Thursday, August 24, 2023

A Speck on a Dot on a Marble in the Sky

 


To J. Garmin: May your adventures in retirement be as vast and magnificent as your dedication to healing; safe travels, my friend.


Greetings, Dear Reader, to the last Beagle blog post.
  And not just the last of the BC or Bust chronicles but the last of all HMS Beagle postings. 

I have been thinking about leaving the social media scene for awhile (ever since I started seeing Facebook’s Meta sign in Instagram—I want nothing to do with the Metaverse, I have enough joy in the Universe) and, story-wise, I cannot imagine a better ending than this.  But first let me say thank you to You for reading (some of you since the 2012 Salt & Pepper blog!), you have helped me notice the shape of clouds against a bright blue sky, the chartreuse of young lichen growing in a rain forest, the dank and salty--yet delicious--smell of low tide right here, on an island in the Pacific Northwest.

Yes, I had to make drastic changes to my plan because of the BC, Washington and Idaho wildfires.  And so you find me sitting, very close to where it all began back in 2018, at the Fort Ebey State Park on Whidbey Island, Washington. 

For my very last story, I bring you back a few days to Wells Grey Provincial Park outside of Clearwater, BC…

***

              “WTF?  A dirt road?!? For twenty-eight kilometers?”

That was me on the way in to Clearwater Campground at the base of Clearwater Lake.  Remember when I wrote about The Gift of Knowing It Is the Last Time?  It’s the gift that keeps on giving:  I knew I was never going to go down this road again—hell, if it were possible, I would have turned around—so I knew going in that, whatever this experience was going to be, I would appreciate it all the more because I will never be here again.

How did this happen?  All my planning, all my Google Earth searching, my dedication to Provincial Parks (the roads to which I mistakenly thought would be paved.)  Halfway down the 28 KMs of dirt road, I flashed back to my pages and pages of research for this trip to a note, “No Clearwater CG—down 15 miles of dirt road!!!”  But somewhere along the line of desperate reservation seeking, I must have received an alert from BC Parks that a spot had opened up at Clearwater Lake and so I, apparently, nabbed it for three nights without consulting, well, anything really.  Wells Grey has long been on my list.

Maybe it was the stress of those last fifteen miles, or the previous five nights of camping right next to the roaring of semi-trucks along Highway 16, but pulling into that campground felt like cozy PJ’s and a warm cup of tea.  I quickly found my spot, set up camp, and took Opus on a walk.  (Picture taken a few days later after a day of Complete and Total Fun.)



The “lake” was merely a wide spot in a river; but at least two hundred yards wide.  Wide enough to make it calm enough for swimming right from the campground, but not calm enough to launch Supina—that would have to happen another three kilometers up the road at the boat launch.  That first afternoon, in the heat of the day, I tied Opus to a tree and jumped in.  It only took my breath away for a minute.

After the trauma of the drive in, I knew I wasn’t going to drive anywhere except to the boat launch, so most of the hikes were out of the question.  But there was plenty of challenging hikes right from camp and, when you got back, there was a cute café waiting to serve you a Cranberry Fiz and a piece of the family’s secret Bundt cake with streusel topping.  The view from the café--just across the still water begins one of the many rapids:



The campground was full of Dutch and German people (apparently many of the RV rental companies recommend a few nights out there—how I wished I was driving a rental RV on that road!) so Wurzig was very popular.  When people passed by the pitch, there was first an “Awe!” for Opus and then laughter for Wurzig before a hearty wave.  Europeans, in general, I find to be a very respectful group—maybe this comes from living so close together—but the campground, although full, was very quiet and peaceful.

Returning from my swim that first afternoon, I ran into a Dutch man unloading a boat.  I had seen a sign for the boat cruises and asked him where I might get some more information.

              “I can help,” he answered with his thick but clear accent, "I am the Captain!" he added enthusiastically.

              “I’d like to do the hour- or two-hour cruise if possible.”

              “OK, those are nice, but if you have time the all-day cruise is the best.  We go all the way to the end of the lake, have a picnic lunch and return.  It’s about five hours on the boat.”  His eyes were alight with adventure which quickly became contagious.

              “That sounds like a great day, but I have Opus and that’s too long on a boat.”

              “Oh, it is a language thing, the picnic is on shore where we can stay for an hour or two, would that be a long enough break for Opus?”

              “Yes!”  Now I really wanted to go.

He went inside the café to check the schedule.

              “We are currently booked for tomorrow, how long are you here?”

              “I could do the trip tomorrow or Wednesday.”

              “Wednesday we have two people booked—which is our minimum—so you could go on that, the only risk is if they cancel, we cannot take just one.” 

              “I understand, I will leave it to fate.”

There being no cell service, he wrote down my pitch number and said he would send someone over Tuesday morning if a spot opened up.  Otherwise, I would take my chances on Wednesday.

As it turns out, I ran into him again Tuesday morning on my lakeshore hike; he excitedly told me that they had one cancellation and I could go out that day if I wanted.   It was tempting but I was looking forward to a day of hiking and then getting Supina out on the water.  I hesitated.

              “It would be terrible for you to miss out if the people on Wednesday cancel,” he prompted.

              “Yes, but twenty other people is a lot and I really need a day of quiet, so I’m going to stick with my hiking and paddling plan and continue to leave it to fate.”

And what a great day that was!  A five-mile hike along the lake and then Opus and I drove to the boat launch and set Supina into the water.  I paddled upstream until my arms were tired, enjoying the rhythmic plunk/plash of the paddle, and anchored myself to a log to float while I snacked.  Then we unhooked and floated the entire way back.  It was so gentle and calm at one point Opus and I were both laying down.  (Yes!  He finally laid down!)  I was determined not to time or pace anything for this stay but I’d say it was easily over an hour float back.


Just what I needed; the entire day felt like a meditation.

Enjoying a Cranberry Fiz at the café later, the Captain found me again.

              “Good news!  The couple for tomorrow has confirmed so we will be ready to go around ten o’clock tomorrow morning!”  His excitement no less despite the fact that he had just returned from the twenty people all day trip.  

I couldn’t wait.

*



I arrived at the dock promptly at ten and shortly thereafter was joined by a couple.  I assumed they were the day trippers and so introduced myself.  Turns out they were park rangers and only one was getting on the boat:  And even at that, she was being dropped halfway up the lake and kayaking down for two nights (yes, it is a long, long lake—very popular with paddlers who like multi-day camping adventures as there are improved campgrounds [i.e., they have toilets, tent pads and picnic tables] at sandy spots all along the lake.)

            “Here comes Captain Matt!” the man said.

It’s true that I spoke to this man three times but never knew his name.  And so the first string was sounded.

              “Hi everyone!  We are just awaiting the arrival of the all-day couple, I will give them another fifteen minutes if that is ok with everyone”, then, looking at me, “And don’t worry, they paid last night so if they don’t show up we still get to go!”

              I replied, “I have no agenda whatsoever, didn’t even wear my watch.  I am just looking forward to someone being in charge all day so give them as much time as you would like.”

But, I think, the lady who was to start her kayak trip was not so keen.   In any event, Matthias (as he introduced himself once the formal trip began), Kathrine, Opus and I set off with a plan for Matthias to radio back from a certain location and, if the couple had arrived, we would back track and pick them up.

They never arrived.

Once we dropped Kathrine at her launch site, Matthias gave me a map and some idea of what was in store:

              “Once we reach the end of Clearwater Lake [in about an hour at full speed], we will head up the river and into Azure Lake.”

              “Uh, we go UP A RIVER?”  I have seen these rivers and they are nothing to mess with.  It’s not like cruising up the Columbia.

              “Yes, it is a very beautiful stretch but unfortunately, I have to go as fast as I can to keep control of the boat through the rapids.”

Oh dear God.  I contemplated putting Opus’ life jacket on him.  Matthias could see my trepidation and said, “Don’t worry, I do this every day.”  And he did inspire confidence:  Although young (who isn’t these days?), I’d say early thirties maybe, he exuded a calm, quiet, easy assurance and it was, in truth, quite simple to let go.

Just before the mouth of the river, he radioed back to camp to say we were entering the river (protocol to radio in before and after this section) and I could see him tense a little.  We came around a corner and there was another (rare on this lake) boat, clearly in full throttle—the boat at such a severe angle I was amazed no water was entering by the outboard engine—barely making headway against the current.  We were forced to circle and wait.  The water was rough there at the mouth of the river and Opus, who had all this time been sleeping quietly next to me, jumped down and sat next to Matthias’ feet.  I glanced at Matthias to see if this was ok and he smiled and nodded.

It was thrilling—and probably the most gorgeous stretch of the trip with the winding, rapidly flowing river at the base of two sets of towering mountain ranges—but there was no way to take a picture.   You could feel the intense energy of the water pushing against the hull as we lunged over rapids; we were both standing at the front of the boat, sunshine and wind buffeting our bare faces, Matthias with a look of intense concentration and me in pure heaven.

Once on the other side and into Azure Lake the scenery was breathtaking:  As opposed to Clearwater Lake with its gentle sloping mountains, this lake has sharp cliffs coming down from the towering mountains, rarely any land-able shoreline, and water the color of the Mediterranean.  Even though the water was calm, Opus chose to remain at Matthias’ feet; he laid down with one paw on Matthias’ bare foot and then, in less than five minutes, his nose was resting on top of it as well.  I once again glanced at the Captain to make sure it was ok, and he had a smile a mile wide.  (The boat was very powerful and very loud and so there was little conversation while it was running.)

I guess Opus was happy to have someone else in charge too.

*


Near the top of Azure Lake, we docked for the picnic.  The beach was vast with white, soft sand—the likes of which I hadn’t seen since California.  “My god, this is gorgeous,” I blurted out.

With a huge grin on his face, Matthias replied, “It is my favorite place on Earth.”

I took Opus on a run up the beach and when we returned, Matthias had the kettle boiling, the table set (for one) and was ready to serve.  The scene took me back to Africa where the guides would set up “tea” service in the middle of a safari.  To be somewhere so remote with all the comforts of home, well, that’s me in the Beagle.  But that day, it was me on a beach at the end of a long lake, short river, and another long lake.  He made me a hot chocolate because, despite it being warm and sunny, who doesn’t drink a hot chocolate in a place like that?

After insisting that Matthias join me at the table, I shared my Africa memories; turns out he had just been out there with his mother to spread his father’s ashes; he, in turn, learned that it was my honeymoon spot and that I am a widow.  

And so the second string was sounded.

              “How is your Mom doing?”

              “Frankly, I am worried about her.”

              “How long has it been?”

              “Six months,” he said as if that were a long time.

The air sucked out of me at the memory of the first six months.

              “Oh, that is no time at all.  Everything hurts for her right now.  Washing dishes, grocery shopping, doing laundry, walking, sitting, eating.  Even breathing hurts sometimes to the point that you simply don’t want to do it anymore.  It is difficult for anyone who hasn’t experienced the loss of a partner to understand.”

              “Ahh, maybe I should think in terms of years and not months?”

              “Yes.”

              “You seem so happy and content.  Was there a turning point for you?  Something that happened that helped you get through?”

              “It feels like there was but it is not coming to me right now.  I’ll think about it.  Certainly, I have come to appreciate the life I have now, as a single person.  Let me think about it.”

I decided to take a swim; the water so warm and clear that I retrieved my goggles from the boat and set about swimming—really swimming—from buoy to buoy, keeping one eye on Opus tied at the beach.  Just when I thought I had better get back to him, I saw Matthias go over, untie him, and bring him into the camp area where he was cleaning up from lunch.  I kept swimming:  I turned over and floated on my back, as I do every time when in a mountain lake, in honor of my grandfather, “Grumpy,” who taught me to swim and to float without moving.  And, staring up at the bright blue sky, I gave thanks for being given this time on this gorgeous planet.

Returning to the picnic area where I found two happy campers, I remarked on how delightful the water was.

              “Yes, it’s a bad day to have forgotten my swim trunks.”

              “Well, there is only you and me here, I can give you some privacy if you want to strip down and go for a swim—you really shouldn’t miss this opportunity.”

              “You wouldn’t mind?

              “Not at all!” taking Opus’ leash and heading up the beach, “We’ll see you in a bit.”

*


Everybody refreshed, we headed up the short walk to Rainbow Falls.  I eventually handed Opus’ leash to Matthias as he likes to be in the lead and, frankly, those two were becoming hard to separate.  The trail led us through trees dripping with lichen, moss covered boulders and an abundance of ferns popping up everywhere—it became a rain forest.  You could hear the powerful falls and were surrounded by the mist long before you caught site.  I asked Matthias if we could stop for a minute and just take it in.

“Of course!” he joyfully replied, “You are the first person who has ever wanted to stop on the way to the falls, usually they just rush right on through.  They do not know what they are missing.”

While we gazed around the forested fairyland I ventured,

              “Do you mind if I ask how your father died, was it expected?”

              “I don’t mind at all; no, it was sudden—he had a brain aneurysm that burst.  He was dead within twenty minutes.”

And so the third string was sounded.

              “That’s what happened to me!” I said with a little too much enthusiasm; I was just so surprised to have this in common.

              “But clearly you survived.”

              “Yes.  Fortunately, my blood clots really well--or used to--now I am on blood thinners, and my blood clotted the leaking aneurysm before it could kill me.  Now I have stents in my ICA, keeping the blood going only where it should.”

              “That’s amazing.  And yet you are out here, camping alone, traveling around alone, seemingly unafraid.”

              “Well, between Alan’s death and my aneurysms, I quickly decided to live while I was here.  Besides, if it bursts again, I will likely die quickly which isn’t so bad—bad for you if it happens out here—but not so bad for me.  Particularly when I know Opus will be well loved.”

              “Yes, he would be.”

And we continued on.

With Matthias holding Opus’ leash, it was much easier for me to clamber so we opted to climb up to a secondary viewpoint, a bit hand over foot but worth every bit of effort. 

At the landing, we sat on giant, mossy rocks, overlooking the falls and Matthias pointed out where the water had eaten away at a rock and created a bowl about two feet wide.  Then he saw the rainbow.

              “This is only the second time in all my times coming here that I have seen the rainbow.”

We were quiet for a while—he was easy to be quiet around.       

              “Would you like some privacy here?  I could leave you for a few minutes if you’d like.”

I thought about it—it would usually be something I would jump at—but it didn’t appeal to me.

              “You know, I am alone so much, it is actually a treat to be able to share this with someone.”

We were quiet again for a long time, staring at the coming and going of the rainbow.  I asked,

              “Do you see how the rainbow is rhythmic in its coming and going?  It has a pattern of appearance—must have something to do with how the water is hitting the rocks to create the mist.”

              “I have never noticed that before; I have not had the opportunity to sit here and just watch for this long.”

              “I am really glad I am not here with twenty people.”

              “Yes, it is a very different experience…do you meditate?”

              “Yes.”

              “I can see that you are used to just being, watching, you also don’t take many pictures.”

              “I used to take a lot of pictures, but I have found that they no longer reflect the essence of my experience.”

Then, after many more quiet minutes:

              “You seem so happy to be on your own.  I am the same way, I think too much sometimes; it is difficult for people to understand.”

              “I am happy—very content.  I think we are fortunate:  I think it is a gift to be able to enjoy your own company, to not need to have anyone around.  But it is something that many people have difficulty understanding.”

Reflecting on my singlehood, I continued in a minute:

              “By the way, the experience that turned me around was going to group grief counseling.  And believe me, I do not like any of those words—and they don’t get better when strung together.  But if I could offer one piece of advice to your Mom, it would be that:  Just go.  There is nothing like sitting with other humans who are going through the same thing.  They will understand in ways your closest loved ones simply cannot.”

I guess we sat there longer than we should have; starting back, he asked if I minded if he ran ahead to pack up the boat.  Which of course I did not—Opus, on the other hand, was not thrilled: Competing with Matthias was hard enough, but running with Matthias?  That was clearly too much; he let out a little whine as Matthias raced away. 

Back at the boat, Azure Lake had become rough.  Matthias asked if I wanted to swim again, but the whitecaps were making me nervous and I knew we had a long (two hour) boat ride back so I opted to just hop in.

This time Opus immediately went and laid by Matthias’ feet.  Once we navigated the river again (much easier going with the flow) Matthias reached one long arm down, scooped up Opus and placed him on his lap.  That won’t last, I thought.

But Opus immediately leaned his body against Matthias and rested his muzzle on his upper arm.  Matthias, with one hand on the wheel and one wrapped around and petting Opus’ chest, rested his chin on top of Opus’ head.  Opus sighed and Matthias drove on with a large and gentle smile on his face.

I was happy only one of them closed their eyes.

*

Halfway down Clearwater Lake, the water became like glass.  And without even a breath of wind we were able to stop the boat and jump in the water without worrying about it drifting too far away.  I, of course, in my bathing suit and Matthias in his skivvies which, to be honest, covered a lot more skin than most of the German swimming trunks back at camp.

As I floated on my back in the middle of that vast lake, I looked up at the blue sky and thought, “I am a speck on a dot on a marble in the sky.”

And it is the greatest gift ever.

***

The next day I had to face the drive out but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered.  However, three days of no news had me unprepared for the fire situation in BC.  I opted for two nights in a hotel in Kamloops to do some laundry and some fire research.

Which is how I ended up here, on Whidbey Island, with the third string sounding; bringing the orchestra of life into full swing.

With fires all over BC and northern Washington and Idaho, my best route home was to come west, then south then east.  And walking along the rugged PNW shoreline this morning, I realized this was the end—the perfect end.  I couldn’t write a better one if I had planned it. 

My Beagle trips started in August of 2018 (there is an archive on the blog); my first venture camping without Alan.  Over the last five years I have seen wonderous things, thought radical ideas, grew to appreciate my Self and my joy of living alone.

By far, I have noticed most people along the way with their noses in their phones.  Or smiling at their phones.  And, to the extent that blogging and photo sharing on IG are contributing to this duality of life, I am choosing to not participate any longer. 

My last piece of advice:  Put down your Smart Phone, take off your Smart Watch, take your Smart Self and walk out of the house; go out and seek “a stone, a leaf, a door.” (Thomas Wolfe.)

“There was a time when humans walked without a phone.”  (Kitrina Bryant.)

-K

 

Monday, August 14, 2023

BC or Bust: Rabies, Baked Beans and Bisquick Pan Bread

 


This is why, even when I am packing Beagle clothes in 100-degree weather and looking at the forecast for the next week and seeing nothing but 90’s, this is why I pack my cozy outfit (thick cotton Nike sweat pants and a cashmere turtleneck):  For days like this when I find myself high in the Canadian Rockies, having hiked nine miles in the rain, returning to a 50-degree Beagle, cold and chilled.

While the kettle is boiling and Beagle’s heater starts blowing, I exchange my wet hiking gear for, you guessed it, cozy clothes.

So here I sit in Mount Robson Provincial Park (Robson River Campground), decaf coffee and Digestive Biscuits to my right, Opus to my left and nothing but Canadian Rockies everywhere else—certainly no cellular coverage—writing to you about what happened before Now:  Yoho National Park and the Icefield Parkway.

My first bit of advice should you decide to travel to these destinations is:  Become a Morning Person.  The sites are magnificent and the mountains, with all their cool, solid elegance, make for wonderful, silent companions…until the masses and busses arrive.

Suggestion Un:  If you want to see the sites that you can drive right up to (Lake O’Hara, Emerald Lake, Takkakaw Falls in Yoho), you better be there by 8 AM.  By 9 AM you will be taking the last parking spot and by 10 AM you will be in an endless circle of equally frustrated travelers asking everyone standing near a vehicle, “Are you leaving?”  More grace is given to hikers; if you arrive at the trailheads by 10AM, you are almost assured a parking spot. 

But what gorgeous sites!  Emerald Lake, which you can drive to, is not to be missed.  And, if you are not a camper, there is the lovely Emerald Lake Lodge right along the shore.  Opus and I arrived shortly after 8AM, hiked around the lake (easy, three miles) and then inflated Supina for what turned out to be, an Opus photoshoot.  He was the only dog out there and must have had his picture taken twenty times.  Hauling Supina back to the car and setting about drying and deflating her, I wished I had a sign, “No, I am not leaving,” but what the heck, it was nice to use my voice.

And it’s not just that there are a ton of people—it’s fun to hear all the languages (funny how “Awe” from a three-year-old noticing Opus sounds the same in any language)—it’s the driving around and around and the frantic energy emanating from the cars.  And once out, sadly, many people (and most teenagers) have the dead-eye look of boredom, of wanting to be anywhere but shuffling along with the throng. 

But getting there in the early morning?  Heaven.

Contrast that to our hike to Lake Sherbrooke where we didn’t see another person until half way through our shoreline picnic (we were at the trailhead by 8 AM.)  It was a delightful trail, well maintained and with plenty of ups to keep the blood pumping.  The only wildlife we saw was a mole dashing across the path just ahead of us.  Opus pulled to the spot and then pounced, snapped, and began to violently shake his head from side to side—his preferred killing method.  I knew not to stop him because if he stopped in the middle, what would I do with a half dead mole?  Better to just let it die.

But I don’t think it was a mole, because when Opus turned around, still shaking his head violently from side to side, I could see he was foaming at the mouth.  And not just toothpaste foaming, we’re talking something not seen since Lucy was doing laundry.  There was nothing else in his mouth, his lips were curling up and the look of panic in his eyes quickly transferred to mine.

Can Rabies happen so quickly?  Surely not.  My god, I thought he was on his way off this planet.  Not being near the lake yet, I grabbed my canteen and began dousing his mouth with water.  This caused the foam to change viscosity and now, when Opus shook his head, splatters of Rabid Dog Foam flecked my face.  The foaming eventually stopped and slowly his lips returned to their normal position.  But I kept a close eye on him until he ate and drank, both of which he did within an hour. 

I have no idea what it was—clearly something stung him or sprayed him although I didn’t smell anything.  A mystery.  We consoled ourselves by gazing at the gorgeous lake.


Suggestion Deux:  If you are going to drive the Icefield Parkway in only one direction, go from north (Jasper) to south (Lake Louise):   The majority of sites are on the western side of the highway and this will save you many hours of waiting to try and make a left from the parking lots onto Highway 93—and I should know.  Fortunately, I had been amazed by this drive about thirty years ago on a bright sunny day; we were not so lucky on this run but it was definitely worth it.  The travel guide mentioned that if you can only stop once make it Peyto Lake (and the parking there has lots of RV spots):


A great suggestion, particularly early in the morning (might be the one benefit of making this drive from south to north.) 

And here’s something that doesn’t belong on any driving itinerary that also includes pulling a trailer on an over 350 KM driving day: “On the way to Robson, stop in Jasper for laundry and groceries.”

Uh, no way. 

I was so tired by the time I reached Jasper (the other benefit of driving in the opposite direction of my trip is that the southbound lane has passing lanes—there was not one passing lane on the northbound side--NOT ONE) that I just passed right by the “Centre Ville” exit sign and began my last 84 KMs to Mt. Robson Provincial Park.  It was a long, long, long 384 KM day.

I arrived at my disappointing pitch (more on that in Chaptre Trois), with no clean hiking clothes and nothing but a can of baked beans and some Bisquick for dinner.   But really, is there anything more satisfying than a Bisquick biscuit pan-fried in butter?

Well, maybe the two blueberry Pop-Tarts I had for dessert.

-K


Tuesday, August 8, 2023

BC or Bust: Chaptre Un

 


Greetings Dear Reader, from close to Canmore, Alberta.  What?  Yes, my first BC or Bust post is being written from Alberta but I have crossed through (and stayed one night) in BC and will return in five nights; you can blame family for the hop into Alberta.

One family member said that, although he was born in Switzerland and lives now in BC, his favorite hiking area is Waterton Park, Alberta.  What?  Where?  Why have I never heard of it?  So naturally, that became a stop on my way north.  Then knowing I was going to be in Alberta, it was high time to arrange some family time with members who I have not seen in years, and one that I have never met—and he’s five!

But first I left Boise. 

I had two stops in Idaho, one at Ponderosa State Park in McCall, and the other in Farragut State Park in Athol, just south of Sandpoint.  I have blogged and raved and blogged and raved about both places in the past so will not do so again.  Suffice it to say, they remain #2 and #3 on my Idaho love list.  For multiple days my biggest concern was whether my bikini would dry before morning.

Then one night at a KOA in Cranbrook, BC, which was serviceable.  Sometimes you need to do laundry and plug in so you can turn on the AC – it was over ninety degrees!  (And if you are me, you also need a double chocolate donut from Tim Hortons.)

The drive from Cranbrook to Waterton Park was long and hot and filled with construction stoppages (sometimes for twenty minutes or more) which is to be expected when they only have a few months of workable weather.  My patience thin, I turned off into one of the many BC Provincial Parks for a break and a quick walk.  Folks, keep these parks in mind if you are on the highways in Canada:  Almost all of the Provincial Parks have day use areas and, if you wait for one that has camping and/or boat launch signage, you are guaranteed that you can get your trailer in there.  Lovely options when you need a break particularly when the two-lane highways have very few rest areas—and those are usually just a pull over spot adjacent to the lane.

Entering Alberta I was struck by how green everything was—much greener than BC which was odd.  (I have been coming to BC for decades and have never seen it so dry.)  The rolling fields of farmland drew my eyes for miles before running into the sharp peaks of the Rocky Mountains.  You see, Waterton National Park shares a lake with the US’s Glacier National Park.  And, like Niagra Falls, I think Canada got the better half. 

As the mountains slowly took up more of the sky, I found myself thinking of Highway 395 in Lone Pine, California.  It was the same look of long, empty prairie (in Lone Pine it is long, empty high desert) backdropped by sharply etched towering peaks (the Sierra Nevadas in California.)  Would the interior of the Waterton peaks yield the same wonder and awe that I discovered in the Sierra Nevadas?

Oh baby yes.


How did I never know this existed? 

On top of the stunning scenery (the campground was adjacent to Upper Waterton Lake) and world class hiking to gorgeous alpine lakes, there is a town there.  That’s right!  Right smack in the middle of the National Park.  An actual town with coffee shops, pubs, hotels, a charming pedestrian only street, a marina, even a Starbucks.  People live there!  And get this, it is all dog friendly:  Opus was welcomed aboard the evening lake cruise where, having received a break from the incessant gopher hunting at camp, he promptly fell asleep.   And night after night he joined me inside the ice cream parlor whose Lavender Lemonade ice cream tastes like you are eating a lemon creamsicle sitting in the middle of a wildflower-filled meadow.

Our first full day there, we hiked to Bertha Lake, pictures of which I have posted on Beagle’s IG account (@hmsbegl) which turned out to be just over nine miles—a long, hot, dusty hike in 85-degree temperatures but worth every single drop of sweat and blistered toe.


Day two we ventured up Akamina Pass so I could stand with one foot in BC and one in Alberta while I  contemplated my next step:  Would I continue on this hot, dusty trail down to Wall Lake?  Unfortunately, I had glimpsed Lake Cameron on the ascent, cool and glistening between the peaks, and so, hot and sweaty at 9:00 AM, with no cell service, and having seen two bear warning signs and not one single hiker after more than a mile, it was an easy decision to turn around and spend the day paddleboarding and sun bathing rather than hiking.

Standing at the shore of the stunning lake solidified my decision; as we walked out onto the dock we were welcomed with, “Is that Opus!?!”  We had run into a group we met hiking yesterday.  These Canadians, they are a friendly bunch!


And our day looked a lot like this (with intermittent sunbathing and swimming):



Waterton Park, with a campground (albeit crowded) within half a mile of a cute town, on the shores of one of the most stunning lakes I have ever seen, with many other stunning lakes within hiking distance, is my idea of paradise.  I will be back.  It will not be August, but I will be back.

And so here we are at Lac des Arcs campground, just west of Bow Valley Provincial Park and just east of Banff.  It is a delightful 70 degrees outside and word has it a “severe” thunder and rain storm should hit around 11:00 pm.  I cannot wait!  This air feels like heaven.

Family time tomorrow and then we will continue our way up into the Canadian Rockies.  None of the usual stops, so stay tuned! 

-K


Saturday, July 8, 2023

How Many Times Must a Dog Dig Down?

 



One day I posted a picture of Opus, head down in a hole, digging away, living the purpose that has been bred in him for centuries, completely in his element; my post included a question:   If terriers were bred to hunt, for what were humans bred?  My favorite response came from my Mom, “Entertainment.”

I have alluded to The Scientists a few times in this blog but to put it in black and white, I believe we (humans, animals, Earth) are someone else’s experiment.  We are no more than rats in a maze, something, I posit, that rats have one up on us, after all, they will eat us alive and that is not likely to happen in reverse.

I often talk to the Scientists, let them know that I am ready for The Next Big Thing or what I think I need, and they are always ready to respond.  Recently, I asked them to “just give me people to camp with, men, women, I don’t care.”  And so, because sometimes they just need a good laugh, they set it in motion.

Of my own free will and self-determination, I joined the Airstream Club because they had an intra-club of “Indies” people who, I thought, choose to travel alone (as opposed to have to travel alone—there is a big difference here.)   I set off to my first, and last, Airstream Rally last month with high hopes of meeting people just like me:  Introverts who craved privacy.

Here’s a transcript of the Scientist’s audio report:

“847 found a path to having people to camp with.  We provided someone to camp with on the way to the larger gathering as well as forty other campers at the gathering.  [A slight chuckle enters the voice] The first night she spent an hour with her fellow camper before retiring to the privacy of Beagle, and the next day [more chuckling] she adamantly refused to drive in tandem to the larger gathering.   Apparently, she could not even stand the thought of being next to another human on a highway in a separate vehicle.  [Total breakdown with laughter.]   Once at the gathering, true to her nature, she chose to park the furthest away from the group that she could and commenced to utilizing strict control over her facial expressions every time someone mentioned “pot-luck” or “carpooling.”  Priceless!  This one really is too much.

Can’t thank you enough for letting me report on this; I needed a good laugh.”

Needless to say, I left the Airstream rally one night early.  Oh, but my learning was not over.

Heading north toward the Tetons, I stopped outside of Jackson, Wyoming to take a quick hike with Opus.  It was a lovely hike through rolling foothills with wide open spaces all around.  Not noticing any geography that would stop me from seeing Opus for hundreds of yards, I decided to let him off leash.  It never occurred to me that he could disappear under the dirt.  (You may see here why I think rats have the upper hand—how many times do they make the same mistake twice?  Who am I kidding:  A dozen times?)

Opus heard the quick, shrill chirp of a Marmot and took off.  I could see him for a good hundred yards and then boom!  Nothing.  Completely disappeared.  I started jogging to the area, across the dirt and sagebrush, keeping my eyes where I last saw Opus, when boom!  My right leg had nothing underneath it and I pitched forward, right cheek to dirt. 

No time to waste though, I jumped up and reached The Hole.  Looking down, while dirt clods were being thrust backward into my face, all I could see was half of Opus’ tail and a brief second of each rear paw as it continuously drove dirt away.  I knew I had about 1.5 seconds before I would have to find a shovel. 

So right cheek to dirt again, I laid down and reached my arm down into the hole, grabbed the very tip of his tail and pulled him out.  (This breed of terrier has no nerve endings at the base of their tails for just this purpose.) 

Oh the Scientists were laughing again:

              “This one!  She just won’t learn!”

              “But wait, there is more, you have to watch this scene:”

The woman and the man are having a respectful but heated discussion about God.  The man is holding his own, not becoming defensive, actually becoming more self-assured and calm with each answer to the woman’s challenging questions.  “What does believing in God do for you?  What do you get out of it?” to which he replies, “Comfort, a sense that something or someone is in control.  I do not believe in a judgmental God, its more like a benevolent energy.”

              [Explosive laughter]

              “Did you see that?  Did you see her face?  Just when she realizes that the man’s description of God sounds a lot like Us.”  

“Play it again, this is hysterical!”

-K


Wednesday, June 7, 2023

A Flower, a Meadow, a Mountain, a Marsh

 



By two o’clock the girl was free to go; the daily agreement with her Grandmother accomplished (one room of the cabin deep cleaned—often including waxing the linoleum—and lunch prepared for- and cleaned up after- her brother and Grandfather’s lunch break from cabin building) she had the afternoon to herself and, without fail, she raced to the beach where she and her friends played and swam endlessly, joyfully and without restraint.

Occasionally the Scientists would see fit to deliver a floating log to their giant sandbox on the shore.  A well-travelled log worn smooth by the ice-cold Shuswap Lake and its mile long journey to the very end.  The girl and her friends would take turns standing on the log, balancing as best they could on the wet, slick surface, counting out the seconds to see who would win.  Or they would clamber aboard like it was a pet horse and float wherever the log wanted to go—it being too heavy for them to maneuver with any reliability—until their toes were too cold to sit still.

*

Greetings Dear Reader from Stanley Lake, Idaho, one of my favorite places on this gorgeous planet:  Tucked away in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area and miles from the popular and over-run Redfish Lake, Stanley Lake contentedly rests below Mt. McGowan (9,860’) and disallows motorized boats so it remains quiet and peaceful, particularly mid-week.



Right now I am enjoying a cup of Chamomile tea (with spun honey), having just finished the world’s best Reuben sandwich:  The basic pastrami on rye with thousand island dressing but also topped with shredded purple cabbage lovingly pickled into a spicy and sweet slaw, a taste combination so divine nothing was lost when, five hours after my first half, I ate the second despite the fact that the bottom piece of rye had turned soggy and bright pink.  This delight came from the Stanley Baking & Company Cafe, whose cinnamon roll was dry and disappointing, but after two long day hikes, my body was craving some fat and carbohydrates.  I ate it all.

Yesterday’s hike, like today’s, was a repeat of a hike I did last year; the good news is that they both seemed much easier this year.  Except for yesterday’s exit.

On the way up to Lady Face Falls, I noticed a tantalizing path veering off to the left toward the inlet of the lake.  Like last year, I made a mental note of it in passing, and continued up the trail.  After four miles the snow forced us to turn back so, unlike last year, I had the energy on the way down to do a bit of exploring.  Time to take the Path Twice Noticed.

It was delightful back there:  Having come from a mile or so of wide-open meadows, the detour offered a nice gravel path meandering through small islands of 4' tall grasses.  Occasionally I could glimpse the river off to the right quietly flowing toward the lake.  After half a mile or so I pulled Opus off to the side and we ventured closer to the river:  Being Spring, it flowed quickly and soundlessly over the dark green reeds and submerged rocks and we sat down to watch the flash of dark shapes flitting from one side to the other.  It was the second time I wished I had my fishing pole.

Since we were clearly coming to the head of the lake, I assumed the nice gravel path would just take us around the shore and back to the campground; we continued until it abruptly ended in a flooded marshland.  Looking across the many fallen trees you could see the boat ramp, offering its welcome return to dry land, a mere thirty yards away.  Opus and I have crossed many a stream on logs so, stooping down quickly to release him from his leash (he crosses much better on his own), we barely broke stride as we each took a log to begin the crossing.

And here’s something obvious:  Just because a log is on top of the water does not mean it will stay on top of the water.

By the time I crossed to Log 2, I noticed that the logs had a lot more give to them than I was used to.  Pausing on Log 3 because I heard a splash slightly behind me, I realized that the logs were bobbing on the water.  Balancing on my log, which was just barely holding its own at the water’s surface, I looked back to see Opus in water up to his cheekbones.  And the look!  He is very expressive and this one did not say, “I love you and will follow you anywhere,” it was more like, “What the fuck?” and “I am never following you again.”

But as my log was sinking, I had no time to offer any aid.  I watched as he clawed himself back up onto the adjacent, half-submerged log, turned his back on me and began to shake. 

What to do?  I could back-track across the logs (maybe) and hike back around which would be another two miles or so added onto my already close to eight, or, and this seemed perfectly reasonable, I could take off my boots, hop into the water and wade to the boat ramp.

Balancing on my own half-submerged log, I proceeded to remove one boot and sock (all those dance lessons came in handy) and, while holding the first boot against a branch, remove the other boot and sock.  Tucking the socks inside, I tied the laces together and hung the boots around my neck. 

Now to get The Dog Who Isn’t Speaking.

I stepped off my log and into the water.  It was about mid-thigh and the coldest water I have ever felt—remember that snow I ran into above?  The cold was a blessing because, as my feet sank down into the silty, muddy, clinging bottom of this marshland, I began to wonder about snakes and glass and sticks and other things that might puncture my feet.  But no need to fear:  I had no feeling in them after the first three seconds.

I turned back to get Opus who, thankfully, sat still as I picked him up but who couldn’t pass up the opportunity to let out a little growl—or maybe it was just him getting his breath back.

Boots around my neck, a soaking-wet, shivering dog in my arms, and a backpack on my back, we set off across the marshy water to meet the boat ramp.  With each sinking step, the water became deeper and colder; when it reached my hips, the possibility of leeches entered my mind. 

But we made it!  Opus, whose legs had clearly had time to thaw, leaped from my arms as soon as the ramp was within three feet.  I felt like I was feeling gravity for the first time as I hauled my numb legs up and onto the ramp.  We sat there, thawing, in the warm afternoon sun, checking for leeches. 

*

The woman weighs more than the girl.

-K


Friday, May 19, 2023

Of Wind and the Sand Dunes

 


When the girl was fourteen, her mother let her paint her bedroom.  The girl selected a bright, sky blue—a color so vibrant her mother suggested she might regret it.  It was called Cerulean Blue.  But she never regretted it; each time she sought the solitude of her room and closed the door, her world at once became vast and serene.  It was her first glimpse of independence and freedom.

*

Greetings Dear Reader from the Spring Creek OHV parking lot in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area; as I type, there are heavy, dark clouds out Beagle’s west window and, out the east window, giant puffy white clouds, against a bright, cerulean blue sky, lolling around the tips of the jagged, snow-streaked mountains.  That’s Idaho for you.  Ahh, giant rain drops just began falling on Beagle’s roof adding a nice bass note to the melodious creek tumbling along a mere twenty yards away.

Why a parking lot?  First, it is no ordinary parking lot:


It has been a day of changing plans, making good, solid, decisions and living by a few safety rules.

But let’s step back to yesterday for a minute and our exciting night at Bruneau Dunes State Park.  I arrived early in the day and was delighted to see my reserved pitch available.  After a quick parking job, Opus and I headed out to hike the dunes.  It was growing hotter by the minute and the air was heavy with anticipated thunder showers so we stopped and sat on the dock at the small lake.  Looking across the water and up to the “large” dune (as opposed to the “small” dune as they are labeled at the park), I watched the wind pick up the top of the dune and reposition the sand, endlessly changing its shape; there was never a moment when the dune was just as it was before.



When the wind began to really pick up, I knew the storm was headed our way so we hunkered down in Beagle to watch it take over.

 


I sat inside, listening to the wind howl, feeling how it buffeted Beagle side-to-side like she was slowly rolling over nice round rocks—she took all mother nature had to throw at us.  I felt safe and protected.  Outside the west window the young tree was blowing wildly; its thin, tender new branches being thrust one way and then another and all the while the young, bright green leaves, strong with youth and purpose, tossing fiercely in the wind, remained firmly attached to their place in the world.

*

Leaving Bruneau Dunes, I made my first good decision of the day:  Carpe Dump’em.  Never pass up a nice, clean dump station when it is on your way out of a campground. So even though it had only been two nights, I cleaned out the tanks and refreshed my fresh water.

First stop:  Silver Creek Preserve.  I had been daydreaming about paddling around in its serene beauty for weeks.  I drove directly there, Beagle in tow, assuming there would be a large parking area at the Visitor’s Center.  Driving up the dirt and gravel road, I noticed a park volunteer working on a trail and so pulled over to ask for directions.  You know me and gravel roads, we do not get along and I was getting very uncomfortable.  He mentioned that the Visitor’s Center is about another mile up the road and, because I asked, he directed me to the two places at which I could put in Supina—one was just on the other side of the single-lane bridge, near where we were standing.

I gazed at the lovely, dark, softly flowing water and noted the only sounds were those of birds.  I saw no other people on or near the water and made my second good decision:  I opted not to put in Supina.  It was too lovely, really, the thin channel of dark green water and tall reeds; Supina with her bright white and aqua colors would ruin it.  Plus, just the thought of turning on my obnoxiously loud air pump in the midst of such serenity made me cringe.  (You didn’t think I hand-pumped it, did you?  Have we met?) 

To top it all off, the drive to Silver Creek brought me within striking distance of the Sawtooth Mountains and they were calling me loud and clear; I could see them in the distance with their sharply etched peaks greedily holding on to the record snowfall.  I am a mountain girl—it was time to get up to the Sawtooth National Recreation Area and camp in my favorite meadow. 

Or not.

Due to the aforementioned record snowfall, my meadow camp was not open.  Here I made a very un-Kit-like decision:  I stopped in at the ranger station to ask about camping.  To my great disappointment, I learned that none of my planned campgrounds had opened yet (usually they open on May 15—I never thought to call.)  This included my next scheduled stop, Stanley Lake.  The ranger mentioned a couple of places open past Stanley toward Challis but that was over a pass and at least another hour or two away.  And it was nearing 3:00—my stop and stay time.  Clearly the disappointment and fatigue were playing across my face as her next suggestion was this spot, the Spring Creek OHV Parking Area, a mere ten miles up the road.

Then came a very Kit-like decision; I didn’t take her advice.  I drove a few miles into a closed, but not locked, campground and found a spot in which I could maneuver Beagle, albeit through a bit of snow.  After settling her in just right between tall dark green evergreens, I looked to my left and saw, twenty yards away, the raging Big Wood River.  Welcome to my Arsenio Hall moment:  Things that make you go “Hmmmm.”  Camping in a closed campground, within twenty yards of an already raging river during the spring runoff from an epic snow year?  And so, my last and best decision of the day:  I drove out, turned left, and found the recommended Spring Creek OHV Parking. 

As a bonus, a couple who had been in the ranger station with me have also chosen this spot—I had no idea until I took Opus for a walk—this “parking area” is a long (at least a quarter mile), wide, gravel area parallel to Highway 75 but set about fifty yards away, and along the perimeter, facing the lively creek, six or so half-moon shaped areas have been developed for times just like this.  So the only thing I can see out any of Beagle’s windows, are mountains, a creek, three-foot snow banks and an occasional car.  It might not be the day I planned but it is a day of which I have dreampt.

*

When the woman woke, she opened her bedroom door, gazed up at the mountains and into the bright, cerulean blue sky, her world at once vast and serene.  Independence and freedom were hers.

-K

A Speck on a Dot on a Marble in the Sky

  To J. Garmin: May your adventures in retirement be as vast and magnificent as your dedication to healing; safe travels, my friend. Greetin...