Ever since I hit the Midwest, parking overnight with my big girl Ethel has become a problem. Perhaps because of the winters, or because of their age, many towns have narrow streets and prohibit parking on them - sometimes in the wee hours only, sometimes all the time. Nor is this prohibition always posted....I've learned to carefully observe whether or not there are cars on the street and to look carefully for signs indicating the verboten hours.
Of course, I prefer not to be in cities at all unless I have some business there. In the Western states, public land is so plentiful that there's almost always a national forest or grassland a short shot away, and beautiful free spots for self-contained Ethel are easy to come by. As I head east, space is at a premium, thanks to all us folks; and I'm apprehensive about what I'll encounter in New England, where I'm fortunate to have several screenings set up.
A screening in Ann Arbor goes well, and my hosts are absolutely lovely - even treating me to an Itzhak Perlman concert. Then I follow the curve of Lake Erie into Ohio. Arriving in Cleveland, I've been advised to stay on the west side of town, and discover that that part of the city even allows street parking; so my first night goes well. However, when I try to use GPS to get to the UU church where Greg once worked, I'm taken on a very long, circuitous, and pothole-hellish tour of a seriously troubled town. Economic blight and much-needed road construction are the hallmarks of Cleveland, as far as I can tell.
After meeting the UU church administrator, who remembers Greg fondly, and giving the church a copy of "Preacher's Sons", I'm thinking I'll visit Cuyahoga National Park, just south of Cleveland. Somehow, though, I miss the park entirely and wind up a half hour south, in Akron. As it's Saturday, I decide to stay over and attend Sunday services at the UU church of Akron, which is in the suburb of Fairlawn, home to a great strip of malls and tidy residences with looong driveways. And I know by now what those driveways mean - no street parking.
That night I see a wonderful movie - "500 Days of Summer" - that came highly recommended; thank you, Lee. And I've already scouted the UU church for afterward. The church has a large lot, and I park without incident at the back. The next morning, up early - my new custom - I watch the minister and the choir come in. None gives me so much as a glance, and I file that information under "churches, possible parking spots". I attend the single service, introducing myself to everyone I can corner, and am invited to attend the Unitarian Women's Association High Tea following the service (celery sticks and cookies). The Director of Religious Education remembers Greg from when they were colleagues. I give him a copy of the film, and he gives me directions to a choice hiking trail in the National Park.
Leaving the Park late in the afternoon (I got lost on the trail), I head east again. I drive until I'm exhausted, but no good parking place presents itself. Finally, I break an unacknowledged vow to myself and park - for the first time - in a Walmart lot. I'm glad to have broken that cherry, as it's not too bad after all, and I have a feeling I'll need to do it again.
Sure enough, the following night, delighted to have left Ohio for western Pennsylvania, which I've long wanted to visit, I'm again unable to find either suitable public land or a town with street parking. It's late, and I finally find a mall-ish area with a Penny's and a Sears. Unsure whether the local gendarme will sanction this selection of a camping spot, I hit on what seems a brilliant idea: I'll park near the Sears Auto Center, and if rousted will explain (pitiably) that I was having electrical issues (true enough) and just decided to park and wait for the shop to open the next morning. Still, I'm uneasy, waiting for that inevitable pounding on the door, and toss and turn for hours. I have an alarm set for 7:00, thinking I'll get up and drive away before the employees arrive, should I be so fortunate as to make it through the night.
Near dawn I doze off. I'm deep in a dream when the sound of a car door wakes me. Slam! Then several more in quick succession: Slam! Slam! Slam! Oh my god - I'm surrounded! Certain that the police have multiple guns drawn and aimed at Ethel, I quickly slide out of bed and into the pants I've carefully positioned, ready for this moment. Hair poking out at wild angles like a homeless woman's (appropriate, I guess), I peak out from behind my curtains. Striding purposefully away from me toward the main Sears store are the 7:00 employees, who apparently park there in front of the Auto Center. I am surrounded, but only by pick ups and last millennium Chevys. Shutting off the alarm, I crank Ethel and squeeze between the cars. As I pull back onto the highway, I notice what I missed the night before - the Walmart across the way.
Note to self: research all the Walmarts along my trajectory, as well as public lands and city parking regulations. Do this somehow without an Internet connection.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Dancing My Language
In Chicago I've found a new art form, one that both crosses traditional boundaries and adds an unexpected twist. This great city, where I've been visiting, is well known for its patronage of the arts; so perhaps I shouldn't be surprised to find something new here.
Downtown Chicago has Millennium Park, with outdoor exhibitions of large-scale public art, many of them interactive in some way, many also incorporating media in unusual contexts. For example, there's Crown Fountain, which features two black glass slabs (bringing to mind 2001: A Space Odyssey), each fifty feet tall, and facing each other at either end of a two hundred-foot reflecting pool, where children of all ages splash about in the shallow water. Water also streams down the slabs' surfaces, forming a misty curtain over the giant faces that form and gaze out and disappear on the glass. Some of the faces are famous (Marilyn Monroe), and most are not; but they're all current or former Chicagoans, and they're all fascinating. The faces are mobile, not static; they smile, wink, grimace. But often the movements are almost imperceptible; they're not performing.
You can stay on the sidelines, as I did, watching the faces and people frolicking in the fountain area. Or you can go in and play in the shadow of giant watery faces. And every now and then, when a face opens its mouth, a gush of water shoots out from the mouth for a few moments. When you tire of watching, you walk on to the next astounding, thought provoking, beautiful/weird object.
Chicago doesn't support only the visual arts. This fall there's a Humanities Festival promising improbably serious lectures, panels, and workshops on humor by such luminaries as Los Angeles' own Matt Groening and Sandra Tsing Loh. All events in the two-month festival are either free or extremely low cost. And, of course, Chicago supports music. Over Labor Day weekend, when I'm in town, the Chicago Jazz Festival is in full swing. It is at one of these concerts that I encounter the new-to-me art form.
Since discovering jazz at age twenty, I've attended lots of concerts and other live performances. They're usually musically satisfying; but unless you're a musician, the best way to listen is often with your eyes closed - the better to be transported from the mundane setting into your private fantasy world. This night in Chicago's Grant Park is different.
My companions and I have gone to hear the rather avant-garde bassist William Parker perform with an octet. They're doing a tribute to Curtis Mayfield - remember him? - soulful purveyor of such sixties and seventies classics as "Superfly" and "So In Love". As it promises to be that cerebral brand of jazz, I'm prepared to lower my eyelids.
The group is already cooking when we arrive, a little late for the free event. (I, for one, had been in no hurry. After all, who would expect a free festival of jazz musicians to be running on time at the end of a long day of performances? Apparently, in Chicago they do run on time.)
I've been eager to witness the collision between the Mayfield soul-oeuvre and the jazzy out-there-ness of Parker and his group. What will happen? Will the songs be recognizable? Will the musicians rein in their improvisations to suit the tunes? And now it seems they've compromised: each song starts with the familiar groove and a female singer feeding us lyrics ("Oh, what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding"), while a deep-voiced speaker rumbles through recited streams of consciousness that I don't recall from the originals.
The vocalist is also a wonderful dancer, in a loose-limbed modern African style. But for most of the concert my eyes are glued to the far right of the stage, where a black-clad figure of ambiguous gender performs something I've never seen before. She - for that seems to be the proper pronoun - is an American Sign Language interpreter; but she is not so much interpreting the music as inhabiting it.
She's translating the words, of course, into that beautifully expressive physical language; but she's also conveying the music, the various instrumental parts, with her body. She steps and sways to the beat - not dancing to the music exactly, rather being moved by it. Her lower body carries the percussion and bass line; her upper body, the horns.
When the song's melodic line and lyrical content have been spelled out, and the musicians unleash their explosive improvisations, the interpreter launches into expressive imitations of their exultations - bursts of air trombone, air trumpet, air guitar all make brief, impressionistic appearances. Her black-clad body seems to move in eight evocative directions at once, and yet it is all the absolute soul of minimalism. Never does she let exuberance overtake her professional execution of the job. I am spellbound, as are my companions, and - I'm betting - much of the rest of the audience.
Have you ever seen an ASL music interpreter? Is this a standard sub-specialty of the career? How would someone come to be doing this work? I'll confess, when I spotted her up on stage, my first thought was "that's kind of silly" - ASL musical interpretation! Now I want to evangelize for this performance art form, for that is what it is.
Dancers: learn ASL!
ASL translators: get your groove on!
Everybody: come on, let's pass legislation requiring every musical performance to incorporate ASL interpretation. It will enrich music for you - whether you can hear or not.
Downtown Chicago has Millennium Park, with outdoor exhibitions of large-scale public art, many of them interactive in some way, many also incorporating media in unusual contexts. For example, there's Crown Fountain, which features two black glass slabs (bringing to mind 2001: A Space Odyssey), each fifty feet tall, and facing each other at either end of a two hundred-foot reflecting pool, where children of all ages splash about in the shallow water. Water also streams down the slabs' surfaces, forming a misty curtain over the giant faces that form and gaze out and disappear on the glass. Some of the faces are famous (Marilyn Monroe), and most are not; but they're all current or former Chicagoans, and they're all fascinating. The faces are mobile, not static; they smile, wink, grimace. But often the movements are almost imperceptible; they're not performing.
You can stay on the sidelines, as I did, watching the faces and people frolicking in the fountain area. Or you can go in and play in the shadow of giant watery faces. And every now and then, when a face opens its mouth, a gush of water shoots out from the mouth for a few moments. When you tire of watching, you walk on to the next astounding, thought provoking, beautiful/weird object.
Chicago doesn't support only the visual arts. This fall there's a Humanities Festival promising improbably serious lectures, panels, and workshops on humor by such luminaries as Los Angeles' own Matt Groening and Sandra Tsing Loh. All events in the two-month festival are either free or extremely low cost. And, of course, Chicago supports music. Over Labor Day weekend, when I'm in town, the Chicago Jazz Festival is in full swing. It is at one of these concerts that I encounter the new-to-me art form.
Since discovering jazz at age twenty, I've attended lots of concerts and other live performances. They're usually musically satisfying; but unless you're a musician, the best way to listen is often with your eyes closed - the better to be transported from the mundane setting into your private fantasy world. This night in Chicago's Grant Park is different.
My companions and I have gone to hear the rather avant-garde bassist William Parker perform with an octet. They're doing a tribute to Curtis Mayfield - remember him? - soulful purveyor of such sixties and seventies classics as "Superfly" and "So In Love". As it promises to be that cerebral brand of jazz, I'm prepared to lower my eyelids.
The group is already cooking when we arrive, a little late for the free event. (I, for one, had been in no hurry. After all, who would expect a free festival of jazz musicians to be running on time at the end of a long day of performances? Apparently, in Chicago they do run on time.)
I've been eager to witness the collision between the Mayfield soul-oeuvre and the jazzy out-there-ness of Parker and his group. What will happen? Will the songs be recognizable? Will the musicians rein in their improvisations to suit the tunes? And now it seems they've compromised: each song starts with the familiar groove and a female singer feeding us lyrics ("Oh, what's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding"), while a deep-voiced speaker rumbles through recited streams of consciousness that I don't recall from the originals.
The vocalist is also a wonderful dancer, in a loose-limbed modern African style. But for most of the concert my eyes are glued to the far right of the stage, where a black-clad figure of ambiguous gender performs something I've never seen before. She - for that seems to be the proper pronoun - is an American Sign Language interpreter; but she is not so much interpreting the music as inhabiting it.
She's translating the words, of course, into that beautifully expressive physical language; but she's also conveying the music, the various instrumental parts, with her body. She steps and sways to the beat - not dancing to the music exactly, rather being moved by it. Her lower body carries the percussion and bass line; her upper body, the horns.
When the song's melodic line and lyrical content have been spelled out, and the musicians unleash their explosive improvisations, the interpreter launches into expressive imitations of their exultations - bursts of air trombone, air trumpet, air guitar all make brief, impressionistic appearances. Her black-clad body seems to move in eight evocative directions at once, and yet it is all the absolute soul of minimalism. Never does she let exuberance overtake her professional execution of the job. I am spellbound, as are my companions, and - I'm betting - much of the rest of the audience.
Have you ever seen an ASL music interpreter? Is this a standard sub-specialty of the career? How would someone come to be doing this work? I'll confess, when I spotted her up on stage, my first thought was "that's kind of silly" - ASL musical interpretation! Now I want to evangelize for this performance art form, for that is what it is.
Dancers: learn ASL!
ASL translators: get your groove on!
Everybody: come on, let's pass legislation requiring every musical performance to incorporate ASL interpretation. It will enrich music for you - whether you can hear or not.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Electricity in the Black Hills
Ethel and I have had our first spat. It starts when I don't check her oil all week. Meanwhile - after 1,500 miles of holding steady - she goes through 2 quarts within 500 miles. Hilly miles, to be sure, but still - it's inconsiderate of her. So, when she starts choking like a consumptive wheezing her last breaths, I check her oil and add the two quarts. Afterwards she remains sulky and speaks roughly to me.
Afraid that repairs might be in order I drive Ethel, complaining on every hill, into the nearest town, which is Rapid City, South Dakota. Unable to find a mechanic who can see her before Tuesday - it being Friday - I decide to spend the night in town and contemplate my next move. To escape my anxiety at the prospect of expensive repairs, I go to the movies for the second time in the month I've been on my drive-about.
The first movie of my trip was "Bruno", which I saw in Lewiston, Idaho. I was delighted to find it playing there and rushed to see it, because I didn't think the heartland would screen that film. I was wrong. I even saw it playing at the solo theater in one of the many tiny towns I've blown through. You may disagree; but I think Sasha Baron-Cohen is not only appalling but also brave and funny, in a brutal, Swiftian kind of way. And out of character, he's really quite handsome. No, really...
In Rapid City, there's a 10 plex, so I hope I'll find something watchable. Uh, okay, I've heard "Hangover" is funny. I could use a good laugh, and it's about to start. Plus pickings are pretty slim this summer, apparently. I plunk down my $9.00.
I take my seat just as the trailers start. First up is a zombie horror film, touted as "brilliant". The trailer is gory and interminable. The people in front of me have brought their four year old and his infant sister. As screams rend the auditorium, the boy covers his ears. The rest of the trailers are downhill from there. I count three more horror flicks - none "brilliant" - and two adventure genre films, both of which prominently feature the sport of killing.
I'm appalled, but also puzzled; they usually match the trailers to the feature. Then I remember that the audience for "Hangover" is young men. Now it makes sense. Finally, a preview of the next Brad Pitt vehicle comes on screen, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least there won't be gratuitous violence. But, no; it's a film about Nazi-killers, called "Inglorious Bastards". Oh, yes - the new Quentin Tarrantino bloodfest... I'm REALLY tense when the movie starts and don't laugh for a good half hour (and not very often after that).
The next morning, the forecast is for "occasional thunderstorms." As I watch the cloud fleets sailing in from the northwest, I give it at least an eighty percent chance. That crystallizes my decision to head for a lake in the hills (and fortunately it seems Ethel has forgiven me, this time).
Thunderstorms are exciting. I love the windy foreplay, the deluge itself, and the sultry aftermath. I'm chasing thunderstorms out here under the big sky - sort of a junior tornado chaser. Now, I'm not putting my life on the line the way they do; there's only the very slight possibility I'll be struck by lightening - that's where the excitement comes in, I suppose - and, as I say, death is only a remote chance. I'm careful, and I know the rules. I grew up in the South, and will always bear a special fondness for its explosive, earth-soaking brand of storm.
By early afternoon the fleets are raising their black battle flags. They're massing for an attack at the southeast end of Pactola Lake in the Black Hills, where I'm now on the path towards Observation Point. The lake is about a mile and a half long by a half-mile wide; and as I scramble down towards the water, I count four boats on the lake, one pulling a skier. They're across the way, so I hear only a faint buzz and, mainly, water lapping the smooth pine chips that have been scattered here to form a tiny beach. Aaahhh, the Black Hills...
My father said that the first time he saw the Gulf, he felt he was finally home. I feel that way about the Black Hills. The first time I was here - 30 years ago - I was with my first husband, traveling in a 1955 Ford step van (a delivery truck) that had been converted to a camper. I pleaded with him to stop and spend some time in the hills that were calling out to me. But he wanted to get to Rawlins, Wyoming - at that time a real hellhole - where he had a buddy; he was a man on a mission. He had time to stop at Mt. Rushmore though (yawn); so at least I can skip that on this trip. Anyway, I've wanted to come back here ever since.
The Black Hills - special summer home of several Plains Indian tribes - is so-called for its Ponderosa Pine forests, which look black(ish) from a distance. Around Pactola, these pines have been thinned considerably, allowing delightful Alpine meadows to thrive under the trees. All manner of grasses, sedges, and reeds grow along the hills and in the hollows. Campsites are scattered among the pines, and in the center of one campground loop someone has erected a volleyball net on the expanse of mowed meadow.
I park down the red dirt road that leads to the trailhead and start my downhill plunge to the water. By the time I reach the little beach, I've already snapped several photos of the abundant wildflowers, most of which I can't name. I'll post those shots on Facebook, in hopes some naturalist friend will help me identify them. I snap more pictures from the shore and try my first video, which promptly crashes the Blackberry. None of my usual tricks will revive it.
The first dull thump of thunder sounds behind me, so I shoulder my daypack and start walking the trail that follows the hills above the lake. A pleasant drizzle showers me as I stroll. Bliss...
With another jolt of thunder - this time quite close! - the clouds start to unload. I step under a cluster of trees, but still I'm pelted with furious drops. I excavate my rain gear, which consists of a thin parka from the Smithsonian (gonna let my geek flag fly). While I'm in the pack I spy Cheetos brought along for just such an emergency; and so I stand under the trees (not the tallest ones around) munching Cheetos and wondering whether I should head back or continue towards Observation Point. A couple of coves over, two fishermen have scooted their boat to shore at the thunderclap. I watch an Osprey winging back to her nest over the hill. It's raining really hard.
I've just finished reading Pema Chodron's "When Things Fall Apart". She's a Buddhist teacher, in the Tibetan tradition; so her wisdom runs along the lines of "relax, don't take yourself so seriously - it's all good." Certainly, comparing the way I felt yesterday about Ethel and my shrinking funds (despair spiced with anxiety attack) with the way I feel at this very moment (calm and rather amused at my predictable predicament) the wisdom of Chodron's advice is clear. Despite my precarious, and very wet, situation and my dead cell phone/lifeline, I'm perfectly content to just hang out and see what happens next. Now if I can only learn to apply that attitude all the time, so I don't whirl off down the dark road when life's storms threaten...
In the end, I can't find the second major part of the trail - the one that actually leads to Observation Point - and I find myself quite close to where I started. It's still pouring, so I decamp to Ethel to wait out the storm and write these words. Perhaps later I'll walk out to the point. Perhaps not. I'm just hanging with Pema and pen right now, breathing.
After awhile I'll drive back to the Marina store, where I saw they sell hot showers - delightful! Doing without some of life's little luxuries sure heightens your appreciation of them.
Afraid that repairs might be in order I drive Ethel, complaining on every hill, into the nearest town, which is Rapid City, South Dakota. Unable to find a mechanic who can see her before Tuesday - it being Friday - I decide to spend the night in town and contemplate my next move. To escape my anxiety at the prospect of expensive repairs, I go to the movies for the second time in the month I've been on my drive-about.
The first movie of my trip was "Bruno", which I saw in Lewiston, Idaho. I was delighted to find it playing there and rushed to see it, because I didn't think the heartland would screen that film. I was wrong. I even saw it playing at the solo theater in one of the many tiny towns I've blown through. You may disagree; but I think Sasha Baron-Cohen is not only appalling but also brave and funny, in a brutal, Swiftian kind of way. And out of character, he's really quite handsome. No, really...
In Rapid City, there's a 10 plex, so I hope I'll find something watchable. Uh, okay, I've heard "Hangover" is funny. I could use a good laugh, and it's about to start. Plus pickings are pretty slim this summer, apparently. I plunk down my $9.00.
I take my seat just as the trailers start. First up is a zombie horror film, touted as "brilliant". The trailer is gory and interminable. The people in front of me have brought their four year old and his infant sister. As screams rend the auditorium, the boy covers his ears. The rest of the trailers are downhill from there. I count three more horror flicks - none "brilliant" - and two adventure genre films, both of which prominently feature the sport of killing.
I'm appalled, but also puzzled; they usually match the trailers to the feature. Then I remember that the audience for "Hangover" is young men. Now it makes sense. Finally, a preview of the next Brad Pitt vehicle comes on screen, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least there won't be gratuitous violence. But, no; it's a film about Nazi-killers, called "Inglorious Bastards". Oh, yes - the new Quentin Tarrantino bloodfest... I'm REALLY tense when the movie starts and don't laugh for a good half hour (and not very often after that).
The next morning, the forecast is for "occasional thunderstorms." As I watch the cloud fleets sailing in from the northwest, I give it at least an eighty percent chance. That crystallizes my decision to head for a lake in the hills (and fortunately it seems Ethel has forgiven me, this time).
Thunderstorms are exciting. I love the windy foreplay, the deluge itself, and the sultry aftermath. I'm chasing thunderstorms out here under the big sky - sort of a junior tornado chaser. Now, I'm not putting my life on the line the way they do; there's only the very slight possibility I'll be struck by lightening - that's where the excitement comes in, I suppose - and, as I say, death is only a remote chance. I'm careful, and I know the rules. I grew up in the South, and will always bear a special fondness for its explosive, earth-soaking brand of storm.
By early afternoon the fleets are raising their black battle flags. They're massing for an attack at the southeast end of Pactola Lake in the Black Hills, where I'm now on the path towards Observation Point. The lake is about a mile and a half long by a half-mile wide; and as I scramble down towards the water, I count four boats on the lake, one pulling a skier. They're across the way, so I hear only a faint buzz and, mainly, water lapping the smooth pine chips that have been scattered here to form a tiny beach. Aaahhh, the Black Hills...
My father said that the first time he saw the Gulf, he felt he was finally home. I feel that way about the Black Hills. The first time I was here - 30 years ago - I was with my first husband, traveling in a 1955 Ford step van (a delivery truck) that had been converted to a camper. I pleaded with him to stop and spend some time in the hills that were calling out to me. But he wanted to get to Rawlins, Wyoming - at that time a real hellhole - where he had a buddy; he was a man on a mission. He had time to stop at Mt. Rushmore though (yawn); so at least I can skip that on this trip. Anyway, I've wanted to come back here ever since.
The Black Hills - special summer home of several Plains Indian tribes - is so-called for its Ponderosa Pine forests, which look black(ish) from a distance. Around Pactola, these pines have been thinned considerably, allowing delightful Alpine meadows to thrive under the trees. All manner of grasses, sedges, and reeds grow along the hills and in the hollows. Campsites are scattered among the pines, and in the center of one campground loop someone has erected a volleyball net on the expanse of mowed meadow.
I park down the red dirt road that leads to the trailhead and start my downhill plunge to the water. By the time I reach the little beach, I've already snapped several photos of the abundant wildflowers, most of which I can't name. I'll post those shots on Facebook, in hopes some naturalist friend will help me identify them. I snap more pictures from the shore and try my first video, which promptly crashes the Blackberry. None of my usual tricks will revive it.
The first dull thump of thunder sounds behind me, so I shoulder my daypack and start walking the trail that follows the hills above the lake. A pleasant drizzle showers me as I stroll. Bliss...
With another jolt of thunder - this time quite close! - the clouds start to unload. I step under a cluster of trees, but still I'm pelted with furious drops. I excavate my rain gear, which consists of a thin parka from the Smithsonian (gonna let my geek flag fly). While I'm in the pack I spy Cheetos brought along for just such an emergency; and so I stand under the trees (not the tallest ones around) munching Cheetos and wondering whether I should head back or continue towards Observation Point. A couple of coves over, two fishermen have scooted their boat to shore at the thunderclap. I watch an Osprey winging back to her nest over the hill. It's raining really hard.
I've just finished reading Pema Chodron's "When Things Fall Apart". She's a Buddhist teacher, in the Tibetan tradition; so her wisdom runs along the lines of "relax, don't take yourself so seriously - it's all good." Certainly, comparing the way I felt yesterday about Ethel and my shrinking funds (despair spiced with anxiety attack) with the way I feel at this very moment (calm and rather amused at my predictable predicament) the wisdom of Chodron's advice is clear. Despite my precarious, and very wet, situation and my dead cell phone/lifeline, I'm perfectly content to just hang out and see what happens next. Now if I can only learn to apply that attitude all the time, so I don't whirl off down the dark road when life's storms threaten...
In the end, I can't find the second major part of the trail - the one that actually leads to Observation Point - and I find myself quite close to where I started. It's still pouring, so I decamp to Ethel to wait out the storm and write these words. Perhaps later I'll walk out to the point. Perhaps not. I'm just hanging with Pema and pen right now, breathing.
After awhile I'll drive back to the Marina store, where I saw they sell hot showers - delightful! Doing without some of life's little luxuries sure heightens your appreciation of them.
Monday, August 17, 2009
MONTANA HOT SPRINGS TOUR
In my previous two trips to/through Montana, I lingered only in Missoula - home to the University of Montana and, so they say (with sneering pride), full now of trendy Internet cafes and chi-chi shops - and in Glacier National Park, traditional habitat of the bandannaed backpacker and the senior RVer.
On this visit I saw neither Glacier nor Missoula, but I noticed that drive-thru espresso huts are in all the large towns (and quite a few of the smaller ones). So much for the Cowpoke mystique...though the cowboy poet I met at Norris Hot Springs did point out that cowboy poetry is the one poetry scene in the US in which the poets get paid.
And speaking of hot springs, luxuriating in these luscious waters seems to have been a previously unsuspected goal of my visit to this beautiful and blessed state. I have visited three of the better-known spots, which are in varying stages of development, and had three distinctly different experiences.
Boulder Hot Springs
I had not planned to stop at Boulder Hot Springs - partly because it's listed on maps as Boulder Hot Springs Hotel, or even Boulder HS Resort. It sounded too upscale for Ethel and me. But I'm on my way north to Helena, and since I nearly froze last night, I want to retrieve my sleeping bag from rooftop storage before stopping for the evening. Boulder just sounds like an interesting place to pull over. Then I see the sign for the hot springs. Just a couple of miles - why not? So I drive on.
Much to my surprise - shock! - as I turn up the gravel road, I realize I've been here before. Circa 1981, four of us had been hiking and camping in the Tetons, had swung through Yellowstone, and were on our way home. We'd not carefully planned our first night's stop out of Yellowstone and ended up pitching our tent by the side of the road. We were all crammed into a very small tent in the midst of a windstorm that kept one side (guess whose side) of the ripstop nylon plastered across our faces (okay, mine) for the several hours that we attempted to sleep. When dawn broke, we commenced our journey. As the only one awake enough (and that only because I hadn't slept a wink) I drove while everyone else crashed. Out of the blue, in the middle of nowhere it seemed, I saw a sign: Hot Springs, and an arrow pointing up a dirt road. We found an old hotel - not open, but under renovation - and a swimming pool-sized hot soak in an old tile and brick building. We swam and rejuvenated ourselves. In my memory, it was on the outskirts of Helena, so I hadn't expected to find it outside of Boulder. But here it is - grandly renovated, I must say. National Historic Register.
Of course, I park and go inside. Men and women now have separate pools - suits optional, and showers mandatory. Good - I'm hoping for a shower; bathing is a luxury in Ethel. Primarily, my bathtub is full of things destined for Chicago or to be given away to unidentified recipients. And at this time I've not yet mastered the art of recharging my 12 volt battery with sunlight (that'll happen the next day - thanks, B!), so I have no water pump anyway.
I take my time - showering, washing my hair - and then slip into the pool. For once, I'm grateful to my first husband for his love of nudity. I'd feel like a prude with a suit on.
The two (naked) other women in the pool are weathered Nordic types, like many Montanans - at least in that part of the state. One is a native; the other came out from Pennsylvania in the late seventies and traded in her return plane ticket to stay on. In response to my questions, each tells the other's story. I've already told them about my journey, bereavement, film, etc.
They speak cautiously, with confirming glances to each other. I'm certain they're carefully choosing what information to share with me, and what to leave out. I'm also reasonably sure they're lesbians, so used to being closeted that they can't bring themselves to tell me, despite the subject of my documentary.
I speak privately with one of the women, when the other goes to the cold pool. She wants to invite me to the house of a friend they're staying with (they're visiting from the Missoula area).In the end, it doesn't work out; but she clearly wants to invite me into their circle and is just probably outvoted. I wish they could've been more forthright with me. I give my new friend my card. I wonder if she's reading this....
Norris Hot Springs
Norris Hot Springs - Water of the Gods, the sign says, emblazoned with the business logo: a solid blue dot inside an encircling blue line - a god's eye.
After my blissful and engaging soak at Boulder Hot Springs, I search the Internet for more options. Norris - though not exactly a population center - sounds like a party. And after two weeks of limited interactions, I'm ready for a party; though usually the prospect of a party where I know no one fills me with the utmost dread.
Sunday's entertainment sounds good - eclectic bluegrass music - so I wheel Ethel into the parking lot around 4:00 (music at 7:00), to make myself as comfortable as possible before the crowds arrive. One of my goals for this journey is to help me learn to talk with strangers, to approach them without the fear of rejection that has dogged me all my life. I had an excellent role model for twenty-five years, not that I could hope to approach his level of mastery; but I seek to honor his memory in this way, among others.
The pool is crowded. I take stock; mostly families and groups of friends - gen xers and ys. There's also quite the kitchen going. The hot springs is operated by a trio of young women, all of whom have the harried comportment of those who depend on outsiders for their living. They are clearly at the end of a long weekend.
I claim a chair and sit for a few minutes to take stock. No one pays me any attention. I venture into the pool. It's quite hot by the steps, but there's a sprinkler system that spews a cooling rain over most of the pool area. I circulate, smiling indiscriminately at children and somewhat selectively at their parents. No one seems to mind - or really notice me for that matter. Some of the children smile back. The droplets become annoying, and I seek out a somewhat sheltered corner.
At 6:30 I order a burger - my first real dining out of the trip - and wine from the extensive local list. The burger is grossly underdone (I'll have digestive troubles tomorrow), and the wine comes in a tiny thin tumbler. I dilute the wine with water to make it last. At least it's decent wine.
There's a band shell that looks like a yurt with one side open, and promptly at 7:00 the musicians begin to play. They're really good bluegrass pickers, and I lose myself in the music. Gradually the families are leaving and a different crowd is arriving - tattooed, mohawked, raucous.... My peeps! Only several decades younger. I see one other unattached woman my age. She sits near me but doesn't want to talk.
After a while the evening air starts to cool. I find a place in the pool, nearest to the band. I'm enjoying the music, even if there's no conversation to be had. But shortly a man in his 40s sits down on the ledge near me. I size him up - he seems to want me to. He looks nice enough, and he has a Celtic tattoo on his arm. I ask about the tattoo, and we begin to talk.
He's a musician, he says. Moved to Montana when Boulder, Colorado, his home of many years, got too crowded. Has a wife who's a textile artist and two children. They live, coincidentally, near Boulder hot springs. Curious, I question him about how he earns a living. He's a composer too, he says, so that brings in a bit. Hesitantly, he finally mentions that he's also a poet. I laugh that that can't bring in much money, and that's where we break through.
Yes, he earns money "cowboying", but that just feeds his real passion - cowboy poetry. Proudly, he points out that cowboy poets - the good ones anyway - actually make money off their poetry. He's part of the scene out here. In fact, the man he confidently considers the country's greatest living poet - Paul Zarzyski - has become a friend.
I tell him about my film and journey; and before we go our separate ways, I give him my card. He presents me with his CD - "Not like it's a big seller," he says, with some embarrassment. I know the feeling.
A couple of days later I listen to the CD. It's very good. And we might be distantly related. So, here's a shout out to you John Reedy! Check out John's music - it's real cowboy and real dang good. Hey, write us some haiku, bro!
Chico Hot Springs
The cowboy poet says Chico is where folks from that part of the state (south central - the Bozeman/Livingston pole) hang; so I make the trek out from Livingston with great anticipation. It's thirty-plus miles through the aptly named Paradise Valley, with the mountains of Yellowstone crowning the distance. I arrive late Tuesday afternoon to see an old hotel (Historic Register again - Teddy Roosevelt slept here), rustic yet grand, in the throes of check-in time.
The grounds are inviting; there are rockers on the veranda, WiFi in the lobby, a day spa up on the hill. I peruse the day spa menu - it makes Los Angeles spas seem a bargain. Hmmm...not what I expected. My phone rings - hey, reception! I have a nice long chat with one of my angels, from the City of; and by the time we hang up, rush hour is over in the lobby. I ask the clerk where the regular day soak pool is and learn that entry is through the saloon. Of course...
The saloon looks like part of the original development. It's the kind of place I'd like to drink, but probably not alone, and certainly not when I have to pilot Ethel after dark to a yet-to-be-determined location! "Pay the Bartender" I read on the door. I do, and he buzzes me to the enclosed outdoor area.
I find the dressing room (with shower!) and outfit myself. The pool is as large as a standard swimming pool, and people are treating it like one. When I dip a toe, I learn why: it's a perfect lukewarm temperature, with that luscious heavy quality of mineral water. Ahh... I float for some minutes, just looking up at the expressive clouds gliding by overhead.
The population at the pool seems to be mostly hotel guests. A father and teenage son toss a ball across the pool's width, critiquing their throws en francais. A group of boys tosses girls into the air with much hilarity. There are a few groups of adults absorbed in conversation, and the one single adult has his nose in a book. That's okay - I'm just blissed out on the setting - clouds and hills and sky.
As I sit idly dangling my feet in the water, I'm thinking about how clouds often seem to convey messages to me - omens, portents, that sort of thing - and I wonder if I will be able to read something in these abundant floaters. At that moment, I notice two large clouds, close together, low, and directly above the pool. One of them is actually a close grouping of three. It looks like a heart, broken in three pieces. Ah, my broken heart, I think. The other cloud is a shapeless mass, with one protrusion seeming to poke out at the heart.
As I wonder if there's a shape that I'm missing, the center of the mass begins to evolve. I notice that behind these two large cumulo-nimbus clouds - as though providing a backdrop - is a circular mass of cirrus wisps, which is now beginning to whirl in a clockwise motion. Now it resembles a medicine shield. My focus shifts back to the dark center of the shapeless mass, which continues to change, and within a few seconds a face forms in that center. Then it speaks to me. According to Black Elk, you shouldn't reveal your visions, so I'll stop there.
In an instant, the cloud shifts back to shapelessness. The face is gone; the medicine shield has rotated itself out of existence; even the heart can no longer be seen. The whole event took, maybe, half a minute. Nevertheless, I am profoundly comforted and moved. And grinning like an absolute idiot, there on the side of the pool by myself.
After a while, I go to the window between the pool and saloon and buy a plastic cup of Moose Drool - dark and delicious beer, despite the name. While I'm at that end of the pool, I discover the separate hot pool - maybe 10'x30', and hot enough even for me. It's the gay pick-up scene this late afternoon. Ah, gay cowboys...
Leaving that research for another time, I finish my beer and flow back into Ethel to search for a place to spend the night.
Montana hot spring
River bend camp starry sky
Pelicans at dawn
On this visit I saw neither Glacier nor Missoula, but I noticed that drive-thru espresso huts are in all the large towns (and quite a few of the smaller ones). So much for the Cowpoke mystique...though the cowboy poet I met at Norris Hot Springs did point out that cowboy poetry is the one poetry scene in the US in which the poets get paid.
And speaking of hot springs, luxuriating in these luscious waters seems to have been a previously unsuspected goal of my visit to this beautiful and blessed state. I have visited three of the better-known spots, which are in varying stages of development, and had three distinctly different experiences.
Boulder Hot Springs
I had not planned to stop at Boulder Hot Springs - partly because it's listed on maps as Boulder Hot Springs Hotel, or even Boulder HS Resort. It sounded too upscale for Ethel and me. But I'm on my way north to Helena, and since I nearly froze last night, I want to retrieve my sleeping bag from rooftop storage before stopping for the evening. Boulder just sounds like an interesting place to pull over. Then I see the sign for the hot springs. Just a couple of miles - why not? So I drive on.
Much to my surprise - shock! - as I turn up the gravel road, I realize I've been here before. Circa 1981, four of us had been hiking and camping in the Tetons, had swung through Yellowstone, and were on our way home. We'd not carefully planned our first night's stop out of Yellowstone and ended up pitching our tent by the side of the road. We were all crammed into a very small tent in the midst of a windstorm that kept one side (guess whose side) of the ripstop nylon plastered across our faces (okay, mine) for the several hours that we attempted to sleep. When dawn broke, we commenced our journey. As the only one awake enough (and that only because I hadn't slept a wink) I drove while everyone else crashed. Out of the blue, in the middle of nowhere it seemed, I saw a sign: Hot Springs, and an arrow pointing up a dirt road. We found an old hotel - not open, but under renovation - and a swimming pool-sized hot soak in an old tile and brick building. We swam and rejuvenated ourselves. In my memory, it was on the outskirts of Helena, so I hadn't expected to find it outside of Boulder. But here it is - grandly renovated, I must say. National Historic Register.
Of course, I park and go inside. Men and women now have separate pools - suits optional, and showers mandatory. Good - I'm hoping for a shower; bathing is a luxury in Ethel. Primarily, my bathtub is full of things destined for Chicago or to be given away to unidentified recipients. And at this time I've not yet mastered the art of recharging my 12 volt battery with sunlight (that'll happen the next day - thanks, B!), so I have no water pump anyway.
I take my time - showering, washing my hair - and then slip into the pool. For once, I'm grateful to my first husband for his love of nudity. I'd feel like a prude with a suit on.
The two (naked) other women in the pool are weathered Nordic types, like many Montanans - at least in that part of the state. One is a native; the other came out from Pennsylvania in the late seventies and traded in her return plane ticket to stay on. In response to my questions, each tells the other's story. I've already told them about my journey, bereavement, film, etc.
They speak cautiously, with confirming glances to each other. I'm certain they're carefully choosing what information to share with me, and what to leave out. I'm also reasonably sure they're lesbians, so used to being closeted that they can't bring themselves to tell me, despite the subject of my documentary.
I speak privately with one of the women, when the other goes to the cold pool. She wants to invite me to the house of a friend they're staying with (they're visiting from the Missoula area).In the end, it doesn't work out; but she clearly wants to invite me into their circle and is just probably outvoted. I wish they could've been more forthright with me. I give my new friend my card. I wonder if she's reading this....
Norris Hot Springs
Norris Hot Springs - Water of the Gods, the sign says, emblazoned with the business logo: a solid blue dot inside an encircling blue line - a god's eye.
After my blissful and engaging soak at Boulder Hot Springs, I search the Internet for more options. Norris - though not exactly a population center - sounds like a party. And after two weeks of limited interactions, I'm ready for a party; though usually the prospect of a party where I know no one fills me with the utmost dread.
Sunday's entertainment sounds good - eclectic bluegrass music - so I wheel Ethel into the parking lot around 4:00 (music at 7:00), to make myself as comfortable as possible before the crowds arrive. One of my goals for this journey is to help me learn to talk with strangers, to approach them without the fear of rejection that has dogged me all my life. I had an excellent role model for twenty-five years, not that I could hope to approach his level of mastery; but I seek to honor his memory in this way, among others.
The pool is crowded. I take stock; mostly families and groups of friends - gen xers and ys. There's also quite the kitchen going. The hot springs is operated by a trio of young women, all of whom have the harried comportment of those who depend on outsiders for their living. They are clearly at the end of a long weekend.
I claim a chair and sit for a few minutes to take stock. No one pays me any attention. I venture into the pool. It's quite hot by the steps, but there's a sprinkler system that spews a cooling rain over most of the pool area. I circulate, smiling indiscriminately at children and somewhat selectively at their parents. No one seems to mind - or really notice me for that matter. Some of the children smile back. The droplets become annoying, and I seek out a somewhat sheltered corner.
At 6:30 I order a burger - my first real dining out of the trip - and wine from the extensive local list. The burger is grossly underdone (I'll have digestive troubles tomorrow), and the wine comes in a tiny thin tumbler. I dilute the wine with water to make it last. At least it's decent wine.
There's a band shell that looks like a yurt with one side open, and promptly at 7:00 the musicians begin to play. They're really good bluegrass pickers, and I lose myself in the music. Gradually the families are leaving and a different crowd is arriving - tattooed, mohawked, raucous.... My peeps! Only several decades younger. I see one other unattached woman my age. She sits near me but doesn't want to talk.
After a while the evening air starts to cool. I find a place in the pool, nearest to the band. I'm enjoying the music, even if there's no conversation to be had. But shortly a man in his 40s sits down on the ledge near me. I size him up - he seems to want me to. He looks nice enough, and he has a Celtic tattoo on his arm. I ask about the tattoo, and we begin to talk.
He's a musician, he says. Moved to Montana when Boulder, Colorado, his home of many years, got too crowded. Has a wife who's a textile artist and two children. They live, coincidentally, near Boulder hot springs. Curious, I question him about how he earns a living. He's a composer too, he says, so that brings in a bit. Hesitantly, he finally mentions that he's also a poet. I laugh that that can't bring in much money, and that's where we break through.
Yes, he earns money "cowboying", but that just feeds his real passion - cowboy poetry. Proudly, he points out that cowboy poets - the good ones anyway - actually make money off their poetry. He's part of the scene out here. In fact, the man he confidently considers the country's greatest living poet - Paul Zarzyski - has become a friend.
I tell him about my film and journey; and before we go our separate ways, I give him my card. He presents me with his CD - "Not like it's a big seller," he says, with some embarrassment. I know the feeling.
A couple of days later I listen to the CD. It's very good. And we might be distantly related. So, here's a shout out to you John Reedy! Check out John's music - it's real cowboy and real dang good. Hey, write us some haiku, bro!
Chico Hot Springs
The cowboy poet says Chico is where folks from that part of the state (south central - the Bozeman/Livingston pole) hang; so I make the trek out from Livingston with great anticipation. It's thirty-plus miles through the aptly named Paradise Valley, with the mountains of Yellowstone crowning the distance. I arrive late Tuesday afternoon to see an old hotel (Historic Register again - Teddy Roosevelt slept here), rustic yet grand, in the throes of check-in time.
The grounds are inviting; there are rockers on the veranda, WiFi in the lobby, a day spa up on the hill. I peruse the day spa menu - it makes Los Angeles spas seem a bargain. Hmmm...not what I expected. My phone rings - hey, reception! I have a nice long chat with one of my angels, from the City of; and by the time we hang up, rush hour is over in the lobby. I ask the clerk where the regular day soak pool is and learn that entry is through the saloon. Of course...
The saloon looks like part of the original development. It's the kind of place I'd like to drink, but probably not alone, and certainly not when I have to pilot Ethel after dark to a yet-to-be-determined location! "Pay the Bartender" I read on the door. I do, and he buzzes me to the enclosed outdoor area.
I find the dressing room (with shower!) and outfit myself. The pool is as large as a standard swimming pool, and people are treating it like one. When I dip a toe, I learn why: it's a perfect lukewarm temperature, with that luscious heavy quality of mineral water. Ahh... I float for some minutes, just looking up at the expressive clouds gliding by overhead.
The population at the pool seems to be mostly hotel guests. A father and teenage son toss a ball across the pool's width, critiquing their throws en francais. A group of boys tosses girls into the air with much hilarity. There are a few groups of adults absorbed in conversation, and the one single adult has his nose in a book. That's okay - I'm just blissed out on the setting - clouds and hills and sky.
As I sit idly dangling my feet in the water, I'm thinking about how clouds often seem to convey messages to me - omens, portents, that sort of thing - and I wonder if I will be able to read something in these abundant floaters. At that moment, I notice two large clouds, close together, low, and directly above the pool. One of them is actually a close grouping of three. It looks like a heart, broken in three pieces. Ah, my broken heart, I think. The other cloud is a shapeless mass, with one protrusion seeming to poke out at the heart.
As I wonder if there's a shape that I'm missing, the center of the mass begins to evolve. I notice that behind these two large cumulo-nimbus clouds - as though providing a backdrop - is a circular mass of cirrus wisps, which is now beginning to whirl in a clockwise motion. Now it resembles a medicine shield. My focus shifts back to the dark center of the shapeless mass, which continues to change, and within a few seconds a face forms in that center. Then it speaks to me. According to Black Elk, you shouldn't reveal your visions, so I'll stop there.
In an instant, the cloud shifts back to shapelessness. The face is gone; the medicine shield has rotated itself out of existence; even the heart can no longer be seen. The whole event took, maybe, half a minute. Nevertheless, I am profoundly comforted and moved. And grinning like an absolute idiot, there on the side of the pool by myself.
After a while, I go to the window between the pool and saloon and buy a plastic cup of Moose Drool - dark and delicious beer, despite the name. While I'm at that end of the pool, I discover the separate hot pool - maybe 10'x30', and hot enough even for me. It's the gay pick-up scene this late afternoon. Ah, gay cowboys...
Leaving that research for another time, I finish my beer and flow back into Ethel to search for a place to spend the night.
Montana hot spring
River bend camp starry sky
Pelicans at dawn
Monday, August 10, 2009
HAI ABOUT ME
Past bungee tugging
Future hopes dreams fears looming
Now perfect present
Wise ones Do nothing
Tao counsels and I concur
Churning is Nowhere
Bear Killer she said
Giving over the small knife
May I not use it
Wal Mart parking lot
How depressing that must be
Where to sleep tonight
I draw strength from trees
Their size their breath their silence
I give them my love
Idaho is odd
The hills are strangely silent
No place calls my name
Ethel teaches me
Taking the Divide in stride
Equanimity
One by one they fall
Supports of my former self
Pillars canes crutches
Future hopes dreams fears looming
Now perfect present
Wise ones Do nothing
Tao counsels and I concur
Churning is Nowhere
Bear Killer she said
Giving over the small knife
May I not use it
Wal Mart parking lot
How depressing that must be
Where to sleep tonight
I draw strength from trees
Their size their breath their silence
I give them my love
Idaho is odd
The hills are strangely silent
No place calls my name
Ethel teaches me
Taking the Divide in stride
Equanimity
One by one they fall
Supports of my former self
Pillars canes crutches
POTHOLES BLUES
The question is: what happened to the tequila? There was half a bottle left - I'm almost sure of it. I remember thinking 'I'll just put it here for now,' but there's no image accompanying the thought. There's usually an image....
I don't know where the Potholes are anymore - if I ever really knew. We used to just sort of wander around and somehow find our way. Then, sometime over the past twenty years they dammed the river that fed the Potholes, created Potholes Reservoir, and altered the terrain. And then, of course, it has been more than twenty years since I made the drive out from Seattle with my sweetie. And, um, I may have been somewhat altered at the time, myself.... So, where do I go now, for a reunion visit?
It's late afternoon. Ethel and I are cruising along Frenchman Hills Road - I remember that name - through young orchards of apples and cherries, acres of corn, fields of fragrant mint. There used to just be brown fields - some in rangeland, most scrubby wild.
I hope I'm on the road to the Potholes Reservoir. I want to see the assassination, uh, transformation. Then...a sign! Small, government green: Public Hunting and Fishing. By the time it registers, I've whizzed by; but now I'm on alert for another sign. And there it is again - across from an attractive new farmhouse. "Public" it says. "Hunting and Fishing." The gravel road has a familiar...something. "We're doing it," I say aloud.
I've developed the habit of thinking of Ethel and me as a team. And in a matter such as this gravel road, that so intimately involves Ethel, she's naturally represented in my thought process. I do the thinking for Ethel - it's marginally better that way. And she does the heavy lifting - or in this case, bouncing.
So, we're jolting down the extreme washboard gravel road. I'm grateful everything is well bungeed and otherwise secured in Ethel; and I hope, again, that persistent wheel sound isn't serious.
Several miles in, the road ends at a heart-shaped reed-enclosed Pothole. Sinkholes they're called in the Florida Panhandle; cenotes in the Yucatan; places where an underground river surfaces to form a small lake. It's beautiful - not the Heart Lake of memory, but maybe it's best I not revisit that sacred place without the companion of memory.
I get out of Ethel and exhale. Yes, here it is - the deep, encompassing peace of the Potholes. Dusk is coming on, and pothole residents are ready for the sacred daily rituals. Bullfrogs warm up their otherworldly calls. Swallows swoop and dive over the water. The last rays of sun warm my soul.
Then I notice a prickle on my arm. Oops - a mosquito. Of course... Time to reenter Ethel, my fortress - capably re-screened by my friend D.
Inside, I mix a margarita, with the good tequila. This perfect evening reunion with the Potholes calls for a celebratory drink. I don't feel like cooking, so I get out some fruit, crackers, jerky - a lovely backcountry meal.
I'm deep in a reverie of discovering the Potholes of eastern Washington with my then-new love. How we searched in vain for a camping place, until we turned at the evening star down a dusty road and came, unsuspecting, to beautiful Heart Lake, basalt cliffs rising from the clean, cold water. How we returned perhaps a dozen times before we left Washington for Southern California, brought our friends, our infant daughter, explored the interlinking pools, listened to the coyotes sing...
Speaking of singing, I'm roused from my reverie by a natural sound - not exactly singing, more of a whine. I shift my focus from the distant sunset to the freshly screened window by the table, at which I sit. The screen is covered - black! - with mosquitoes, whining to get in, like petulant children locked outside in the gathering darkness. (That's just a guess, dear reader - please don't report me!)
The whining actually seems to be in stereo, so I look across to the couch (the living room), where there's another big window, pulled open to admit the faint evening breezes. OMG, it's COVERED too! Quickly, I slam the windows closed, trapping dozens of the little beasts between glass and screen. I'll deal with those in a moment. There are other windows and vents, including the little unscreened window vents in the cab....
I spend a few minutes shutting Ethel down tight and killing the mosquitoes trapped between window and screen. There...! Oh, and it seems a few have gotten inside. Dang, they're LARGE!
I've lived in South Florida, on the edge of the Everglades; and I've visited Maine's North Woods in summer - both places rightly famed for their voracious blood suckers -but I've never seen mosquitoes this big. Or this desperate... Now they're flinging themselves against the window glass. They know I'm in here, and they want a piece of me! HA! I have screens.
Well, quite a few do seem to have gotten in somehow. There are cracks around the vent screens, though the vents are tightened down now. That's okay. I know how to kill mosquitoes: you wait until you feel them break the skin, then very quickly and carefully you slap. You just have to tune in to that first itch. Slap. Ha! Slap.
Slap, slap, slap. Slap! Slap! SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP!!!
About the time I cross the half-century mark of dead mosquitoes, I realize I'm in trouble. Outside, there's a thick, and thickening, haze of swarming black buzzers; inside, it's getting dark and I'm slapping every few seconds. No way I can sleep tonight; I'll get out while I can. It's good to be decisive.
As I'm throwing things into secure spots - never mind where they're supposed to be stowed - the phone rings. I can't believe I've got reception out here! It's D, screener extraordinaire. I thank him for the fresh screens. I'm stashing the tequila, the jerky, the fruit.... It's dark now.
Still on the phone, I crank up Ethel. Ethel likes to warm up for a while before she'll move. Right now it feels like an interminable while. Finally, we start jolting back up the road.
I'm unable to see all the holes now, swaying back and forth, jouncing up and down on the washboard, grateful to have my wireless lifeline to distract me as I crawl along. Because I don't have a Bluetooth setup for the phone, I'm holding it with one hand and the wheel with the other. But the mosquitoes just keep on attacking, so I'm also still slapping away as I go down the road. Maybe it's because of that - admittedly stiff - margarita that my memory is fuzzy; but I'm not at all sure now just HOW I was slapping, driving, and holding the phone, all at once.
My original plan was to drive a mile or so up the road and pull off; but as I drive and talk and slap, I reach Frenchman Hills Road and turn towards the Reservoir. Slap. Drive. Talk. Slap...
Darkness envelops me, and I fall into a rhythm. Despite the welts swelling on my feet, my legs, my arms, my neck and face, I'm enjoying the feeling of barreling down the (now paved) deserted road in the dark, talking and driving and slapping.
Somewhere past the Reservoir, I lose my phone connection in the hills. Probably for the best, as I''m moving faster now - drive, slap, slap, slap.
I end up driving for almost an hour, into a small town, where I park next to a church (for protection from the blood suckers?) and stay up well past midnight, until the relentless whining finally stops. I've killed over a hundred mosquitoes and have perhaps half that many itchy welts. The next morning I see that I'm smeared in blood as well - my own, of course. I realize that the poor insects were just trying to propagate. I was probably the first mammal they'd had access to all season.
Additionally, I realize now that, in my inexperienced haste, I left open the vents at my feet on either side of Ethel's cab. As I beat my hasty retreat, I sucked in additional mosquitoes while I drove!
I did learn a couple of vital lessons - paid for in blood. Those unscreened vents are always the first thing I lock down in the evening now; and I've bought both bug repellent (can't believe I didn't have THAT with me!) and mosquito netting - just in case. Now, if only I could find that tequila...it's been almost a month, and Ethel's just not that large!
I don't know where the Potholes are anymore - if I ever really knew. We used to just sort of wander around and somehow find our way. Then, sometime over the past twenty years they dammed the river that fed the Potholes, created Potholes Reservoir, and altered the terrain. And then, of course, it has been more than twenty years since I made the drive out from Seattle with my sweetie. And, um, I may have been somewhat altered at the time, myself.... So, where do I go now, for a reunion visit?
It's late afternoon. Ethel and I are cruising along Frenchman Hills Road - I remember that name - through young orchards of apples and cherries, acres of corn, fields of fragrant mint. There used to just be brown fields - some in rangeland, most scrubby wild.
I hope I'm on the road to the Potholes Reservoir. I want to see the assassination, uh, transformation. Then...a sign! Small, government green: Public Hunting and Fishing. By the time it registers, I've whizzed by; but now I'm on alert for another sign. And there it is again - across from an attractive new farmhouse. "Public" it says. "Hunting and Fishing." The gravel road has a familiar...something. "We're doing it," I say aloud.
I've developed the habit of thinking of Ethel and me as a team. And in a matter such as this gravel road, that so intimately involves Ethel, she's naturally represented in my thought process. I do the thinking for Ethel - it's marginally better that way. And she does the heavy lifting - or in this case, bouncing.
So, we're jolting down the extreme washboard gravel road. I'm grateful everything is well bungeed and otherwise secured in Ethel; and I hope, again, that persistent wheel sound isn't serious.
Several miles in, the road ends at a heart-shaped reed-enclosed Pothole. Sinkholes they're called in the Florida Panhandle; cenotes in the Yucatan; places where an underground river surfaces to form a small lake. It's beautiful - not the Heart Lake of memory, but maybe it's best I not revisit that sacred place without the companion of memory.
I get out of Ethel and exhale. Yes, here it is - the deep, encompassing peace of the Potholes. Dusk is coming on, and pothole residents are ready for the sacred daily rituals. Bullfrogs warm up their otherworldly calls. Swallows swoop and dive over the water. The last rays of sun warm my soul.
Then I notice a prickle on my arm. Oops - a mosquito. Of course... Time to reenter Ethel, my fortress - capably re-screened by my friend D.
Inside, I mix a margarita, with the good tequila. This perfect evening reunion with the Potholes calls for a celebratory drink. I don't feel like cooking, so I get out some fruit, crackers, jerky - a lovely backcountry meal.
I'm deep in a reverie of discovering the Potholes of eastern Washington with my then-new love. How we searched in vain for a camping place, until we turned at the evening star down a dusty road and came, unsuspecting, to beautiful Heart Lake, basalt cliffs rising from the clean, cold water. How we returned perhaps a dozen times before we left Washington for Southern California, brought our friends, our infant daughter, explored the interlinking pools, listened to the coyotes sing...
Speaking of singing, I'm roused from my reverie by a natural sound - not exactly singing, more of a whine. I shift my focus from the distant sunset to the freshly screened window by the table, at which I sit. The screen is covered - black! - with mosquitoes, whining to get in, like petulant children locked outside in the gathering darkness. (That's just a guess, dear reader - please don't report me!)
The whining actually seems to be in stereo, so I look across to the couch (the living room), where there's another big window, pulled open to admit the faint evening breezes. OMG, it's COVERED too! Quickly, I slam the windows closed, trapping dozens of the little beasts between glass and screen. I'll deal with those in a moment. There are other windows and vents, including the little unscreened window vents in the cab....
I spend a few minutes shutting Ethel down tight and killing the mosquitoes trapped between window and screen. There...! Oh, and it seems a few have gotten inside. Dang, they're LARGE!
I've lived in South Florida, on the edge of the Everglades; and I've visited Maine's North Woods in summer - both places rightly famed for their voracious blood suckers -but I've never seen mosquitoes this big. Or this desperate... Now they're flinging themselves against the window glass. They know I'm in here, and they want a piece of me! HA! I have screens.
Well, quite a few do seem to have gotten in somehow. There are cracks around the vent screens, though the vents are tightened down now. That's okay. I know how to kill mosquitoes: you wait until you feel them break the skin, then very quickly and carefully you slap. You just have to tune in to that first itch. Slap. Ha! Slap.
Slap, slap, slap. Slap! Slap! SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP!!!
About the time I cross the half-century mark of dead mosquitoes, I realize I'm in trouble. Outside, there's a thick, and thickening, haze of swarming black buzzers; inside, it's getting dark and I'm slapping every few seconds. No way I can sleep tonight; I'll get out while I can. It's good to be decisive.
As I'm throwing things into secure spots - never mind where they're supposed to be stowed - the phone rings. I can't believe I've got reception out here! It's D, screener extraordinaire. I thank him for the fresh screens. I'm stashing the tequila, the jerky, the fruit.... It's dark now.
Still on the phone, I crank up Ethel. Ethel likes to warm up for a while before she'll move. Right now it feels like an interminable while. Finally, we start jolting back up the road.
I'm unable to see all the holes now, swaying back and forth, jouncing up and down on the washboard, grateful to have my wireless lifeline to distract me as I crawl along. Because I don't have a Bluetooth setup for the phone, I'm holding it with one hand and the wheel with the other. But the mosquitoes just keep on attacking, so I'm also still slapping away as I go down the road. Maybe it's because of that - admittedly stiff - margarita that my memory is fuzzy; but I'm not at all sure now just HOW I was slapping, driving, and holding the phone, all at once.
My original plan was to drive a mile or so up the road and pull off; but as I drive and talk and slap, I reach Frenchman Hills Road and turn towards the Reservoir. Slap. Drive. Talk. Slap...
Darkness envelops me, and I fall into a rhythm. Despite the welts swelling on my feet, my legs, my arms, my neck and face, I'm enjoying the feeling of barreling down the (now paved) deserted road in the dark, talking and driving and slapping.
Somewhere past the Reservoir, I lose my phone connection in the hills. Probably for the best, as I''m moving faster now - drive, slap, slap, slap.
I end up driving for almost an hour, into a small town, where I park next to a church (for protection from the blood suckers?) and stay up well past midnight, until the relentless whining finally stops. I've killed over a hundred mosquitoes and have perhaps half that many itchy welts. The next morning I see that I'm smeared in blood as well - my own, of course. I realize that the poor insects were just trying to propagate. I was probably the first mammal they'd had access to all season.
Additionally, I realize now that, in my inexperienced haste, I left open the vents at my feet on either side of Ethel's cab. As I beat my hasty retreat, I sucked in additional mosquitoes while I drove!
I did learn a couple of vital lessons - paid for in blood. Those unscreened vents are always the first thing I lock down in the evening now; and I've bought both bug repellent (can't believe I didn't have THAT with me!) and mosquito netting - just in case. Now, if only I could find that tequila...it's been almost a month, and Ethel's just not that large!
Haiku cycles
LESSONS OF THE ROAD
Lesson number one
Hurry is for city folk
I enjoy the view
Lesson number two
Scenery is dangerous
Eyes on the road yo
Lesson number three
Stay away from sandy roads
Camp on solid ground
STORM CYCLE
Yellowstone River
Savannah canyons badlands
Ethel's eastern trail
Stolen land not mine
Prairie still speaks in cloud sign
Falling on deaf eyes
Gay grassland puff crowned
Challengers mass to the west
Light spears stab the plain
Golden hills blanch gray
Grass and livestock bow meek heads
Mordor approaches
Pungent wet asphalt
We're at sixty losing ground
Something ate the sun
At dusk fat drops splat
Wind howls and Ethel struggles
But skies north are pink
Rain spent clouds retreat
Rose skies promise stars later
I camp and heat soup
Lesson number one
Hurry is for city folk
I enjoy the view
Lesson number two
Scenery is dangerous
Eyes on the road yo
Lesson number three
Stay away from sandy roads
Camp on solid ground
STORM CYCLE
Yellowstone River
Savannah canyons badlands
Ethel's eastern trail
Stolen land not mine
Prairie still speaks in cloud sign
Falling on deaf eyes
Gay grassland puff crowned
Challengers mass to the west
Light spears stab the plain
Golden hills blanch gray
Grass and livestock bow meek heads
Mordor approaches
Pungent wet asphalt
We're at sixty losing ground
Something ate the sun
At dusk fat drops splat
Wind howls and Ethel struggles
But skies north are pink
Rain spent clouds retreat
Rose skies promise stars later
I camp and heat soup
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