my notebook. Much of it didn’t make sense and none of it was complete, but I knew it was an important bit and needed to be in the book. Luckily Gambu is in the same hemisphere as I am (New York) and I am able to call him pretty easily compared to the other Nepalis in the story. Through about 3 phone conversations I was able to reconstruct the story that Gambu told me in Nepal. I scribbled more notes each time we spoke on the phone, then went off to write and organize thoughts. Then I had to call again to get facts straight. Finally I completed the story as it exists in the book and tears ran down my face when I read it in context for the first time. I think it’s one of the strongest parts of the book in illustrating many of the important themes that run through it. In case you are wondering where to find Gambu’s story in the book, don’t worry, you’ll certainly know it when you get there.

I was dropped off at SEA-TAC airport a couple hours early the day we flew out to Nepal. So I had a couple hours to kill after security and bag check. I decided to call my mom (bad decision) and let her know that today was the day I was leaving the country, “and my cell phone will be off for a month,” you know, little last minute reminders. We’d had several conversations about the trip and she knew the specifics already. But my mom doesn’t do last minute the same way I do, and she took the opportunity to panic about her daughter flying to the other side of the globe instead. The conversation went something like this: -Hi Mom, I’m at the airport, just about to fly to Nepal. Thought I’d say ‘bye’ and remind you that I’ll be out of touch for a while. -You’re leaving now? A whole month? Will you be in contact with Chris? How will we know if… -Yes Mom, we have it all worked out. Call him whenever you want. I just wanted to remind you of the day so you know I won’t have my phone on for a while. -Ok, so who are you’re going with anyway? -A Nepali climber who lives the next town over from us, a couple American musicians from the same town, and a whole bunch of Nepalis. -But do you know any of them? -I interviewed the lead guy and I’ve met the Americans. -So you don’t really know any of them. Are you… -Mom… -It sounds like you don’t really know anyone you are going with and you’re going to be far away. I’m just… -Mom, I am sure that in a week or so I’ll have 30 new hiking buddies. Don’t worry! I’ll be fine. That tactic worked and I wriggled my way off the phone. I said what I said to get my mom off my back, but honestly I had no idea how it might go. I wasn’t worried, I knew it would all work out fine. But I didn’t anticipate how wrong I could be. In the end, I didn’t end up with a bunch of hiking buddies. I ended up with a bunch of people that I I once called strangers. Now I call them family.

We’re getting close! The books are in motion, in a truck, making their way here! I am guessing you’d like to hear one more story before they arrive, but I don’t have a story today, so I’ll spell out my approximate plan for how the books you have purchased will be received. December 10th is the first day anyone will have a book. The people who come to the Release Party will get their paws on their purchased copy there. Yippee! Now, to make it kind of fair for those of you who are not local, I will do my very best to get your books in the mail so you have received them on Dec 10 (or maybe a day earlier or later). But they will come in a flat book-box VIA US Mail. You can purchase a book at the release party as well. Now I know there is another story somewhere.. I guess I’ll go find it and follow this post with it.

(Actually as you read…) The book is uploading… being sent to the printer RIGHT NOW! Aak! If ever I deserved a freak out moment, this might be it. I have combed and scoured, looked and re-looked, had it checked and rechecked. I think it is the best I can do at this particular time, in this particular place. There are only so many times you can look at the same words, regardless of how many it is. So I’m done. I sent it. I pushed the button. I couldn’t change anything else if I wanted to. Now I am taking the biggest deep breath that I can remember in the last 9 months. That’s how long it took to get all the words and photos out that I needed to. Of course there are more stories. There are always more stories. As my head spins down from the execution of the ones I chose to share, I am sure more and more like the Irish gal story will reveal themselves to me. I’ll share them with you here in case you are interested. For now, think about clearing your schedule on Dec 10 at 1 PM PST at SoulFood Books. That’s when you’ll have the best chance to put paws on the finished product! Even if you aren’t local, you can share in the fun and help us celebrate. That’s right –  everyone who can read this is invited! SoulFood has a live stream where you can watch what’s going on in their shop while they stream! Check this link to go there now. If that doesn’t work, check soultribetv.com and follow the link to  the live stream. We’ll be there on the date and time! I’m a little excited, can you tell?

I am truly beside myself. I keep telling people that completing this book feels like I am standing outdoors naked (in this weather). I am overwhelmed by the support and positive response I’ve had to this project. It is unnerving… no, terrifying to think that people actually want to read this, and that people ARE actually going to read my words, my thoughts, my personal story. Terrifying. But it is really going to happen. No turning back now. Wheels are in motion! I have a final date for the local book release and signing party. Mark your calendar for Dec 10 (Saturday) from 1-3 PM at SoulFood Books. It’s going to be a fun afternoon – I’ll sign your book, we’ll read a couple bits, do some songs that were written in Nepal, and share some stories from the trip. Please come, even if you don’t think you want a book. We’d love to have you there to help celebrate with us! John and Clint will be there and it is perfectly set up for an event like this. We may even stream it live to Nepal. Wouldn’t that be a fun twist. See you there!

The word has gone out. I have let a bunch of people know that my book is ready. (And that’s the scariest thing I have done this week.) So this website is being over run by the book, book, book at the moment. No worries, my old photo galleries are still up there under the “Gallery” page. I’ll put in new ones, including some from Nepal after the chaos of the book calms down. Thanks for stopping by!

Obviously it can’t be too slow, since I told you two days ago that we’re down to less than 10 days (eeks)! I spent a full day cussing at Word Press to remake my photography website and now I have a page or two that will serve to tell you about the book and give you a place to order. (yippee… at long last… thanks for hanging in there.) First, it shows you the title and pretty cover. (insert oohs and aahs here please.) Second, it runs down the price, payment options and has you fill out a little form. If you aren’t already sold and chomping at the bit to get yours right way, that’s cool. Here’s a little excerpt so you can read a bit before committing. Other tidbits: My printer promises about an 8 day turn around, so this will be back long before Christmas, Insallah. (Read this if you don’t know what insallah means.) If you are local I will be doing a distribution in Bellevue about a week after they come in. I’ll arrange a location and let you all know in advance of the date so you can meet me there. If you don’t include shipping $, I’ll assume you are meeting me to pick up your book(s) but click the radio button on the form anyway since I went to the trouble to make it for you. Last time I checked, my signature is worth squat, but of course I’ll sign your copy if you really want that. (I am flattered that I’ve been asked that question so much already!) If you have questions, fire them off to erika@frommyart.com Timi haru ko nishcaya dhanybhad – thanks for your confidence in me. It has carried me far.

Once I had 30,000 words down, a title came to me. It jumped into my head, curled up in my lap and smiled at me like a big-pawed puppy. I liked it. It sounded big but not too big. Nothing to compete with Krakauer or Viesters anyway. But my story isn’t a hard core climbing story, so I was ok with that. The title was just about perfect. So I shared it with a couple people enthusiastically and with a big proud grin. The return fan fare was less than stellar. No one was thrilled, but particularly when I shared it with AC, he turned up his lip and shrugged. Hmmm.   I spent about 2 weeks uninvesting from this sweet little puppy, and was title-less for a while. I thought of different ways to refer to to the things that happened in the story, the area we traveled through, and I dissected a couple languages for inspiration. But titles are (or can be) make-or break items. No worries, at this point I was still writing the book ONLY for me. No one else was even going to see the darn thing, save my immediate family and a couple close friends who apparently “love my writing!”    I picked it up, put it down and picked it up again. Then I got frustrated and quit thinking about it. Lo and behold, that method seems to really work for my brain. A new title jumped into my lap and this puppy was even more fluffy and happy. So I kept it and it’s on the cover right now. I’d type it out here, but it’s easier to put in a link so you can see the pretty cover too. If you love it, great, I am happy for you. If you don’t, bummer and sorry, but too bad. It’s my puppy and I am not giving this one back.

I can actually feel the last days of this 9-month-long project ticking down. It’s refreshing and necessary and kind of sad. I can see the finish line, I just need to reach and claw a bit longer to get across it. Here is my first unofficial timeline estimate: 10 days until printer. Just 10 days until it is out of my hands and will magically become a finished thing. I am just sure I’ll miss working on the book once it is done. Of course, holding a copy in my hand should quell some of that, but the act of working on a project that is basically completely self governed is pretty amazing. I am not even using a self-publishing house. I am going straight from author to printer. (I am not a big fan of middlemen.) The final thorns are mostly minor. I ordered an ISBN today (woot!). That was weird and made everything feel kind of official. Then I attempted a bit of the last formatting steps. I really thought I would be able to format this whole puppy in MS Word. I called my printer and got all the details on margins, bleeds and set everything up splendidly. Problem is, I have apparently maxed out MS Word’s margin, section and footer capabilities. I need about 5 sections to be full bleed (no footer, margins, header or any white space on the page) so I can cover it with photos. Word doesn’t like to do that more than once per document, apparently. In my version anyway. I guess you learn something every day. So one of my final thorns will be finding a layout program that allows this sort of thing AND exports to PDF in the format that my printer needs. But this is all small apples. After what it took to get this far, ain’t no formatting issue gonna stop this girl.

I redid the website 2 days ago. I have been futzing with it. It might be ready – poke around and see. Let me know if it’s broken anywhere. In the mean time, check out the info on my book!

Just a note that a few things have moved. My HimalSong blog is now on the left of this page, as well as in its home on Blogspot. Almost everything else has its own button or pretty picture to click on. Spend a minute, it will make more sense the longer you’re here!

Things are looking a bit more beautiful (or at least dusted off) around here. Word Press is my new buddy, and this is website number 4 that I have dipped in the lovely interface in the past year.  So now we look all pretty with only of one day of gritting teeth, cussing and making creative minds hiss under the duress of coding (very light coding). And here it is. Be patient while we get the goodies back in place, OK? Thanks for stopping by! -EK  

Once I was back home, I spent days and long hours in the thick of madly writing out detailed descriptions of the places I’d just been before they vanished from my memory. Through this process, I couldn’t help but keep wanting to “go back to that place” for just a split second to see if my memory of the ambiance was the same as reality. Time does strange things to memories. And the idea of teleporting (just for a second, please, please!) entered my mind on several occasions. I knew when I was leaving Nepal, that in a perfect world, I’d spend a month in a tea house in Kathmandu writing everything out while still in the culture. That would have maximized being able to access the feelings, sounds, experiences of places as I was describing them. It felt very unfinished to be leaving without a moment to do that, knowing I’d have to do it back home. The best I could do was talk to my friends back in Kathmandu about the places I’d been, to hear it from them, and double check my memories through their lenses. One such memory was of the bathroom of a beautiful restaurant we went to as our “welcome dinner” the night we arrived in Kathmandu. In the book I name it, describe it and then rest on the description of the bathroom. So in checking my memory, I’d forgotten to take a photo of this memorable bathroom. I remember being completely taken with the entire restaurant, the food, the conversation, the sounds of the city, but I was, for some reason, enamored with the beautiful bathroom. The hand-detailed tiles were more stunning than all of the rest of the restaurant, in my opinion. So once I was back in the US, I asked one of the ladies on the trek to go to the restaurant and take a photo of the bathroom for me. And she did. “It is a pretty bathroom, right, it’s not like all the others??” “Yes it’s pretty nice, yes, I’ll take photo for you, didi.” (I imagine her rolling her eyes at me) Of course she politely excluded the portion of the bathroom that I was looking for, but the photo served its purpose and besides refreshing and confirming my memory, it served to remind me of yet another, unrelated memory of Nepal. She sent it to me in September. Check the date on her photo for a hint.

When I sat down on Christmas eve last year to interview AC about his seven summit climbs, I felt really honored. I was actually in disbelief that I had pulled off an interview with this guy. In the car on the way to the meeting, I kept running through my head: He is a world record holder, he is a formidable persona, and he’s meeting with “lil ole me” for an interview! After the interview, I realized I had not brought my camera (I was a little unnerved while preparing) and couldn’t take a photo of the two of us. I really wanted one of those “here I am with a celebrity” photos, and though it would have been in a coffee shop, against a bland white wall, at that moment, I’d have taken it and been thrilled. In going through my photos for the book, I ran across this one which is one of many like it that I now have. And looking at it for the twentieth time brings back memories of the trek, but also of that Christmas eve interview and all the distance that has dissolved since then. I think about how uncomfortable I would have been to ask him for a photo after the interview. I think about what that coffee shop photo would have looked like and it makes me giggle.

When I was an art director, we created an animated product based on a feature film. Our product was to be released along with the movie. As such, we received “dailies” from the feature film production crew, meaning we got a VHS (yes it was a while ago) of all the film they shot in a day, uncut, unedited, unfinished, so we could see exactly what the characters looked like and how the scenes progressed. We got dozens of snipits of the story as they were created.That was a wonderful window into almost being in the film production crew and served to help us create our product, since it was the only real visual reference we had to work from. But since movies are shot in a non chronological order, it was wholly confusing to try to put the parts into a semblance of order to understand the story line. Some days we were left piecing bits together and filling in the gaps with our imagination. I found I was applying the same methods as the film crews in getting the stories out for this book. A story would be forefront in my mind, and I’d tap it out without regard to chronology. That makes for a bunch of snipits that then need to be woven together. So getting it all out was the initial draft phase. Then the weaving began… and it took twice as long to weave it all together than the story-telling phase. But it had to be done that way, because it was too big of a thing to all fit in my head (or an outline or notes) all at once, in one place. Another thing I learned (again) while telling a story this long is that you can’t tell it all. There are things that were interesting at the time that simply don’t translate well. There were simple moments that are insoluble in their beauty, but don’t go down on paper or in photos. In other words, they were real moments, simple and direct as part of life. Things that expressing in words functions to destroy, rather than embellish. The funny thing is, it is important as I look back at these snipits to realize this fact. I have a deep desire to include them, and that would be to the detriment of the book as a whole. Some stories serve to embellish others, some denature the ones around them. And I suppose this is all common knowledge and trivial study among the literarily-trained folk out there who might be reading this, but it was something I learned along the way. And it happens to be one of the things I like best about storytelling. But you all didn’t want to see the dailies anyway. There is a finished feature out there and it’s a lot easier to tread through.

(Yeah, songs again in the title.) Sherpas are the culture of people who live in the high Himalaya, in the shadow of Mt Everest. The group I traveled with was predominantly Sherpa. They are a jovial, friendly, very social people and thrive on connecting in their own community and others. One of them from the trek lives in New York and I have kept in good contact with him since returning. About a month after I got back I recorded this: Gambu called me today. He’s in New York so it’s not an international call. I sent him some raw video the other day and he was calling to thank me for it and catch up. He is typical Sherpa in that he actively pursues connecting with his friends and family through phone and Facebook and any means available. He does it just to say hi, or to chain the “news” of what’s going on in the Sherpa world. I love being an extended part of that. We’ve had several exuberant conversations since we both arrived back in the US. Today was no exception, and the verbal gymnastics that goes on is sometimes entertaining enough in itself that I thought I’d try to capture the miscues and misunderstandings. I don’t think you need to know expressly who each of these characters is, but know that Sherpa families name their babies for the day of the week they were born. Which leaves a lot of re-used names, and a little bit of confusion. Oh, and ‘didi’ isn’t my actual name. It means ‘sister’ in Nepali, and that is how Gambu has always referred to me. “I talked to Pemba and Dawa, you know, Mingma’s brothers?” Gambu began after our bubbly greeting in both English and Nepali. “Yes I have spoken to Pemba on the phone for Mingma’s music video.” I’d been head-down working on a video for one of the other Sherpa musicians on the trek. “Dawa’s wife just came here from Kathmandu to visit for a while. Pemba and Dawa, they both saw your video. Pemba, he is my neighbor, you know. Dawa, he writes the lyrics and some music for Mingma, you knew that right.” “Yes, I did know that, so they saw my music video that I put together for Mingma?” “Yes and they both say, ‘Oh, how clear and beautiful the video is!’ They like it very much!” “Great, so they like it? I got the feeling from Mingma that he thought it needed more work.” “Oh yes, they say ‘very nice, but keep going’..” “I think I met Dawa at the airport on the way out of Kathmandu…Mingma introduced me to him as we were leaving….” “No, Dawa has lived here 2 years, you meet a different Dawa… oh, you mean the other Mingma Sherpa, long-hair Mingma? I know that Dawa Sherpa, he is a different Dawa…” “No, not long-hair Mingma, Music Mingma! He met us at the airport and gave me his CD for the video, and he introduced me to a Dawa… at least I think it was a Dawa… I might have misunderstood his name. He was very excited to meet me. He said he was with Mingma’s music company.” “Okay, I know that Dawa, a short guy, right? Yes, he is another Dawa in Mingma’s music.” “Oh, that was not his brother, Dawa Sherpa then?” “No, different Dawa.” “What’s his last name?” “Sherpa.” “Another Dawa Sherpa and 2 Mingma Sherpas…?” I giggle. “Didi, we are all last name Sherpa! Don’t you know??”

Besides the writing itself, I have about 6000 photos in my arsenal to add imagery to the book. The hardest part isn’t what to include, it’s what not to include. There comes a point when the description that appears in the reader’s head is better than any image that could be added to embellish it. Or at least I hope that’s how it works out. I’ve gone through the set of 6000 about 7 times. I keep thinking I’ll make a master subset and just pick from those, but every time I need to grab a batch, the subset I picked last time isn’t complete enough. Some aspect has been left out. When I spoke at Soul Food Books to the group who followed Clint and John, I knew they wanted to hear the music part foremost, so I focused on that portion. When I selected photos to go up on my photo share, I tailored it to the photographers and what I think they most want to see. When I spoke at REI in Seattle, I didn’t mention music once. I focused on the trekking, the culture and the people of the area. But this book is the first time I’ll be able to incorporate all of the different aspects of the story which means another run through the 6000 photos. Regardless of how many there are in the book at the end, only a tiny fraction will be seen. This is a story, not a coffee table book. But there will be photos and they’ll be my favorites and they’ll be in color.

When we returned to Lukla (back down to 10,000 feet from the top), we had a couple days to rest. One evening in the common room at dinner, I talked to an Irish gal who was staying in the same lodge as we were. About my age or a little younger, she had been traveling solo through India, and now Nepal. Before that she had spent time traveling in Pakistan and working there in an office to make money so she could travel some more. We were discussing the different cultural tripping points, things we found interesting and most different from our own cultures. She helped me draw parallels between what I knew of Pakistan culture, and this one I have come to know in Nepal. But the differences are vast, too. I asked her about conducting business there and she replied, “Very little work ever appeared to get done the way we Westerners think of ‘done’. I’d ask if a document had been completed, or a product shipped and the answer was invariably, ‘insallah’, which means ‘God willing’ or ‘If Allah wills it’ which isn’t a very cut-and-dried way to do business, if you ask me. They would answer ‘insallah’ to your every query….’Are you going to lunch? Is there a meeting now? Have you heard an answer from the director?’ and the answer is always ‘insallah.'” When I looked at her with a vague glimmer of understanding, specifically from the things I had just been through along my trek, she continued and went into specifics. She gave me a good idea of what they consider an agreement, a contract and a method for working. But the interesting part is that they get business done, they just get it done differently. Very differently than we do, in fact. I have had to embrace this set of thoughts in working through the end of this book. In looking back, it helped me so much to hear her words. They must have fallen at just the right time. I had forgotten all about her until I was wrestling through the cultural stopping blocks that I am at this point in the book. It’s intriguing that part of the story which seemed unrelated as it happened, is becoming part of the answer. Is the book done? Insallah.

Stepping back in time, here is a bit of story… When I arrived in Kathmandu, I had already been gone from home for 36 hours. Three days later, I felt like I had been there for a month. So much had happened already: I met about 50 people, I learned new places, new foods, new streets and buildings. I had to figure out new toilets, new ways of dealing with electricity, internet, air and sleep. I learned how to be a female person in Asia, which, by the way is a whole different animal than here in the US. I can lead just fine, it’s the following that I have a little trouble with. But the whole thing, every step of every day for those first 3 days was new and different, and a cultural shift in the largest sense. I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. Clint and John both remarked that it felt like a month in 3 days. When the trip was over and I was back at home, I shifted time zones again and unwound all of the cultural shift that had taken place over the previous time. I have been home 6 days. My hubby remarked this morning that it felt like I had been here a month. Of course he said it in the most positive and supportive light: “She’s just slipped right back in where she was.” But now it feels like a month since I have seen my Nepali friends, and I am left wondering why. So I pick apart the reasons that time seems to stretch so extremely when shifting between cultures and spaces. When I travel inside the US, it doesn’t feel this way, but I remember my trips to the Caribbean and Central America being a similar experience. The learning-while-traveling process tends to lengthen life in some respect. And I love that. Life is and will always be too short.

I am just sure that most novel writers spend the majority of their waking and sleeping hours developing characters. I was spared that since my book is NOT a novel – it’s non fiction. My characters were already developed and it was just my job to call it like I saw it. The main character in my book (ok, besides me, I am telling the whole story from my point of view) is a guy by the name of AC Sherpa. I met him for an interview of my magazine. Any of you who have been following the magazine since February already know this. If you haven’t, here is the article that came from meeting my protagonist. And yes, it will give you a little back story about me as well. http://seattlebackpackersmagazine.com/2011/02/01/seven-summits/

For the record, I like hiding song lyrics and titles in my blog writing, so feel free to begin singing when you see a title, if it strikes you. I spent the first 2 months writing with reckless abandon. It was a purge, a way to capture all these fresh ideas and thoughts and memories that were fading away too quickly. Once that purge hit a sort of equilibrium (or maybe I just finished my reacclimitizaton to US culture) I began asking questions of myself about the book. “Why am I writing this?” is always first. That was answered in the first 2 posts of this blog. “Who am I writing for?” immediately followed. Because if you don’t know who your audience is, then your voice gets fuzzy. If you are speaking an unintelligible language to those hearing your message, then you’ve failed. But changing the language wasn’t as hard as figuring out who I was directing my story toward. Initially this was a journal. I keep journals on almost every journey I take, whether it’s a single overnight camping trip just up the road, or a month in Nepal. Sometimes a good day hike or trip to the mall even warrants a journal entry. I have a lot of words, I guess. After bending several people’s ears nearly to breaking, (thanks guys!) I quit thinking I was writing this just for myself, just as a remembrance of a month of my life, and began thinking of it in terms of the people who might be affected by the story if they were to run across it. All you non-writers out there are wondering why that is such a big deal. I won’t go into it, but believe me, it is a huge shift when you are writing words for your own psyche versus spelling things out for anyone else’s. Huge paradigm shift. So after mulling it over and getting plenty of support from people who really, honestly wanted to read it, I rewrote the purge. So now it is a better book, for you and for me.

I spent the first 2 months that I was asked this question, trying like hell to answer it. It’s hard to encapsulate, and that is part of the reason a whole entire manuscript was warranted. If I could tell it in a Facebook post, it probably wouldn’t be too compelling of a story, now, would it. Here’s my attempt to catch even those who don’t know anything about it to get a glimpse. I am a mom who lives in the suburbs of Seattle. I live a pretty normal life in that vein. I run a business, I run kids to soccer, I run to the mountains to photograph and write about them. (And I just run, too.) This is the part where the normal goes away. I ended up in Nepal, hiking up a famous path called the Everest Highway, on a project designed to raise awareness and funds for global environmental issues. During this project I lived in Nepal for a month with a handful of Nepalis, and a few Americans. And they weren’t normal. They were musicians and mountain climbers – extraordinary ones. And it wasn’t a normal trek. Some pretty extraordinary things happened along the way. So the month that I lived there changed my life. And I don’t mean it in the ethereal, touchy-feely way (though that’s true too). I mean that I learned some pretty ground breaking things that I never would have learned if I hadn’t done it. When that happens I have to write it down. Have to. For fear that it is a dream and if I write it down, well, at least I’ll be able to read about it later and pretend it was real, right?   So the book is my attempt at grabbing that dream by the tail and pulling it back toward me, and onto a page where it can be enjoyed, remembered and shared. Thanks to Elizabeth Gilbert and TED for that amazing description of the creative process.

My book is in its final stages. The writing portion is complete, save a couple thorns at the end, but we’ll get to those later. 220 pages of text have materialized after 7-ish months of driving my family mad. I have been on a mission of sorts, and it came to me in the form of this book.    So now I have a bunch of stuff left over and needed a place to put it. If you decide to follow this trail, you’ll read some stories that didn’t make it into the book, you’ll find out things that it’s hard to convey in 125 words on Facebook, and you may well get a window into a warped but determined mind. But since I have completed writing on the book, I needed a place for the overflow (you don’t just shut a machine like that off with a switch) so the tailings will end up here until publication is complete.   Welcome to the final chapter.