Because I Can...

"Now, Mrs. Johnson, this is Ralph from triple A, I was just at your place. You didn't believe me when I told you I was from triple A, so I came here and had Julie from the grocery store call you. She knows me and she told you that I was who I said I was. So, Mrs. Johnson, if you want me to jump start your car, you can't pull that shotgun on me like you did a while back..."
This was the conversation we heard at the little store in Swenson, Oregon, when we stopped biking long enough to get a drink and get out of the sun. A guy who looked like Bluto, the lumberjack axe murderer was talking on his cell phone sitting in his red pick up truck. It was surreal enough to make all five of us forget about the heat and the sore butts and the miles and start laughing.
Leo and I were on our annual biking trip. This year we chose to join Liam, California Chris, San Antonio Chris, Lance and Chuck, guys we had met on last year's tour in the Canadian Rockies, and cycle part of the Oregon coast. Chris' wife Jan would join us also. Jan and Chris would bike for a few days then go on to Crater Lake. Chuck would return to Eugene after a couple of days. Liam and Lance would bike to San Fransisco while Chris would go all the way to the Mexicn border. Even though we were only going for ten days, I had been looking forward to this trip, another one, like the Hog Loppet last February, to again say farewell to the Pacific Northwest before moving back to Chicago.
Eighteen years ago we had cycled almost the same route. This time we just pedaled from our little Seattle house on Bagley Avenue. And this time we were 18 years older. I knew it would be easier biking than in the mountains, but I remembered some of the hills that we would be climbing. Of course back then I was a novice at bike touring. Now I was an old pro, complete with old knees and an old back. In fact I had been a little worried about my left knee, the one I hurt in a step aerobics class a few months back that got worse when I kept lifting one of the grandkids. But my body held out. Maybe I was in better shape than in 1989.
As it turned out, the hills weren't the biggest challenge. It was the heat, 104 degrees and we were biking in it, sweating as we tried to pedal up a hill with a fully loaded bike carrying tent, sleeping bag, stove, cook kit and food. Chris got sick, I got dizzy and Leo got pissy. It was so hot we couldn't even pedal up one of the hills, we just pushed our bikes, which was even harder.
After record-setting temperatures, the weather became more bike friendly as we left Washington, pedaling over a bridge onto Puget Island in the middle of the Columbia River. We pitched out tents in Nadine and Paul's backyard. These lovely friends of Lance's not only opened up their yard but their kitchen. The next morning after stowing away our tent and sleeping bags in our panniers, we found the patio table set with fresh raspberries, watermelon, coffee, and juice. "And now, how about some hot breakfast?" called Nadine from the kitchen. And we followed her into the dining room for a biker's breakfast of sausages, scrambled eggs, toast and more coffee. By the time I rolled my bike onto the little car ferry that took us to Oregon I was full of fuel and ready to head for the coast.
Finally, after leaving Astoria and Fort Stevens State Park, we had views of the Pacific Ocean! "I'm still amazed that some guy almost a hundred years ago had the vision to preserve this coast line for the public and not sell out to the developers," I said, one morning as we stopped at a viewpoint to watch surfers far below us in their wetsuits waiting for just the right wave.
"Here's who to thank," Leo said, pointing to a rock with a plaque on it.
His name was Oswald West, and he was Oregon's governor not so long ago. Thank you, Oswald West! Oregon's coast was precious. But some of it's coastal towns weren't as pristine, in fact some had fallen on hard times. The timber industry had waxed and waned, and some of the towns had turned to tourism, their over-flowing hanging flower baskets lining streets with stores that sold knick-knack, antique, Christmasy, froo-froo stuff. These other towns showed signs of wear and tear, vandalized public bathrooms, old clunkers for cars, and neglected parks and campgrounds.
"Which is easier, walking like me or riding a bike like you two?" asked a guy named Frank. He was carrying a huge pack on his back, and like us, deciding to take a break from his journey at the entrance to a general store. He told us his sleeping bag had been stolen at the mission where he had stayed a few nights before. He had picked up an Army-requisitioned -40 degrees bag at a yard sale the previous day for ten bucks. "Isn't it really heavy though?" I asked him, adding that I thought it was easier to carry the weight while riding a bike. He told us that he was headed to Bellingham to the job waiting for him at the Lighthouse Mission. "I'm a Christian and I try to help others."
We saw quite a few guys on the road like that, carrying their belongings going who-knew-where. One guy asked Leo for a handout. "I'm hungry." Leo gave him five bucks. At the A&W where we said goodbye to our fellow bikers, the guy walked in and bought something to eat. Leo said it made him feel good that he had given him the money.
We woke up on the last biking day of the trip to rain. The tent was soaked and our picnic table and chairs were wet. We found a table and umbrella near the laundry room and while Leo made coffee, I tried drying the tent in the dryer. That was where I met Caroline. She was sixty-five and in that hour it took to do the tent, I found out her story. It was a full life: raising three kids, nursing a sick husband who eventually died, meeting a man ten years her junior, moving with him to Alaska for four years with the consent of her adult children and grandkids, getting her first bike at fifty years old, being the assistant director of a summer camp for special ed kids, and now living in a trailer and traveling around with her second husband while he worked. I felt privileged to hear her story. It was the ups and downs of a life being shared with me. Just like the ups and downs of a road, of a bike trip, of day to day experiences. I also knew how fortunate I was to be able to do this physical challenge. I had been biking for ten straight days, 525 miles. My body had been pushed to the limit.
When Leo and I got into the motel room in Eugene, unpacked and made the family calls, our bodies slowly began to unwind. The bed's mattress enveloped Leo as he lay talking to his son, the packs, the tent, the plastic bags, the remains of the trip lay all around. It wasn't the longest trip we'd ever taken nor the hardest, but it was the most recent one. Someone asked me once, "Why do you like to do this type of travel?" I'd answered "Because it slows down time." It was true. It seemed like we had been on the road for two months. But I have another answer now. "Because I can."

Biker Mom

The place where I grew up was a fairly large small town. It was big enough to have a Northside and a Southside, three high schools, two hospitals, and two or three drive-in movies. But it was small enough that, like the weather, everybody's business was a favorite topic of discussion.
There were also lots of churches. The ones downtown were big and imposing with four sets of double doors to greet you at the entrances, and large sanctuaries warmed by filtered light beckoning you inside. And though the hallways were rather dreary and the ceilings so high they disappeared into dark shadows, they were friendly places on Sunday mornings because almost everyone knew everybody's name.
My scant memories of our church would fill only a small collection plate. I sang in the children's choir until it wasn't cool to do so, I went to a few youth group meetings, and about the time I was twelve or thirteen I began attending classes taught by our minister preparing us for something called "baptism." I distinctly remember following the minister into the darkened sanctuary with five or six other kids and politely listening to him explain the symbols hidden like Easter eggs in the ceiling plaster, in the wall hangings and even in designs on the carpet.
"And so, when you enter church, before the organist begins to play, take time to consider these symbols and what they mean," he said quietly, as if we had just joined an exclusive club, and he'd shared the secrets behind the password.
I went home thinking about what he said, and I was puzzled. I'd never seen the adults praying or quietly contemplating anything before church began. Most grown-ups
at our church occupied the time before the organist's crescendos by whispering hellos to each other. There were also compliments on new outfits, acknowledgements of awards won by a son or daughter, and questions about the previous day's golf game. Sometimes, slipped in between these warm and gracious exchanges, there were other whispered offerings, usually accompanied by a raised eyebrow, about the hat that no-one-in-their-right-mind-should-wear, the couple recently divorced, the kid who got kicked off the football team for drinking, or a girl who had dropped out of school because she was...you know.... No, no one who sat around me contemplated the meaning of the lily design in the rug or the crown on the plastered pillar near the altar. Before the minister walked down the aisle to raise his arms towards heaven signaling us all to stand and sing the invitation to worship, the weekly news had to be disseminated.
Each Sunday morning, while gossip and rumors buzzed above our heads in that hallowed space, one family sat silently and apart from the rest. They arrived early and, if my memory serves me right, sat in the third pew on the main floor. Even the kids seem to be pondering the meaning of that large cream-colored room, and the two-paged Sunday morning's agenda. I remember them distinctly because one time in the unday morning buzz I'd heard that they'd arrived on a motorcycle. Motorcycle? They must be very poor, I'd deduced. While the dad always drove, the mother and kids piled into a side car, whatever that was. This deemed them a little weird. And, according to that buzz, the mother didn't shave her legs. Maybe, I thought, she couldn't afford a Lady Schick, like my mother's which was kept under the bathroom sink. The pink one that I wasn't allowed to use as yet.
I sure felt sorry for those kids to have parents that stood out and were different from the rest. I was glad that my family was fairly normal. My mother was very pretty, and she always dressed sharp. I was proud of her except when she talked too loud to her friends before church. Of course Dad had stopped coming to church with us when the grocery store he managed began staying open on Sundays, so he couldn't embarrass me. That didn't come until a few years later, when he'd come home from work after having a few too many beers. But the kids in that motorcycle family never seemed self conscious, even if they were too poor to have a car.
I recently learned that the mother, the one who never shaved her legs, had died. She was 90 years old. I also learned that they weren't poor; the dad, who had died ten years before, had owned a small Harley Davidson store in my hometown. Though not rich, they lived comfortably although they were years before their time. I wished the Dad could see the size and popularity of a Harley store these days.
And I've thought alot about their oldest kid, the one who was in my high school class, who went to Viet Nam and got shot in the face. At a class reunion a few years ago, everyone was talking about him, saying how cool he was. At first, I thought it was because of his injury and the fact that he had seen a lot of action in Nam. But after talking to him for a short time I realized it wasn't that. He possessed a calmness, an authenticity that people noticed. He still flew helicopters, for a hospital critical care unit. He loved sailing, and when describing the feel of the boat in full sail as it raced over water, his voice got soft and wavy.
His mother's obituary said that she'd never stopped questioning theology. It said that she went to that church faithfully every Sunday yet was always checking out books from the church library, especially ones on the topic of the sermon.
I've been wondering what it was she found in those books that gave her enough answers to come back each Sunday. I never found any answers, and once I'd started questioning, I just stopped going.

Whose Schematic?

Mother's subtle reminder,
"Listen to that voice inside,"
Not just empty words passed
Down through generatons.

To quote a Gaelic theologian,
"An unseen life that dreams us"
Ensures the litte voice
Is more than just our own.

It is Providence, "our life's companion,"
We may choose to bring along
To find our true path
And to create order out of chaos.

The ingredient missing is trust.
Trust in that voice.
Trust the music you make
Is as valid as the music you hear.

I've always known this,
Deep inside, but not til
I read words black on white
Did it surface as tangible.

To admit the tangible also is theologic,
The hardest jump of all,
But to practice the preached,
I must trust that leap...of faith.

Family Fun

Who’s big idea was this anyway? How can eight adults and four babies fit into a three-bedroom cottage? The location, Narragansett, Rhode Island, may have been perfect for a first annual Memorial Day Family Weekend, but the size was a challenge. Were we motivated enough, flexible and laid back enough, compassionate enough to deal with midnight crying, diaper disposing, and overlapping parenting modes? I guess so, cause we did it.
First of the all the cottage had only one bathroom. “Be gentle on the septic tank,” requested Leah, the person who was renting the place through craigslist.com. Fortunately everyone cooperated by following our little post’em notes on the bathroom wall above toilet and above the sink… “don’t flush if it’s yellow.”t
Secondly, the sleeping arrangement had to be creative. The grandparents volunteered to sacrifice beds for sleeping bags. Our tent, the cottage annex, was set up in the back yard and although we could still hear babies stirring in the middle of the night, a few pieces of Kleenex strategically placed in ears muffled most sounds. The two couples with one child got a bedroom each with room for the Pack and Plays, and the couple with two babies got the smaller bedroom just for the kids. The plan was to have their parents sleep on the sofa bed. But SURPRISE, the sofa bed was sans bed! So the poor parents had to sleep on a couch and a single fold out bed in the living room. After that they sort of played musical beds.
Scheduling naptimes was serendipitous. One thing the babies all had in common was that they were early risers. So by nine o’clock ten month-old Meredith was ready for her nap. Then a little later eight month-old Noa was ready for her morning nap. Rami , 2, and Pablo, 1 1/2, took their naps in the afternoon but sometimes had to be coaxed or taken on walks to the playground before they’d close their little eyes. Meredith and Noa took second naps that would sometime last until five o’clock…or not. There was no guarantee.
Bedtime wasn’t too bad because lots of fresh air puts everyone to sleep. Just ask the grandparents. Unfortunately, little Noa started getting sick the second day and she was just plain uncomfortable when lying down. After all the kids finally went to sleep, the adults could party. This usually lasted about thirty minutes. Except for the first night when we stayed up past midnight because of late arrivals from the New Hampshire and New York groups, we started yawning around ten pm. We did manage to play seven rounds of one game of dominoes the last night.
The other popular game this weekend besides bubble blowing, ball throwing, hammock swinging and diaper changing was bocci ball. Dan and Erica brought their set and almost everyone got into a game. If you’ve played bocci ball you know that you are throwing very hard softball-sized balls. This meant that all toddlers had to be constantly distracted and babies were mostly napping or in their strollers. I looked at Alyson who was smiling hugely. “You’ve always craved this, haven’t you?” I asked her, staring at her goofy grin. “Yeah, just being in the back yard playing games , drinking a beer while the barbeque is smokin’ away is my idea of a great time,” she answered.
And the Weber grill was constantly going. Leo fixed brats the first night. Dan, Nir and Whitey coordinated the cooking of barbequed chicken and veggie kabobs the second night. They had so much chicken that third night we reheated it and fixed potato packets to grill. Our last night Leo did an amazing grill job on a leg of lamb, with a couple of lamb chops thrown in for good measure and another chicken breast for an early dinner before Dan and Erica had to leave for Concord. Our only food disappointment was the take-out from the famous Iggy’s. The chowder was so-so, the clams a little rubbery, and the French fries were dull. Am I a Pacific Northwest Chowder snob now? But the fried fish was great and something called a Quahog (sort of a poor man’s stuffed Geoduk, a large Seattle clam) had mixed reviews. At $2.25 I thought it was the best thing we ordered.
The other weekend game was the “Isn’t it Great!” contest. Everyone made predictions how many times we would hear this famous Leo phrase. Of course, once people entered the contest, they tried to throw it by spouting the phrase enough times to get to their numbers . Synonyms for “great” didn’t count so we heard a lot of “isn’t this special,” “this is super,” “awesome,” “wow, that was a unbelievable poop!”. (The later comment was heard coming from a diaper-changing parent.) In the end, Nir won with Erica coming in a close second. We tried to give bags of trash as the first prize, since there was no trash service, but the winner declined. The runner up got empty beer bottles and cans to take home to recycle.
Was there anything about the first annual family Memorial Day weekend that we would change? Well first of all, everyone voted that there would definitely be a second annual weekend but with some differences. The biggest change would be a larger place with two bathrooms. Fortunately for us this year, four of the twelve people were in diapers!

Chicago and Obama

Now that we are back in Chicago, I am reconnecting with the familiar and the unfamiliar. That's why I ride my bike with Leo and his buddy Jerry to Manny's Deli on some Saturdays, and to the Wishbone Restaurant for the "early bird special" on Wednesday mornings before Jerry goes to work. I can pedal to the health club to workout and swim and to the lakefront for some scenery. That's why I tested the"Chicago's Best Hot Wings" at a third Clark Street bar, which wasn't as good as the ones I tasted last week. It's why I'll go to Truman Community college to reconnect with a friend and hopefully hear about a part time teaching job for next fall, and to Lincoln Park Zoo to see about volunteering there again.
In the four years we've been gone from Chicago there have been lots of changes. Besides more cars in the street and the apparent gentrification of more neighborhoods, another change has been the election to the U.S. Senate by a Illinois State legislator, Barak Obama. Ever since I heard his speech in 2004 at the Democratic National Convention, I've been intrigued by this politician. There was something different in his vernacular. He used words like "hope" and "unity" and "sharing." These sixties-styled words have been out of favor, but he wasn't afraid to use them.
I found his first book, "Dreams from My Father" in a used book store,brought it home and finished it in three days. I realized that despite the outcome of his ambition to run for president, he's going to be part of America's future, part of the change that has to take place in order for this country to return to its meaningful place in the world.
When I received an email about an Obama Kickoff Event, I didn't hesitate to look for a gathering near our apartment on the north side. Who was supporting this man who had decided to run for President? It was time for me to do some fact finding.
The party was given by two women in their early twenties, both just out of college. Self confident and obviously from wealthy parents, they lived in a two bedroom apartment in a high rise way too expensive for most first-year teachers. They were savy though about political issues. The parents who lived in a north shore suburb provided the food and drink. A sister had flown in just for the event from her pricey east coast university. Many people knew each other.
I had grease on my hands from locking up my bike. After I came back to the living room from washing up I got to meet a few more new people . Everyone was white, employed in professional jobs (except for two young guys who had just come from an all night party), and well traveled. Instead of talk about politics, I listened to a conversation about someone's trip to Australia and another couple's recent honeymoon in South Africa.
This was the grassroots? It felt more like I was at a charity function where rich people offer shrimp and lobster newburg to prospective donors for a "Save the Whale" campaign. But no one asked for a donation. I was prepared to give and had brought a blank check just in case.
After Obama concluded his live internet talk to a group in Iowa, I talked to a Spanish American woman who had walked in late bringing her Spanish-speaking mother. She expressed the same enthusiasm for the man that I'd felt the first time I heard him. She also felt the same urgency to make a change, to turn our society away from the greed and meanness that had overtaken it. At last, someone I could connect with.
As I thanked my hostess I paused to talk with the campaign worker who was there and happened to also be a schoolmate of the young teacher. She had previously worked in D.C. for the senator. She was young, passionate, and full of energy. She gushed on about her boss and his wife, Michelle. I found myself taking her email address and promising to look into volunteering in her office. I liked her youthful exhuberance. Maybe I should let caution and patience go and just jump in feet first.

What's a Hog Loppet?

“This will be our ‘swan song’,” I said to Leo as he completed the entry form downloaded from the internet. What a more fitting way of saying good bye to the Pacific Northwest, I thought, than to join 500 other cross-country skiers and traverse the trails in Washington’s Cascade Mountains. Although we had learned cross-country skiing years ago in Chicago, we had taken the Mountaineers Nordic ski course in 2003 when we first moved to Seattle. We were now labeled intermediate skiers, but little did I know that “swan song” might have been a prophetic choice of words.
We were returning to Chicago, to be closer to the family, especially the new generation that had come onto the scene in the previous two years. We were excited about our new adventure but there was a sadness about leaving. Besides those close and precious friendships that had grown and developed in the past four years, I was going to miss the mountains. It was comforting living in a beautiful city like Seattle with mountain ranges to the east and west and Mount Ranier and Mount Baker to the south and north respectively. I figured, what better why to say goodbye than to take our acquired skills and spend the day skiing in the mountains?
As usual I hadn’t fully read the details of the day’s events until sending in our check registering us for the big event that was sponsored by the Leavenworth Winter Activities Club. I was much more interested in figuring out the meaning of the name, Hog Loppet.
“We saw the word ‘loppet’ when we were skiing in Lake Louise,” said Alice, my good friend who had invited us to join her and her husband, Chuck, a certifiable mountaineer leader, on the full day ski trip. They had been wanting to do this event for many years. “I think it just means a long cross-country ski experience.”
Long is right; the brochure informed us that the route was 30 kilometers long. “But remember, a lot of that is downhill,” said Chuck after I began to question the soundness of signing up for the trip. In total denial, I started picturing myself on skis gracefully gliding down to the finish line. But what about the “hog” part (with two dots over the ‘o’)?
“There’ll probably a pig roast at the top,” Leo offered, who, besides always thinking of food, also seemed to be in denial about the skill level required to accomplish this feat. Well, at least the brochure said there would be “aid stations” with snacks and water. Alice was hoping for chocolate, I was hoping for hot chili while wondering if “aid” referred to first aid.
About a week before we traveled to Leavenworth I re-read the brochure (okay, I admit it, I don’t read carefully) about taking a chairlift to the beginning of the course. Chairlift? Not being a downhill skier, I couldn’t quite picture why we would need to do that.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have no trouble,” said Carol, a woman we met while practicing our skills at Cabin Creek, our favorite spot with lots of ups and downs about an hour and a half from home. “There’s a couple of steep parts at the beginning, but mainly you’re on a road with a gentle down. I did it last year and had a ball.” She was about my age and had just skied around the loop we’d finished in about an hour. “Let’s see, that’s about four miles, so it should take me about five hours to complete…,” she said to us, talking about the length of the course. I’m into endurance, and I began feeling confident I could complete the route…maybe not in five hours though.
Three days later, on a practice trip with Alice and Chuck, I lost the little bit of confidence I had. I’d had full control of my skis at Cabin Creek, but coming down the forest road we had just skied up for four miles my skis had minds of their own, and I kept falling. And falling isn’t the worst part, it’s the getting up that zaps your energy. I wondered if I would have enough energy left to complete a 20 mile course if I was going to be falling all the time.
The next day I asked my next door neighbor, a young athletic woman, for some advice.
“Molly, I know you’ve skied all over these mountains, and I know you’re good. Can you tell me the secret of how not to fall when you’re whizzing down?”
“Do you have good skis?” she asked.
“Yeah, we’ve got metal-edged, which I know will help, but I’m still worried…” I began.
“Look, Sue, trust your skis; let them do the work. Oh, and when I’m going down the hill I just giggle to stay relaxed. If you tense up, it doesn’t work.”
Sounded like sage advice, so I made a mental note of it and went inside the house and began packing.
At 6 a.m. that Saturday my confidence was still at an all time low as we drove with Alice and Chuck to the Convention Center to catch the bus. “Trust your skis, trust your skis” ran through my head as we stowed our skis and poles in the luggage area and climbed aboard the bus. Fifteen minutes later we were climbing a mountain in a heavy snow. “Isn’t this beautiful,” I said to Leo as the bus continued to climb, smiling and trying to act calm. I had just heard the guy behind me describe the course. “So after you take the second chair lift…” Second chair lift? “you have a really steep down. Last year I tried my skate skis and it was miserable…then you’re in two deep bowls and you can really get your speed up…” What had we gotten ourselves into?
But after the bus arrived at the lodge there was no time at all to think. We had to register, pick up our numbers which we pinned to our packs, put on our skis, and somehow hop on the first of two chair lifts. It was during the ride on that second chair lift that I realized we were really headed to the top. The wind began to blow, the snow was falling sideways, I wished I had ski goggles like Alice and Chuck, and I dropped my plastic pad that we used to sit in the snow when we stopped for lunch.
“Oh well,” I said, spying the pad far below in the snow, “at least I didn’t drop my poles!”
We somehow made it off the chair lift by holding our packs in one hand and our poles in another. Trust your skis, trust you skis, trust…oh my god look at that down hill! I stopped, tried to keep my mind totally blank, put on my pack, put a pole in each hand and headed down. Whew! I trusted those skis, and they did the job. I started giggling hysterically. Funny, it was really cold, but fear and a rapidly beating heart were keeping me warm.
Leo, on the other hand, had fallen. But I wasn’t going to worry about him. I knew he was strong and focused and a good skier. Trusting Leo and his ability was a lot easier than trusting the skis strapped to my feet. I continued skiing down following Chuck’s lead. Volunteers were placed along the course to show us the way. I fell a few times, but soon realized that my skis were the right ones for the course and the new snow, all 9 inches of it, was slowing me down. Two and a half hours after we began skiing we came to the aid station. Water, oranges, red licorice and cookies replenished the body and a fire pit warmed the hands.
We had five and a half more hours of skiing. We did it just like we do everything. One ski in front of another on the ups, then letting the skis do the work on the downs. At the second aid station we got hot chocolate and some hot noodles. We had already eaten our PB and Js. We were tired but when we heard we had eight miles to go, we could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn’t believe it when we skied the final few feet. I was 441st out of 480 skiers. The biggest surprise came after I took off my skis and walked to the bus. On the other side of the road I saw a sign that read, “Blewett Pass 4100 feet.” We had skied DOWN to the TOP of a pass!
“So did you have fun?” the volunteer at the finish line had asked.
“It was great,” I’d replied. But I’ve heard this question before. We don’t really have fun when we take on these adventures. We accomplish something. It’s satisfying only when it’s over, and when you’re having a beer. “We did it,” we said, clinking our beer bottles at the Mexican food restaurant that night.
Leo’s been questioning the wisdom of getting involved in something that challenging. And then we got an email from a good friend of ours from Australia. He teaches for Notre Dame in their graduate outdoor education program. Malcolm sent a quote, “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming woo hoo, what a ride!” (hunter thompson)

Moon Views

Isn't it amazing that when I looked at the moon last month from the southern hemisphere and it was shaped like a football, you saw the same shape from your Midwest backyard? It was comforting. And now you're on a train chugging (I know, trains don't chug anymore) its way across Oklahoma, while I'm out here on my Seattle deck spying a smiley-faced moon. Are you looking at it too, now? It'll be late in Oklahoma but you'll be awake, I know. And as I stare into these familiar features, the rounded shadowed cheeks and semi-smile I feel closer to you. When I tried it in New Zealand, I knew you were still in yesterday's afternoon. I was hours, almost a day even, away from you. That time separated us more than miles.
But I like thinking about time and the relativity of it, even though I can't take in Einstein's perspective. People, some very smart ones, have tried to explain it to me. It always starts like this, "You're on a fast moving train. You throw a ball to your friend. A person outside the train sees the ball move..." Then I get lost. But I think it has something to do with being in different places at the same time. I wish I could do that. Then I could be in new lands in New Zealand while visiting you in the Midwest. At the same time. But that sounds selfish, and I'd hate to have anyone think that of me.

Paradise

What's your picture of paradise? Yeah, an isolated island with palm trees, white sand, clear ocean water and blue skies. Well, we found it. It's about an hour's boat ride and a fifteen minute bus ride from Nadi City, Fiji. That's where we spent our last two nights before returning home.
We're in paradise but we're not totally comfortable with it. For one thing, we're just not used to being waited on. We've gone from over twenty-five days of sleeping in a tent or a camper van to a hotel in Fiji with lots of staff, a free shuttle from the airport and a modern room with a balcony. We feel self-conscious. For one thing there's not a lot of tourists at the Hotel Mercure, and we worry about how much to tip. "Tipping isn't expected in Fiji but if the service is particularly good, it's appreciated," according to the Lonely Planet guidebook. And we think it's appreciated because business is slow. Whenever we step out of the hotel three people ask us if we need a cab.
"No, Vinanka, [one of two words we've learned in Fijian], we're just taking a walk." And we go down the street to a small dark store and buy instant noodles for breakfast. The hotel has a breakfast buffet every morning but it cost $30 each! They fix all this food, and I only see a few people down in the dining room every morning.
Business is slow because just last month there was a military coup. "Don't worry, there are coups in Fiji every few years and they're always bloodless," an American on the airplane from L.A. told me. He'd married a Fijian woman, and he shared his point of view of the conflict. A few hours later another American who volunteers on an organic farm near Aukland three months every year gave me another perspective.
In Fiji, you see two cultures: the people who are descended from Polynesians and Melasians who settled there centuries ago and the Indo-Fijians descended from East Indian contract laborers brought in to work the sugarcane fields by the British who had colonized the islands. Now the Indo-Fijians own most restaurants, stores and services, and there seems to be a disagreement about who's not getting a fair shake.
Because our hotel is four km. from the beach we decide to sign up for a day boat ride. A bus picks us up at 8:45 am and the 18 tourists and ten crew from the boat spend most of the time on an uninhabited island boat singing, snorkeling, kayaking and eating barbeque. That's the paradise part I was talking about. We even join in on a traditional Fiji Kava ceremony. Kava is made from a root and is mixed with water. You clap your hands once, shout "Bula" and drink from a coconut shell. It has the same significance of passing the peace pipe only instead of smoking a communal pipe you're drinking diluted wallpaper paste from a communal coconut cup.
Ah, paradise! But I keep thinking, "What'd I do to deserve this?" It feels surreal. Hmmm, it must be that Midwest upbringing. I come from Kansas farmers whose creed was work hard, don't spend too much, be thankful for little pleasures, and work hard. Somehow island life doesn't fit this belief system. The island mantra is "take it easy, enjoy life, no hurry."
But actually that's only on the surface because many people here work six days a week, long days. Natani not only picked us up at our hotel, but he was the tour director on the boat, played the ukelele, posed for pictures, made sure we knew where the life jackets were, took us out for a snorkeling experience, helped cook the lunch and made sure we got on back to our hotels by six pm. A long day.
We also just completed a long day. We went to the airport on Thursday, February 1st at four pm. We boarded the plane at 10:20 pm. Somewhere over the Pacific we set our clocks back 19 hours as we took the ten hour plane ride to Los Angeles. Then after a three hour layover, we boarded another plane for home. Two and a half hours later we land in Seattle. It was February 1st, 6:30 pm. So that means we landed yesterday earlier than when we boarded. BULA!

Missing that bottomless cup

No matter how long the trip, sometime before it's over, that feeling of homesickness hits. Like this morning when ordering "One 'flat white' and one 'long black with extra water," and paying $6.50, I thought to myself, I'm tired of paying so much for coffee I don't really like. I missed my coffee maker. I was tired of the coffee bags we used at the campground, and I found myself wondering, "Where's the filtered coffee in this country!"
I also woke up at four am this morning thinking, "Leo is too big for this tent; he's taking up more than half, my half!" So it was time to think about returning home. But in the meantime, we would live the island life...nice and easy. Thanks to Alice and Chuck, we avoided Paihia and drove directly to Russell in the Bay of Islands near the top of the North Island. It rained the entire day, which was okay since it was a driving day.
We left Goat Island campground right after breakfast. What a great place to stay. It was one of things on my list after our Malcolm and Helen adventure. Snorkeling in the Marine Reserve of Goat Island sounded perfect. And it was. I rented fins, snorkel and mask for ten bucks from Fiona, the campground owner. We drove to the beach but should have walked the 500 meters. Families with kids playing in the surf covered the black sand and I saw a dozen snorklers in the water beyond the rocks. I put on my fins and clumsily whacked my way over the sand to the water's edge. It was cold. Maybe that was why Fiona also rented wet suits for ten bucks. I got into the water and put on my mask. I put my face in the water, then immediately came out sputtering. I calmed myself down and tried to remember the lesson years ago in Thailand. Oh, yeah, blow out and the salt water will escape through that little opening by the mouthpiece but not come back in. I slowed my breathing down a bit and gliding along the water's surface.
What a disappointment! The water was too murky to see anything! I felt cheated at first. But the further I swam, the clearer the water and suddenly, looking below me I saw a sting ray. A small one, hugging the bottom, but definitely a sting ray. Okay, guy, stay where you are and I won't bother you...I swam on. I also saw some striped fish, bottom feeders too. I was getting cold so I came back to the shore.
Leo was lying on the beach reading. "How was it?" He asked, looking up from his book. "Great!" I said, knowing I would go right back in as soon as I got warm. And I did. That next time I saw beautiful blue fish. And I got further out into the water. After a few minutes I saw I was halfway to Goat Island. I wanted to go but swimming by myself made me nervous. I wasn't really afraid of the water or the fish but just the unknown. So I came back to shore. "Guess that's all for today," I said. But as I sat on my towel in the sun, I kept watching a group of people standing over by the rocks. They were all staring into the water. "I'm going to see what's what over there." I picked up my fins and mask and delicately stepped over the lava-formed rocks. When I got to the group of people, I looked down into this water passageway between two massive forms of rocks. I saw not only the beautiful blue fish but also giant snapper. "Wow," I said to a woman standing next to me. "They've been here for years," she said affectionately. I carefully slipped on the fins, sat down gently onto the rough rock, put on my mask and slid into the water. I began swimming through the passageway towards the island. Giant snapper were swimming beneath me, passing me like unhurried distracted tourists. Only I was the visitor and they were the locals. As I had swam out from the rocks I noticed the space from land to the island was much less on this side of the beach. I also saw a group of people on the rocks of the island. I kept swimming. It took me only a few minutes to get to the island. I pulled myself onto the rocks. I did it! I'm here, I cried to myself. I felt like I had completed some task I had unconsciously set for myself. Checked that off the list, I thought to myself.
Today we will rent kayaks and paddle around the bay. That's the other thing on my list. And then I will be ready to go "home." Last night Leo and I had a conversation with a young French couple. I felt obligated to explain "home." I first apologized to them about our country's behavior towards the French in the first months when we invaded Iraq. I told them I was embarrassed by it. They asked about Bush and the elections. I was having trouble explaining why almost half the votes had gone to him in both elections. (I still don't concede that he won EITHER election.) But I refuse to say that Americans are stupid. I don't think they are; they're just scared. Fear causes people to act like they're stupid, I guess.
And as for our president...I recently read a bumper sticker sent to me by a friend. It said, "Bush never exhaled..." maybe that explains it. Things are crazy. I'm ready for home.

The Malcolm and Helen Training Program

Man, were we lucky to have Malcolm and Helen with us the first three weeks. (Have I said that before?) But really, it was like having a personal driver (Mal drove the Spaceship), a personal guide (Helen chose the hikes and walks), a social director (they found the off-the-side-of-the-road places to camp for free) and, in general, shared their knowledge of New Zealand with us. But now that we're on our own, we've used our experience from the first three weeks to survive. Leo had carefully watched Malcolm manuever the spaceship on the left hand side of the road. That's why he had no trouble shifting with his left hand as he took a "round-about"out of Wellington. No trouble that is until he pulled off the main street to park the car. Bam, we hit the curb with the left front wheel and that night discovered we had a flat. With the help of two very nice Israeli guys the tire got changed, but we had to replace it in Roturura.
Besides the adventure of driving and navigating in the North Island, we've also completed the 17 km (you figure out the miles)"Best one day walk in New Zealand" called the Tongariro Crossing. We decided if we waited for perfect weather we'd miss the hike so even though there was a slight mist in the air we booked transport to the trailhead. At first I was wishing that Malcolm and Helen were with us...you know, in case we got lost... but 500people a day take this hike so we figured it had to be pretty well marked. We were very proud of ourselves for completing it in 6 1/2 hours! In fact we couldn't believe how easy* it was. Well, by easy* I mean we finished it without mishap. Near the Red Crater,an active volcanic crater, the wind got so bad we were really glad we both had our walking poles for balance ...thanks again, Malc!
The other reason we felt it was "easy" was that going down part, the steep part, wasn't that steep and they have built paths, boardwalks, switchbacks and steps to ease up the way down. We had taken the 6:30 am bus because we figured on nine hours, especially with the long going down part. When we boarded the bus for the return trip at 3 pm, the driver said to all of the hikers, "Yeah, you're early today. Everybody's early when it's so windy!" He was right; that wind just pushed us along. And it was cold enough you didn't want to dilly dally. But honestly, this hike wasn't near as challenging as the ones we went on with H & M. And even though we didn't get many views at first because of the fog, we were rewarded with a gorgeous scene as we descended the gentle path down to through the bush and then through the forest.
Last night after leaving the Tongariro National Park we tried to find a place just to pull off, like we did with H & M. But we had trouble telling which places might be free. We're on the East Cape now and there's lots of beaches but most say "No Camping." I think we're going to stick to regular campgrounds cause don't want to get into trouble with the Kiwis!

TE NAMU

The Maori name for them is Te Namu. Leo thinks they're worse pests than the Kea, the giant wild parrots that have been known to rip the rubber stripping off camper vans, (watch out Spaceship!) and saw off a side view mirror with their powerful beaks. (The other night two of these birds were playing with our tent, crying "Keeee-a" which means 'come out and play.') In my opinion Te Namu are worse that any mosquitoes in the U.S. because you can't just slap them to kill them before they bite you. You have to pulverize these little devils, the New Zealand sand flies /black flies. Actually, it's only the female of the speicies that bites. She needs blood to produce her eggs, and the four of us have donated plenty to help this species procreate. The bites start itching especially when we're in a warm place, like a sleeping bag.
"At least we don't have to worry about bears here," said Malcolm, remembering their bike ride two summers ago on the Great Divde Trail from Banff, Alberta to Antelope Wells, New Mexico, when we were lucky enough to join them for four days. But this time I don't have to sing "The bear went over the mountain" at the top of my lungs or whistle or use bear bells to scare away a black or brown furry things, because in Kiwi land the most dangerous animals are the Keas and the Te Namu.
I didn't think we'd have a chance to go biking with Malcolm and Helen on this adventure to the South Island of New Zealand, but Helen found a Rails to Trails route beginning in Clyde. It's not far from the McKenzie Region where they would like to live after moving from Perth.
Nivel, the owner of Trail Journeys, not only rented us four mountain bikes and four panniers but suggested we take his bus to Ranfurly and begin a two day, 100 kilometer trip back. He made resrvations for us in Omakau at the Commerical Hotel. Two kilometers into the trip we were all cussing Nivel.
"Maybe he has a thing against Americans."... "I don't think he liked your joking, Malcolm." ..."Maybe he's just sadistic and likes to torture cyclists." We were cycling into a terrific headwind that almost blew Helen off her bike.
"Get in line," yelled Leo above the roar of the wind. Luckily, his ankle didn't bother him to pedal, and he was a great wind screen.
After cycling for thirty kilometers through the wind and two tunnels, the sun came out and the wind dissipated. It was beautiful riding through a gorge alongside herds of sheep. We decided Nivel had a good idea after all. That night we treated ourselves to New Zealand beer and fish and chips in the bar of the hotel. It was filled with lively locals enjoying a pint and each other's company. Kiwis are just plain fun.
"What's that sign mean?" I asked the lady bartender as she poured me my pint of Speights. Above her head was a wooden plaque that said, "I.I.T.Y.W.Y.B. M. A. D., thank you" I knew it wasn't Maori but couldn't decode it. With a straight face she said, "If I tell you will you buy me a drink?" Uh, well, sure I told her. "So what's it mean?"
Then she handed me my beer and said "if I tell you will you buy mea drink." Huh?
"She just told you," Helen said, elbowing me. A few seconds later I got it. Duh.
"Okay, I owe you a drink."
Though she protested at first, she finally accepted my payment. Later as the four of us finished another game of cribbage I saw her sitting with a tall, burly bloke on the customer side of the bar. She was laughing as she ordered her second drink.
To let Leo's sprained ankle continue healing we held off on doing another long hike. Instead we signed up for an overnight boat ride to Doubtful Sound on the West Coast. We lucked out and got the last four-bunk room. After an hour of cruising we got to an arm of the Sound, and Helen and I went kayaking with about 30 other passengers and Kimmie, our guide. As we paddled following Kimmie along the water's edge near the cliffs I saw Helen pointing across the water. Water was spraying. It couldn't be surf, I thought, there weren't an waves. Then Helen, Kimmie and the others began paddling furiously towards the other side. Dolphins? Could it be? Yes, I could see three, no four, masses just beneath the surface, and occasional spouts of water as they came close to the top. Even though I'd been paddling for half an hour, adrenaline surged and my arms rapidly rotated the double paddle to propel my kayak through the water. Glorious! I'd heard of people swimming with dolphins and I knew they liked humans. For a minute I was in the middle of a herd? group? flock? of these magnificient creatures. It was a real privilege to be so close to them.
Later that evening as the boat was idling in the Tasman Sea, while all the passengers were on deck waiting for the sun to set, about ten dophins decided to put on a show for us by performing olympic-level somersaults, back flips and half twists. Then as the boat zoomed back to our overnight anchor spot, the dolphins decided to drag race with us. They are so hydro-dynamic they literally did circles around the boat.
The next morning out on the deck when I saw their sleeping bags, I asked a young couple from the Netherlands if they had spent the night out there. "No, too many black flies," the woman answered as we both stood there swatting and slapping and waving the little beasties away. "But we've been out here since five a.m.'; our bunkmate's a snorer."
Luckily, none of our group snored, or at least I hadn't heard anything that night, although Helen warned me that she might. It's amazing, actually. We two couples have know each other since 1994 but we've only spent about eight days together before this trip. And now we've spent nineteen days together traveling around the South Island in a pretty small minivan. We've gotten fantastically well. Maybe it was all that cribbage playing. More likley it was the Jack Daniels and the Shiraz wine.
We spent our final evening together exploring Christchurch. Leo and I wished our friend, biff, from Shanghai/Prague could be have there to show us around. Thursday morning we exchanged hugs and kisses and said goodbye. We'll miss Helen's planning and Malcolm's joking. We taook the transcenic train from Christchurch to Picton then rode the Interislander ferry to Wellington.
Now we'll be on our own, renting a car, learning to drive on the left side and trying to find our way up north to warmer climate and beaches. Even though we don't speak the language as well as Mal and Helen, we do our best. But we'll miss them. G'day mates. No worries.

The Malcolm and Helen Diet

In 1994 on the longest bike trip at that point we encountered a British couple outside a little general store in Eastern Washington. They were both wearing the recognizable spandex biking shorts.
"Where are you biking to?" the woman asked me.
"Oh, we're biking all the way to Glacier Park in Montana," I said, a bit proudly. "Where are you biking to?"
"Maine," Helen replied.
I gulped. "Where did you start?"
"Spain."
And that was the beginning of our long distance friendship. So here we are 13 years later in New Zealand. I don't know why the Gilbeys asked us to join them on this adventure. They had a chance to bike in Vietnam with their Perth, Australia friends. That's where they've lived for the last 10 years. Helen got her Ph.D. and runs a hip clinic and Malcolm is an outdoor education expert who teaches and writes curriculum for masters and ph.d programs. Yeah, we're a bit out of our league.
They meet us in the Christchurch airport and as we walk to the parking lot I see an orange and white painted mini-van with the words "Spaceships.com" painted on the side. I thought they were kidding when they said we would be traveling the south island of New Zealand in the spaceship. How were we all going to fit in? Where would we sleep? But when the sliding door opened I could see a stove, a bed, and on top of the van there was an attachment that looked like an extra luggage rack. At night that piece of equipment would pop open and Malcolm and Helen would run up the ladder and sleep in their "penthouse suite."
For the last twelve days we have been driving around the South Island and pulling off the road into one of the many FREE camping spots here. For example, last night we just drove down Queen's Reach road to a lovely spot next to a river, under some trees, and not far away from the toilet. We pulled out our little table, opened up our four comfy chairs, brought out the Jack Daniels and opened the fabulous Australia Shiraz, took out the cards and began our twentieth game of Cribbage. Dinner was mushroom omelet cooked by Helen with slaw fixed by Leo accompanied with fresh tomato and avacado slices.
If this sounds a little boring as far as adventures go I should add that we've already gone on numerous hikes. The first BIG one was to the top of Mount Arthur, 10 miles and 2000 ft. up. Then we did a backpack hike to Lake Angelus hut along Robert Ridge with a ten mile down Cascade trail of rock and two water falls ending in a Lord of the Rings forest hike, along a river with a water taxi to pick us up to bring us back to a campground. Unfortunately, Leo sprained his ankle on that hike but he managed to hike the 10 miles down to the taxi.
Today we are in Te Anau and will hike one and a half hours to a hut. We will camp their in our tents and then hike back. The weather is like Seattle's today, but I don't think we have to worry about rain. Friday the four of us will board a boat and travel to Doubtful Sound and then go Kayaking for the afternoon, returning the next day by boat.
We have loved staying in our spaceship, away from the crowds that congregate in the cities of Queenstown and Christchurch during summer vacation. We also love the Kiwi sense of humor and their attitude about the outdoors. What a wonderful gift these free campgrounds are...and the scenery is beautiful.
Malcolm and Helen will leave us on the 18th and then the two bumbling Americans will be on their own. We have a few plans but I don't think they include the spaceship. We'll probably head north and explore that Island. More later.