The Other Side of the Ocean

I have always wanted to go down the Kickapoo River.

I did not say those words. I don’t know much about the Kickapoo River. There isn’t any river, in fact, that I wanted to go down all my life. But I have been itching to kayak again, ever since my delicious run along the rapids of Languedoc last month.

Ed, I say to the man with the boats and good paddling arms, we need to do a river run.

Most people would perhaps not choose to exert themselves on a day when the temps are crossing the hundred degree mark significantly before noon. Most people would enjoy their air conditioning, their ice cold beer or rose wine, their remote controls, or at the very least their back yards, preferably with the sprinkler on.

I don’t have a back yard. To get close to nature, I need to leave town.

Most people, when they do choose to do strenuous activities on a day when the temps are crossing the hundred degree mark very early in the day, set out even earlier. Not me. I have to eat my granola, drink my latte, study any number of things on the Internet. Indeed, Ed and I are famous for starting late on our hikes.

By 11 a.m. we are speeding due west in Ed’s pickup truck, kayaks and bikes bouncing in the back for the several hour trip to the Kickapoo. I feel very regional-seasonal, what with the rolled down window of the old pickup truck, and the radio crackling loudly as it tries to reach for fleetingly available stations.

We leave our bikes at the point where we will finish our trek down the river. We drive up to a bridge some miles up and unload the kayaks.

The Kickapoo has the reputation of being the crookedest river in the world. Maybe. It did seem to twist and turn an awful lot. It’s also not boring. Heavily wooded banks…





…sandstone cliffs, ferns and firs…









And the usual water wildlife. Nothing to get nervous about… [This guy is staring at me, challenging me with his tongue, I swear! Or so it seemed at the time.]





But it most certainly was hot. At times I felt I was floating down the Mississippi, oh somewhere around Mississippi, the state. I doubt the Kickapoo looks anything like the Mississippi, the state, but still, I imagine southern rivers to feel like this on a hot summer day:





In sunny spots, it’s all you could do to keep your clothes on. Empty stretches of river, the hot sun on your shoulders – oh, to be in southern France again and let that wind cool your skin from all sides!





But no. This isn’t the Mississippi, this isn’t the Mediterranean, this is the Kickapoo in Wisconsin.
Oh, watch it! Move! (Does my insurance cover kayak collision with cows?)(Paddle furiously backwards.)







where is everyone?


It was near 6 by the time we reach the landing where we had deposited our bikes. Four solid hours of paddling in the 100 plus plus temps calls for a pause. We are in the village of LaFarge, population 775. Nothing much happening on a Sunday evening in LaFarge when the thermometer is still registering 99 (yep; note the numbers in photo below). Wait, there’s always a bar to be found.

Can you go inside and see what this one is like?
Nina, if I am going inside, I’m staying inside. This isn’t like a restaurant that you check out to see if the décor and menu are appropriate.





Inside, the AC is running hard. The air is a musty cool, saturated with the heady combination of tobacco, beer and fried foods. Gunsmoke is up on the two TV screens. The bar tender comes over to take our orders. He catches our glance up at the screens.

Sorry, not much else on on a Sunday evening.

We order Spotted Cows (the beer), french fries and pretzels. A sign reads “good eats!” Fries seem like the best bet.

Outside, the air is still. I had worried about storms (Will I get hit by lightening? I don’t know, Nina), but sometime when we were out on the river, the last cloud disappeared and the sky turned a solid blue. We bike back along the old highway. The sun is low, the colors are sublime.
















The truck is there, we load up, go back for the kayaks and head due east. It’s dark now – the stars are out. Ed wants to stop for an ice cream bar at a Kwik Trip. Heath Crunch. Save the Last Dance for Me on the radio, sticky everything from the heat, Heath Crunch melting fast in the warm pickup. Am I living the American life, or what?

Please do not ask of me to post more than this sentetence: my day had it all -- sweltering heat (upwards of 100), grueling upper-body, then, just to make it complete, lower body muscle work, snakes, birds, fallen trees, beer with the locals... In other words, it was full.

I am home, it is midnight. Tomorrow morning, I will think about all this again. Til then.

Yesterday I set out to Rubin’s off the Square to buy a chest of drawers. I took Mr.B not because I thought I could cart it back home in one of his saddle bags, but because I had another errand to run nearby (framing my treasured canvases from Pierrerue) and parking is always tough downton.

I did not find it to be a problem to cart two large canvases on a bicycle. I put them in an extra large trash bag and they sort of flopped like a sail as I sped along Washington Ave.

At Rubin’s, they did not have a chest of drawers for me. But there was one at the far west Rubin’s. So I biked there to take a look.

It was close to 100 degrees yesterday, but Mr.B has his own air conditioning system (it’s called the wind as you speed along) and so I did not mind.

At the far west side Rubin’s, I fell in love with a lamp. It has a large glass shade with orange and blue splashes of color. I purchased it on the spot.

Can I wrap it for you in bubble wrap? – the salesperson asks.
If you wrap it in bubble wrap, it wont fit into Mr. B’s saddle bags.
(I know, I have just made Mr.B sound like a horse, but what else do you call those big bags over his rear wheel?)
How is it that you’re taking this?
On a bike. If I fall, it will crack no matter how much bubble wrap you puff it out with. But I haven’t fallen for more than a year so chances are good that lamp and I will make it home.

Lamp is heavy. I push forward, pausing to buy several ears of corn at a stand, a baguette at Wild Grains and a jug of rose wine at Steve’s. At Border’s I refresh myself with a latte.

At Whole Foods I pick up some olives. I come out with more than just olives and as I stand contemplating how I can stretch the saddle bags even further out to accommodate the additional nectarines and pea pods, someone comes up and tells me: your bike attracted quite the attention a few minutes ago. People were talking about whom it may belong to.

Don’t others routinely ride around on bikes with bright yellow fenders in 100 degree days with lamps and baguettes sticking out of their saddle bags and jugs of wine and ears of corn packed tightly in between?




This morning I was out of my superman clothes and going about as if life was normal and the world was full of happy children holding sunflowers and orange balloons. I left Mr.B at home.





UPDATE (in response to commenters): the lamp:

Much has been written about Madison’s newest bistro-like eatery, Sardine (same chefs, same owners as Marigold Kitchen). Click on virtually any blog around town and you’re going to come across a comment or a review. Okay, maybe that overstates things a bit, but I swear, I’ve seen stuff out there in fistfuls, it seems.

So I had to try it.

I love a good bistro. You’re not supposed to be wowed by the food. You’re just supposed to think -- now that was one nicely cooked dinner! And I thought just that.

I do not want to write a review here – I don’t really want to go into detail about how the grilled to a delicate crisp sardines were dazzling in a lemon and olive oil sauce and how the salmon swam in a sea of flavorful lentils, wilted spinach and many chunks of portabella mushrooms. My writing style is way too placid to do justice to a good eating place and so I’ll back off and let others write great things about dishes such as this one:





I do want to note one thing, in case others have forgotten to say it. Sardine has energy! Look how many young and with it people are hopping around and slicing bread and what not, while other very with it looking people are lapping it all up (were this a review, I would draw your attention to the yummy cauliflower soup with the drizzle of olive oil):




Some blogger, can’t remember which one – sorry – compared it to Balthazar’s in NY. I have passed Balthazar’s numerous times because it’s close to a subway stop I use to get to the general Village area in the city. It always looks packed and everyone looks pleased to have landed a reservation. So in that way alone the comparison seems apt. There, I favorably compared Sardine to one of NY’s hippest bistro-like places!

Another blogger – again, can’t remember who, sorry sorry – said that the décor is way common, what with the exposed beams and the brick walls. Well I live in a building that looks much like that and I have to say, if it’s good enough to live in, then it’s good enough to eat in.

(By the way, may I again repeat how nice it is to live in a loft with tall windows and skylights? In the summer, the place shouts: light! Riding by on my bike today, I looked up at my window and smiled.)




So, I am happy to add Sardine to my list of reasons not to cook. And no, I’m not simply being all chipper about it because they had all these bottles of red stuff:

It is still dark. I force myself to sit down to work. I click on the forecast. Hot, humid days ahead. Good. I need them. I need to feel saturated so that November (and the winter months thereafter) does not seem like such a disappointment.

My workmen gather (how quickly they have become “mine!” Repetition breeds familiarity. I work, they come outside my window and drink coffee, there at 5:30, every morning. Hi guys.)




What are the colors of today’s sunrise? When I was little, I used cornflower blue to outline puffy clouds on pictures. They must not have been sunrise clouds for these are bordered in pink or orange.

The sun has crossed the horizon. At this time of the year, it comes up smack in the middle of the cut up tree. I feel sorry for the tree – it is tall and beautiful but it made the mistake of growing by electric cables and so it has been made to look like a wishbone of a chicken.




I take Mr. B to work. The saddle bags which carried 35 lbs of groceries yesterday (I balanced another 10 lbs on the handlebar) are carrying texts needed for class this day. And cookies.

Class moves along nicely. The students offer wise and sensible comments. It feels like a conversation. Summer classes, I learn, are more relaxed. I could wear shorts and it would be okay. (I do not. I like summer skirts.)

Suddenly we hear a rumble. Another. More like a roar. Out of nowhere an orange dot has appeared over Madison (so tells me a student who happened to click on the weather site, with radar indicating a newly developing storm).

Class ends. It is pouring outside. What happened to the pretty little clouds outlined in pink and orange?

It lets up a little. I go out. The Bascom Mall sidewalk is somewhere there, beneath a layer of water.




Mr.B looks miserable. His saddle bags are drooping. I had left my helmet out, on his handlebars. I squeeze the strips and let the water out. Why bother? It is wet, everything is wet. And as I get on his wet seat, I see that things are about to get even wetter.

It is raining again. The temperature has dropped from a morning high of 86 to a now not so warm 70. I see that there is flooding on University so I peddle down to Dayton. It’s worse there. I am reminded of biking to work in winter. Get me indoors already! And please, let me not take a tumble now!




I manage by moving on and off of sidewalks. I try to protect my camera. I myself am beyond wet.

All I can think of is the café on Main Street where they know my favorite drink.

At last. I look ridiculous, I know. Like I've been freshly oiled for a wrestling match. I am not beyond posting ridiculous looking photos of me, taken by me at the café. They are used to my oddities there. I always ask for an extra hot latte, even in hot and humid summer days. If you get it extra hot it lasts longer.

…that I cannot sit through a class without getting ridiculously hungry? Even if (especially if) I am the one teaching?

It can be rationalized this way: working on a new course keeps me up all hours. Recent studies indicate that the less you sleep, the more you eat. So true. I have made five separate trips to the grocery store in the last week and still, the fridge seems empty. The culprit? Me.

[Today I remedied that. I rode Mr. B to Whole Foods and panted back with 45 pounds worth of groceries. How do I know it was 45? I weighed in when I returned just to see how many pats on the back I should give myself.]

So why this sudden appetite? Well, if I start having breakfast thoughts at 5 a.m. (actually at 2, but I disregard the early nudge toward granola), then surely, by 10 a.m., I cannot ignore the gnawing feeling that it should be dinnertime soon.

Today I asked my class during break this (n.b. the class runs two and a half hours, three days in a row each week, hence the insane amount of work on nights before; please, no comments about how, had I not hiked, biked or bought bread from the bread lady in Languedoc, perhaps I could have had a more sane month now):
Is it just me, or is anyone else really hungry?
It’s you. (They are an honest lot.)
(I was not deterred. I continued): you know, during my Spring Semester seminar, people brought food to share…
(silence)
…(sigh) I suppose it was different: late afternoon classes require sustenance…
(finally, on a sympathetic note): I was in that class. People brought whole meals!
(with hope in my heart): we don’t have to quite go that far…
(a voice pipes in): I could bake scones…
(another one): I’ll pass a sign up sheet.

And that’s how I got to have in front of me a summer session of good eating. I promised, in exchange, a long enough break so that we could run down the hill and pick up decent coffee. It’s only fair.

It is Tuesday, barely after 5 in the morning. I am at my table, facing the window. These are teaching weeks for me and I need the concentrated quiet of the night and morning to move my lecture notes along.

I have before me a familiar sight. Across the railroad tracks there is a dirt lot. The nearby construction projects have the men leave their cars here for the day and so each morning, before six, you start to hear the quiet rumble of one truck or SUV after another as they pull into empty spaces.

I am surprised this morning because it is barely 5:30. I know they start work at 6. Why so early? The sky is still a musty shade of dark.

A small group gathers at the head of a truck. They have their lunches – mountains of food in coolers big enough to feed my whole family for a great many days. One or two are smoking, a handful are drinking what must be coffee from travel mugs.





They’re not in a hurry. Words drift up to my window. One man leans on the car, another paces a little.

They come here this early to begin the day exactly like this, standing around, talking, much in the way that Parisian men will leave for work a little earlier just so they can stop first at the local café bar for a shot of espresso.

Just on this one day, I wouldn’t be surprised if both were talking about the same thing – the victory of the American at the Tour de France.

No, this is not a line up of D.C. monuments taken from a tourist destination. It’s the rooftop view from a downtown office building.




I visited it this morning, curious about the working habits and environments of the many who keep long professional hours here. I’m thinking of those who start the morning with a Starbucks (or Starbucks-look-alikes),




…drop off dry-cleaning, work intensely, then break for lunch, out with co-workers, or at their desks if the workload is high. Long hours, not much food in the fridge back home, not much time to prepare it. Sometimes, a dinner out, especially if a parent or two are in town, visiting…




It’s not a bad set of routines if you like your work. The person I tracked to her office this morning does like her work.

If only this were true for all others... So many more hours are spent on work than on any other set of tasks. So many people, forced to work at jobs they hate.

On the Metro back to the airport I looked at the face of this man, getting on at the Pentagon stop. Polished shoes, a nametag that reads "Smith," unrevealing eyes. Does he like his job as well?

Oh, travel. An early flight, then another, coffee before, counting the hours so that it would be time for a refill.

Airports. Did I really pick up a reservation for DC – Dulles instead of DC – National? Damn. Can I change it now? I paid 50,000 miles for this – think of it: fifty trips one way and the other, countless hours stuck between coughing, snoring passengers.

I am at National. Thank you, airline, for letting me switch.

I need to get downtown. People are in a hurry. Or, as I noted before, they wait. It is in the nature of things. Find a spot, stretch out, wait for something significant to happen. So what’s her hope?




According to the Smithsonian museum poster boards, those involved with the work of the zoo are there for a purpose and that purpose is not only to make the animal feel good while the hours pass by. It is also to understand what makes the animals tick. To know their habitat, to help them get up and running from one minute to another.

The crowd control to see the baby panda works well. Before and after, kids are snapping up a modest number of mamma bear mementos (father bear is an unspeakable ass to be staying away from the baby, as he routinely does).




Good foods, clear skies, tired me. I should have nibbled on some bamboo on my way up here.

Contentment. Easy to find, no? If you are visiting daughters, it’s a breeze. It’s all over the place.

My pals were still cavorting back in Chicago, but at midnight, I finally stopped playing, stopped eating…

[Q: where am I? what am I eating?]




…and took a taxi to my overnight spot and crashed. Just for a small while. In the wee hours of the morning, I caught the early bus out to Madison, making it here in time to catch the tail end of this:





…against the backdrop of this week’s storm damage:





…but more importantly, in time to show up promptly for my appointment with the genius of color, Jason.

It had been three months since I had seen him. I am more addicted to monthly visits with him than I am to either lattes or wine with dinner and that’s saying a lot. Still, my travels had kept me away and, shock to my system that it was, once, at the beginning of June, I forced myself to visit a French salon, to touch up that, which the sun refused to bleach and match with the rest.

I expected to witness a look of horror on Jason’s face when we first faced each other, but he is a cool guy and he looked, for the most part, unfazed (I’m sure I saw an ever slight tightening of the jaw muscle, but just for a fleeting second).

You want to try to match all this? – he asked, picking up strand after strand of hair that had reached a very golden retriever like shade, from the combination of south France sun and high Rockies rays.




Yes, don’t you think it’s a good look for the summer?
Playful, sure. Can we let go of some of the copper tones and bring out some deeper shades from the back of the head?

I knew he wouldn’t like the copper tones. Right now, my head has so many shades that I could not possibly sift and sort through it all.

You pick! – I said. I sensed that this would sit well with him. Jason likes to be entrusted with the whole business.

And you’ll let me put some shape into the cut as well? More pointed and even on both sides?
(A slight dig at the cutting talents of French stylists, I think.)
Yes, yes of course. You’ll fix it, wont you?

I could tell he was mellowing. He started to speak positively of the French, admitting to wanting to visit Paris this fall. I didn’t push things. I continued to insert a few mocking comments directed at the salon I had visited in Montpellier (do you know that they reused a hairbrush that had detangled the hair of another patron?) just to keep the good vibes flowing.

The evening rolled in with storms again. Not the strength of those that knocked down trees on Capitol Square, but still, ones with loud rolls of thunder. But between Jason and me, there was peace. I like it that way. Note the surreptitious grin on his face as I quickly snuck in a photo on my way out.

I can’t make up my mind. The couple of people I’m hanging out with in Chicago show signs of being heavy party types, ready for a wild ride…



afternoon hurricanes


…and at other times, the ride settles down to a smooth and tame stroll. You know, as-conventional-as-apple-pie.

Or, Apple computers. Yes, a highlight of this afternoon was to play with stuff at the Apple store.



Ocean author, Tonya Show author

It has been, in addition, an eating kind of day. (Oh please, act surprised.) When the skies start with the drizzle and you’re right around the corner from Heaven on Seven, you sit down and order batter-fried soft shell crab and eat.



how do you choose the right sauce?

When you travel from smaller cities to bigger ones, the connections are harrowing. Get yourself to the bus station. Take the tedious, overly-airconditioned bus to O'Hare. Then figure out a quick way to get downtown.

Waiting. For travelers, there is always a lot of waiting. If you are like me, there is less waiting and more dashing to make connections.

This morning, I ran into O'Hare to get a latte fix before heading downtown. Predictably, at O'Hare, others were also engaged in the act of waiting.

A friend is celebrating her birthday today (and, actually, the next day and the next and a few days before – she believes in noting milestones). In two weeks, one of my daughters is turning twenty-five. Yet another friend despises birthdays, arguing that each and every day should be celebrated with vim and vigor.

I’m panting to keep up with the handful of birthdays that cross my calendar. I was late with my father’s 80th (he lives in Poland – for a minute I believed, wanted to believe, that they are seven hours behind us rather than ahead, clockwise), I’m sure I missed the opportunity to be especially nice to people who had spring and summer birthdays and have done nothing special for them in ages.

To be on a birthday high year-round? To be chirpy and effervescent, to pick up rounds of drinks, to hand out flowers –daily? No, I couldn’t do it. Even your kids, at their youngest, permit you an hour off every year or so to be without inhibition (meaning grumpy and mean). Being toward another as if it were her or his birthday each day would be as stressful as facing five grizzlies on a hiking path, which you did not notice because you were preoccupied with fending off a herd of charging elk.

But tomorrow, I am on! I can do a day’s worth of good behavior. See you in Chicago, TTC!

I wonder just how many Ocean readers have muttered – oh big deal. So she pressed her pointy, released the shutter and posted. Blog posts on Mediterranean countries and the Canadian Rockies write themselves.

Of course, my various traveling companions would say – it may be easy for others, but not for the Ocean author. She can take forever with her posts! Much of her time appears to be spent staring mournfully at the screen of her laptop. An interesting way to pass away the hours…

Okay, so I am up for a challenge. If it’s easy to cover my rambles around the Mediterranean and the Rockies, let me see if there is anything original that I can note about Chicago or DC. My itinerary for the next four days looks like this: Madison, Chicago, Madison, DC, Madison. I know, there are more stopovers in there than there are days. Somehow it will all fit.

Someone asked me – why the Madison interlude right there in the middle? My answer: it’s because of Jason. I am to see my man Jason on Saturday, after a three month absence. Since my last cut and color, I have gone from Jason-picked brunette to Mediterranean-bleached blonde to Montpellier-tinted a little bit of everything.
The colors of the world. But the reality is that on Tuesday I have to face a class and I am determined that I should look more, well, normal.

Ah well. This is my final acquiescence to the reality of work and order. My hair has survived the hot sun across the ocean and the glacier waters of Canada. And now it has to again get used to the routine of wake up, shower, work, eat, sleep. For one day anyway.

A hoary marmot hibernates eight to nine months out of each year. I think this is a hoary marmot:





It may be the environment that makes him (her?) into such a sleepy little beast because last night, up there near the summit of Mount Robson I slept twelve hours straight. In the one and a half person tent no less (meaning, conditions weren’t ideal).

The previous night I fared less well. We reached our campsite just as the clouds spilled their waters on us. Things were wet and clammy inside the tent and at sunrise, the temperatures plummeted to below freezing. That night, for only the second time during this trip, I felt crying might not be a bad idea (the first, of course, was up there on the mountain ledge some days back).

Ed, of course, failed to see the reason for any expression of great sadness. Wet tent? What are you gonna do. Take out a book and read. My book was clamped shut from the water and I refused to pry open its pages.

The thing is, you have to expect sudden clouds and storms up there near Mount Robson’s summit. This is the highest peak of the Canadian Rockies and it makes up its own weather patterns. And, nearly 50% of the time the peak itself remains under cloud cover. So that on the approach the views are often like this:





But on Sunday, the clouds took a trudge. We had timed our final ascent well. Hugging the Robson River, milky aqua from the “rock flour” that it picks up along the way…





…we made it all the way up to the base of the glaciers racing down the mountainside.





Fine, they weren’t really visibly racing. But every once in a while you’d hear an explosion and a few feet of snow and rock would cascade down in your direction. Forget about fear of bears. I was certain an avalanche would happen if we so much as sneezed. I hated the two hikers who passed with double-duty bear bells. If you ask me, it was like an invitation for the snow and rock to come crashing down on us all.



courageous climber attends to hair for photo


Still, a preoccupation with the peak(s) leads you sometimes to neglect what’s there at your feet. These guys, swaying gently at the river’s edge – such a nice balance to the rocky summits surrounding them:





Or, the thin ribbons of water, coming together to form a lake:




Or the mosses and flowers. Please let me give due recognition to the gorgeosity of the little things that grow up there.








Alright, let me get to the pressing question. When you come back from a Canadian wilderness trip, people want to know about the animals that you encountered. Face to face. My score sheet:

Lots of marmots (see post below and photo above). And plenty of fat little red squirrels who ate anything that you would leave outside your tent. A coyote running across the road. Birds that swim underwater to get their grub (such talent):





And the dramatic elk who take such pride in showing me their rears.





The bears as well. Five grizzlies were frolicking on the beach near our first campsite. No photo taken. Moving closer just so you, Ocean reader, could see a grizzly at play seemed, well, foolish. Here we were spending money on bear mace to fend the beasts off --- the least we could do is not get in their face when they were gracious enough to leave us alone.

The showstoppers, according to me, were the mountain goats that we encountered just today. I violated the three-bus rule just for a second, and I could well have trudged even closer than the two and a half bus lengths that I did, so intent were they on nibbling on grass roots. They cared not at all about me being there and they’ll never know that I am awarding them the Ocean medal for cuteness of the week.





So, perhaps you want to know my final verdict on camping. A qualified thumbs up. Leaky tent is going out with the trash. New acquisitions: deep blue Fontana rain jacket, 10 degree REI sleeping bag were a make it or break it thing. They gave me warmth. They gave me comfort. I love them to pieces.

Canadian yellow day pack and equally golden toned walking stick were also a smashing success.





I know, I know, so American to find solace in these acquisitions. I tallied up the cost of the above, threw in the cost of my backpack and came up with a total that would just about cover one night’s stay at the Four Season’s hotel in some splendid destination.

Still, I would do it again for the feeling of accomplishment. For the push forward with the stick when the body says – no way, leave me alone. For the fantastically buoyant hair that is the result of a wash in the ice cold glacier waters of the brook. So cold that the head hurts after the first rinse. For the roasted garlic bread and the tomato, lugged to some desolate spot with a view that beats all. For the sweetly fragrant pine forests, for the animals crossing your path, the quiet, the incredible quiet – I would do it all over again.

But there has to be a defined path, a rain-proof tent and an effective, pleasant smelling bug repellant.

And don’t forget a hiking companion who isn’t freaked at the same moment that you are by some incredibly dangerous (according to me) situation.
Will we get struck by lightening?
Hmm. Probably not.
Will I get eaten by a bear?
I don’t think so.
Isn’t that bear hair?
It’s tree moss.
It’s damn wet in here!
So it is. Read a book.
Will I make it up there to the top?
You can scream up and down a mountain faster than anyone.

Oh, and a decanted bottle of Canadian white. Not a necessity, but it helps.


It's Tuesday. Time to head back home.

There aren’t many who will begin a steep, four hour hike at 4:35 in the afternoon. I can offer excuses, but I think they are rather predictable. Blogging, morning rain showers, waiting to make sure Ed is up for a hefty climb, etc.

Maybe it isn’t the way to do a hike, but I am convinced that late beginnings can deliver some pretty nice surprises.

Yesterday we had an empty trail, a magnificent display of varied clouds and a receding sun, deer coming out of the forest to graze and, from the summit, this:





Still, I know when I will have the hatchet come down on me: if today I spend another morning on the computer and we get to the ranger’s station at the trail head too late to get a camping permit for the next two nights, I am sure to get that look from Ed that will dampen my day even more than the clouds over the mountaintops. So, just this quick post and an early start to the last three day hike of our trip.

So how many wild things do you really see out there in the Canadian Rockies? Marmots, okay, but how about something larger?

I can deliver larger. Just north of Jasper I came head to butt with an elk. Luckily he was more interested in leaf munching than in charging. Me, I was fearless: I took a photo the requisite three bus lengths away (the law so states). [I was also, at the time, close to the car in case said elk decided not to like me.]





Also on this day I passed by this lovely scene: a mountain sheep keeping tabs on things from her (his?) perch up here:





And after my hike I nearly bumped into these guys. They were so close that I wanted to shout out – hey, keep three bus lengths away or I’ll get ticketed!





Ed was less impressed with the above. He claims he can see deer any time he wants to from his sheep shed outside of Madison. Ho hum. I happen to have visited his little farm a number of times and I have never seen deer anywhere near it. Besides, do we even know if this is a deer rather than a baby elk?

I definitely thought Ed should have been more impressed with the long-horn sheep, given his own sheep abode, but he hrumphed at that as well and suggested that maybe it wasn’t real. Ed, cameras don't lie. Besides, a few paces further, we encountered these:





I’m thinking Ed was just being contrary, due to the fact that he was quite sick yesterday, tough hiker that he is. Me, I’m fine. Ed, on the other hand, basically slept the day away.

Not that he didn’t try to get himself moving. It was obvious to me that it was a no go for him, but there he was with his hiking manual insisting that he was up for a two hour straight up climb to the summit of Sulphur Mountain. I nodded benevolently and said things like sure and fine knowing damn well that two steps into the hike he’d collapse.

Two steps into the hike he collapsed. You go on, he tells me, I’ll just go back and sleep in the car.

So what would a decent human being do?

Obviously any good soul would say – oh no, I’ll not hike either then. I’ll come back to the car with you and watch you sleep.

But I rationalized heading out without him thus: obviously he would fee so guilty and sad if I gave up this late afternoon little climb. Feeling guilty and sad would not help him mend. Therefore, ever so reluctantly I patted him on the shoulder, reminded him where the car was and resumed my climb.

The views were fantastic: a 360 degree panorama of mountains and vales.



blue flowers, blue mountains



yellow flowers






Of course, that 360 degree panorama meant that the wind came at you from every possible direction. My nifty blue windbreaker, setting off a carefully selected bright yellow day pack was much appreciated. Luckily, one other hiker made it to the Sulphur Summit at the same time and so I could ask him to document the blue and yellow combination for posterity.





Guilt caught up with me up there on the mountaintop and so I basically ran down to attend to the ill one. I am good at fast descents. Ed says I scream down mountain trails. I like the image of a silent screamer.

We drove back to Jasper (on a slowly leaking tire, but neither of us wants to take the time to fix it; we simply pull into gas stations and pump it up every 100 kms or so) and I displayed my most angelic side: I volunteered to microwave organic chicken broth for the sick one. With water crackers for an extra special treat.

Then I went out and forced myself to eat at a place in Jasper that served excellent spicy shrimp with warm corn and tomatoes. With a small jug of Canadian wine.

North of Banff, in the Yoho National Park I encounter three marmots playing. They scuffle and roll over each other and eventually scamper away.



it's a lazy day...



hey guys...



playtime?



three in a tumble


It is scenes like this that push you up those steep inclines. Because out there on the craggy slopes, you may be lucky enough to run into marmots.

Our second hike up into the mountains was a knock-out winner. Yes, sure, there were the marmots. And the ptarmigans.



mama ptarmigan



...her chick


And the meadow of Alpine wildflowers, possibly the highpoint of the entire Canadian venture. Picture this: you have been climbing endless hundreds of meters, you have downed endless bottles of stream water, your backpack feels like it has a whole family of marmots in it. No, worse, bears –a whole pack of bears loaded in there. And so you are tired as anything. You want to stop for lunch, but where? You round the corner and suddenly you are intoxicated not by the wine that Nina lugged to the campsite the night before, but by this:




lunch spot



stretch out



...and inhale


This two day loop had other things going for it as well. The mosquito population is significantly lower up here north of Banff. And bear poop does not line every trail.

And since this is an upbeat post, let me give an A+ to the Canadian National Park System, because the trail maintenance up here is just superb. (Equally high marks for the people who hike and camp here. Not a drop of litter anywhere.)

We had been afraid that out here in the national parks (as opposed to the Provincial back country, where we had hiked the first days of our trip) we would encounter crowds. Not so. Yesterday, we saw not a single person on the trail. The campgrounds are empty during the week. The lakes, meadows and forests are all yours. A private viewing.



camping spot: empty Yoho Lake



these are everywhere: like having a bad hair day?


If you have the energy to get to the summits, you will get that feeling of being a tiny thing against the expanse of mountain, water and sky.



glacier, falls, flowers



little me (makes it to the summit!)



Ed faces glacier


But what’s a post without a few complaints thrown in! Okay, so the bug population can recede some more. And the weather could be more consistent – none of this sunshine one day and chilling rains the next. Oh, and forget about filling up on MaryJane’s organic mac and cheese. That tiny serving is called a portion and a half? You have got to be kidding. Maybe for the two year old in your group. And I have to repeat my suggestion that you do not go camping with a companion who is twice your size in height and body muscle and share with him a tent that is designated for a person and a half. You especially should not do that if said camping companion fidgets at night.

A few dos: decanting a bottle of wine into a plastic little jug is a great idea. Packing organic hot chocolate is an even better one. Dried mango pieces rule! A water filter for your bottle turns every babbling brook into a great new water supply without any old nasty iodine tablets. My list of 100 helpful tips for a successful camping experience in the Canadian Rockies is a work in progress. I can’t decide whether I should distribute it at a charge or whether it would be my contribution to the well-being of others. Maybe it would increase the number of Americans coming up here. Just about all the hikers we have encountered have been Canadians and European types (with a few Japanese in the more popular resort areas). Don’t quite know why. Certainly not because the views from the mountaintops are not grand enough for a trek up here.





I’m writing from Jasper now – a northern town of about 5000. Jasper is linked with Banff via “the most beautiful road in the world.” Truly, it is that. If you have this thing against highways (as I do) – if they put you to sleep, or worse, if they bring up feelings of revulsion at the whole SUV-gas prices-fast-road-food thing, then do yourself the favor of driving this lonely stretch of road for the 240 kilometers that it takes to get from Banff to Jasper.

Called the Icefields Highway, it passes through the largest glacier ice field south of the Arctic Circle. And yes, you can get up close and personal to it. You can even trample over the edges, though there are signs telling you about instant death if you move up much into this melting, receding mass of snow and packed ice.



a few drive right up to the glacier...




...and hike up to take a close look



...and take a tentative step, just at the edge


But the ice fields are only part of the beauty of this road. The scenery changes constantly and each bend brings you to another spectacular mountain vista. And another. And another.





Of course, there are animals in that Canadian pine and aspen thicket. This is the land of caribou, of mountain goats and wolves and cougar. And don’t forget about the bears.

So am I done with the bear topic? No. Hiking here is all about keeping an eye toward a possible bear encounter. I’ve seen it all – people with bear bells, hikers clapping madly every five steps, mace in everyone’s pack. The forest rangers make you listen to the bear spiel each time you book a spot to pitch your tent. Shout “hey bear!” each time you round the corner. Do not look the bear in the eye. Back away. Store your food up in the bear poles. Watch out, where there are berries, there will be bears!





So you get a bit antsy out there in the woods. An odd shape ahead and you think – bear!





So far though, none have come near us. I’m plenty bear-aware, believe me, but somehow I cannot get myself to shout out “hey bear!” around each bend. And the more common tracks on the trail look like this:





Don’t know quite what they are. Mountain sheep? Wolf? I’ll let you know when I come face to face with whatever wild thing this may be.

This is what adventure travel is all about, Ed tells me in the morning, as we sit in the one-and a half person tent, watching the puddles form on the floor, on our sleeping pads, underneath our backpacks. I am huddled in a small heap, trying to avoid the soggy, dripping surfaces. Everything around me is wet.

Still, I am feeling very lucky. The previous afternoon I was also sitting in a heap, near the ridge of a mountain, incapable of moving in any direction.

No, it wasn’t the bears that broke my spirit. Oh sure, there are grizzlies, including on our campsite. Their droppings are everywhere. But they are elusive. Yesterday, the ranger fired mace at one who advanced toward her on a trail, but typically they hide when they hear you coming. They certainly hid when Ed and I made our way up the trail. Not one challenged us in the dense forests of the Canadian Rockies.

And it wasn’t the length, nor the steepness of the hike that broke me. It should have crushed my spirit: the trail was unbelievably difficult. Fallen timbers blocked the path countless times so that we were forced to go cross country and make our way through the thick forest bed.



where is the trail?


Creeks were impassable, and the mosquitoes! Oh, the mosquitoes! You could not stop without having them zip in on you from all sides.

But no, it was not the climb, not the fallen timbers, not Ed’s busted water bottle, not the bears, nor the bugs – none of these were responsible for turning me into a weeping heap up there on the mountain.

So what happened?

We were on our second day. We had had a decent rest, having barricaded ourselves against the mosquitoes. We passed on cooking dinners or breakfasts, preferring to munch on granola and nuts, zipped in the tent to avoid the bug attack.

In the morning, I pushed back the tent flap to see this:





I managed an icy wash down by the lake. Amazing. Second day into the hike and I feel clean!





I’m spry and ready for the long trek up the mountain ridge. My backpack feels manageable, my back is not aching under its weight, Ed is playing with his GPS, configuring our destination so that we cannot get lost. Life is good.

Four hours into the climb and we are looking for a break. Life may be good, but we are hungry. One broken water bottle means that we have to ration water and we dare not stop until we find a stream. It takes us that long to come to one, high up, a cascading spray of water, straight from a glacier.

The views are magnificent!





We continue. But now, near the top of the mountain ridge, the terrain suddenly changes. The side of the mountain is a steep drop made up of stones and pebbles. The path is almost non-existent. Each time I take a step, the stones underneath shift and move. If I try to create a ledge, they release beneath me and tumble in a cascade down the side of the mountain. I cannot look down. I do not want to think of the sharp drop to the valley below.

I take one step, then, slowly, another. Ed tells me to lean into the mountain, but there is nothing to hold on to. The rocks keep falling from beneath and grasping for stones only dislodges more from above. Ed has a somewhat better hold. He can dig his heel into the mountain and form a small ledge that will support him. I cannot. The ground keeps falling away from me. If I slide with the pebbles and rocks, I am a gonner.



tumbling stones, no path


I try one more step. The rocks release and cascade down the mountain side. I know I can’t continue. I find a tiny ledge, bury myself into the mountain and cry.

I can’t do it. We are so close to the summit. The glacier is below us, the waterfall is crashing dramatically to the side and I am sitting on a narrow mountain ledge knowing I cannot go forward.

The problem is I cannot go back either. I am stuck. Frozen there at the side of the mountain, with a sheer drop below and a wall of loose pebbles and rocks above me.

Ed is making his way back toward me, coaxing me to rest a minute. A minute? I will rest forever there on that mountain ledge because I cannot move.

But I know I have to move. I have no choice. The risk of tumbling down into the cavernous space has to be balanced against spending the rest of my waking hours up there on the mountain ledge.

Ed tells me to abandon my backpack and to move back one step at a time, throwing my body against the mountain side.

I balk at that. Leave everything? All my belongings? Our one water bottle?

He then offers to carry it for me, but I know that I cannot let him do that. I see him, in my mind’s eye, crashing, rolling down with an avalanche of stones, all because of my backpack.

I strap myself into it and slowly stand up.

Ed reaches for my hand so that I can cling to something when the stones fall away from under my feet. Six inches at a time, we make our way back.

And because life heaps on drama by the plateful, I look up and notice that the clear sky has turned cloudy. Thunder is rumbling on the other side of the mountain.



the summit: so close, but not for me; and suddenly, a storm forms


We are retreating. Slowly but surely I am making my way down, until we are off the precipitous ridge.

We are safe. I collapse by the creek where we had stopped for lunch. We are both exhausted. It is late afternoon and we are up there on the side of the mountain with a storm heading our way. Ed wants to pitch the tent and wait it out. The thought of making the descent back through the forest, past fallen trees and raging brooks is overwhelming. He is tired. Rescuing me took its toll. If my pack is heavy, his is double that.



safe (though not yet from the storm)


It’s time for me to get spirited and peppy. We are now back in the dense forest and there is no clearing to pitch a tent. I don’t even care about the bear droppings, about the bugs, about the fallen limbs. I want us to try to make it back to our base camp.

Ed agrees and we navigate our way back, along the same horrendous track, in reverse.

Eleven hours after leaving our campsite, we are back, pitching a tent in the same spot, fending off mosquitoes, zipping ourselves inside just as the thunder crashes and the storm rolls in.

The next morning, we put on rain gear, pack up our soaking belongings and head to Banff to dry off.


Hiking in the back country. It’s appealing, it really is. Forests, silent but for the sound of birds, green glacier lakes, dazzling peaks, empty campsites – it is as beautiful as it sounds. But hiking the less beaten path can defeat you. It certainly knocked me down flat.

And we had come prepared. Ed is a seasoned hiker. He knows his stuff. And just to be sure, we had stopped to talk to the park ranger before heading out. He hadn’t warned us about the condition of the trail. He had spent the bulk of the time telling us what to do to ward off bears (forget the bell: wasted money – they wont hear it; but do pack pepper spray – it’s the only way to survive an attack).

Is the trail impassible? No, not really. We talked to the one other group of hikers that made it to the top and back. They managed, but they used ice picks and walking sticks to keep their hold.

I am enjoying now the long hot shower at our Banff inn. I am attending to the scratches on my arms and legs, I am scrubbing off the caked dirt and tree sap. Our gear is just about dry.

We sit down to a dinner of cheese fondue. Ed takes out the guide books and reads out loud, excited about the hiking possibilities for tomorrow and the next day. I am amused at his enthusiasm. It rivals mine for the south of France.

We can’t fix the damaged, leaking tent, but the weather looks more promising. And we know to pick a more defined trail, where you can put your foot down and expect the ground to stay solidly there beneath you.



first warm meal in days: fondue in Banff

It’s past midnight but the airport still has people milling around. Doors painted like saloon entrances, posters of rodeos, a woman picks up her bag and pushes back her banner — she is Miss Rodeo Kansas.

A bus takes us to the hotel. The driver has a sheriff’s badge and a cowboy hat.
So you’re busy now with the stampede?
We’re busy all the time. We’re a boom town! You wouldn’t recognize Calgary from year to year!
It’s the oil thing, isn’t it?
Yes, we’re doing well. We have no provincial taxes and we still have a budget surplus!
So what’s there to see with the Stampede?
People really like the chuck wagon races. There’s a lot going on.

At the hotel we get a room that reeks of cigarettes. Ed asks for another. None to be had. A woman comes up out of nowhere. Blood is oozing from her cheek.
You can have my room. It’s a nonsmoking room but I don’t care. We want to be nice to Americans.

How does she know we’re Americans?

This morning I repack everything. Ed watches with amusement. I suppose my small baggie with shampoo, cream and gel looks ridiculous next to his one sliver of all purpose soap. And still I forgot things. A towel for instance.
You don’t need a towel. Use your t-shirt.

My Calgarian reader writes me: you’re lucky you’re here during the Stampede. Everyone is in Calgary for it. You’ll have the mountains to yourselves.

Mmmm… just us and the bears and charging elk.

Ed tells me: do you know we will be traveling for twelve hours just to get to Calgary?

Oh yes. We are frugal travelers and so we will indeed (within minutes, if I can tear myself away from blogging) sit on a bus for four hours to get to Midway Airport in Chicago and then fly south to Denver to pick up the flight there to Calagary. Why? Because Frontier Airlines requires fewer frequent flyer miles for free tickets and that is the route Frontier takes.

Besides, I think it is fitting to travel on Air France when I go to France and on an airline called Frontier when I head for the wild west.

I have no doubt that Calgary is part of the wild west – or at least that it likes to, for one week in July, view itself as such. We are hitting it during stampede week. This is what one guide says about the town we are to ramble around in tomorrow morning:

Every July, Calgary's perennial rough-and-ready Cowtown image is thrust to the forefront when a fever known as Stampede hits town. For 10 days, Calgarians let their hair down--business leaders don Stetsons, bankers wear boots, half the town walks around in too-tight denim outfits, and the rate of serious crime drops. For most Calgarians, it is known simply as The Week (always capitalized). It is a celebration of the city's past--of endless sunny days when life was broncos, bulls, and steers, of cowboys riding through the streets, and saloons on every corner. But it is not just about the past. It's the Cowtown image Calgarians cherish and the frontier image that visitors expect. On downtown streets, everyone is your neighbor. Flapjacks and bacon are served free of charge around the city; normally staid citizens shout "Ya-HOO!" for no particular reason; Indians ride up and down the streets on horseback; and there's drinking and dancing until dawn every night.

I am as certain as there are bears in the mountains that Ed will shy away from placing himself in the midst of crowds of people shouting Ya-HOO at each other. Me, I’m up for it. I got an email from an Ocean reader this morning, a Calgarian, who writes that this week may be somewhat of an exaggeration of what the townfolk are really like.

Personally, I am happy to be going at a time when people are out and about having a good time. Come on: encounters with savage bears in the wilderness, or bulls and steers and wild cows in a rodeo ring – which is more appealing?

It says a lot that Ed would pick the former and I the latter. But he did promise that, true to what the hiking books advise, first stop will be at a Walmarts (I kid you not) where bear mace is the rage.

Message from a friend who camps up in Canada: oh, so you’re going to grizzly country…. Message from friend who has camped all her life: take the threat of bears seriously… etc etc

Read me that paragraph about bears again. I say this to Ed, who had been trying to be convincing about safety issues in hiking the Canadian Rockies.

It says that maybe one person in several years will get mauled by a bear.
One out of what pool? The world population? One of those staying at our desolate campsite?

It says that the fear has reached ridiculous and exaggerated proportions.
Maybe because bears eat people…

It says that charging elks are far more dangerous than encounters with bears.
Add to list: fear of charging elks…

It says it is more likely to happen if you walk quietly and startle a bear…
Ed, you walk quietly. We both walk quietly. No more! I am going to hoot and holler until the ranger chases me down to find out what my problem is.

It says that bears are scared of people…
Well, so now we are even. I am scared of them, they are scared of me. Guess who is likely to win that battle.

It says that only angry bears attack.
And what causes a bear to be angry? I would guess my presence in their environs would be high on the list.

It says that you should avoid going near their resting space.
How do I recognize their resting space? All I know about bears resting is that they like beds that are too small for them. Straight from that great source of wisdom – Goldilocks.

It says that you should hang your food up from a tree.
And does it say how I am to eat it, up there in a tree? And how bears might react to the wafting aroma of organic mac and cheese, with aged cheddar?

It says that they close trails when there are several sightings of bears.
Wouldn’t you say that that is too little, too late?


I’m not going to stand by and wait for the worst to happen. Off I go to Fontana sporting goods store. I am greeted there by a guy who looks like he knows hiking inside out.

Promise you wont laugh. I have a question: what would you recommend to fend off bears?
I suppose I would have been taken more seriously had I not been wearing my work clothes. Woman enters store in nice skirt, pretty French sandals and expresses concern about bears… Alright…

Where are you expecting to find bears?
Up in the Canadian Rockies.
Ah, grizzly country.
Is that a better kind of bear?
No… here, take a look: we sell bear bells. You ring them incessantly to warn bears of your arrival.





I can just see Ed glaring at me as I walk with a bell all day long.

What’s the alternative?
Bear-mace.
Great! Protection! How and when do I use it?
Well, it’s like this: grizzly bear charges at 40 mph; you swiftly reach into your backpack and without a second’s hesitation, pull out the mace, aim it at the charging bear and when he is within 30 feet of you, fire away. But you have to hit him in the eyes or it’s pointless.

Let me get this straight: bear is charging, I know in that instant that it’s mace or die and not batting an eye, I successfully navigate within my pack, take out and uncork the mace and hit (still charging) bear in the eyes?
I’ll take the bear bell. A disgruntled Ed seems less scary than an encounter with a disgruntled bear.
Hope to see you after the trip Stop by and tell us if it worked for you. If you can.

Now what did the Fontana guy mean by that?

Later, a quick phone conversation with Ed:

I bought an anti-bear bell.
Silence.
You are going to be jingling all day long?
Yep. Just pretend you’re hearing sheep. I’m an Alpine sheep, visiting the Canadian Rockies.
It says in the book that bells are ineffective...
Nice try but no bananas. A mere sheep with maybe a flask of wine and a bell.

I feel somewhat better, even if this afternoon, as I was saying good-bye to Tonya I asked her, as one does of a friend, for reassurance purposes—do you think I’ll get eaten by a bear? She hesitated, then answered: I can’t promise you that you wont.

A friend who tells it like it is.

I will never ever get used to the idea of those early-day departures, when the last family member says ‘bye and disappears for another long spell, until the next visit.

To cheer myself up I focus today on addressing my food and sleep needs during the forthcoming camping trip.

Can we resume a search for the perfect sleeping bag? – I ask Ed. We are now only two days away from our departure. The last time we looked was back in April – with no success. Ed thought I should be governed in my selection by weight and price, I thought I should be governed by color. We did also agree that it should keep me warm. No bag satisfied all the above.

At REI, I am overtaken by panic shopping. Forget (for the moment) about sleeping bags. Let’s get back to the eating issue.

I purchased Annie’s packets of mac&cheese at Whole Foods. But we need a big pot to boil water in.
I have a pot. It holds probably a cup and a half.
Annie’s says you need to boil the mac in 6 cups of water!
Maybe we need different mac and cheese. Or, look at this:




We are heading into the wilderness with only one pot that boils only one and a half cups of water at a time? What happened to the rip roaring fire with a nice hefty pot suspended over it and potatoes roasting in the embers?
You do not light campfires these days.
No pots? No campfires? Okay, fine. I will use this opportunity to lose the handful of pounds that joined me in southern France.
You can’t diet on a camping trip.
You can’t camp with a pot that boils only one and a half cups of water at a time.

At least there is success at the sleeping bag front. I love the pale pale green cloth with a touch of orange inside. I’m not too crazy about the idea that sleeping bags are described as mummy-shaped, but I will try not to think about that as I am lying there in the wilderness among savage beasts and poisonous plants. The bag feels cozy and soft – a great place to hide with my sorrows each night if sorrows there be.



testing bags on the REI floor


At Willie Street co-op, we shop for the essential snackie foods. Ed tells me we need about a half a pound per day.
How about dried papaya? I ask
How about trail mix? He asks
How about mango bits? I ask

You get the feeling that there are some very different taste buds going out camping together in a couple of days.

No lattes, no wine. No computer, no shower. Freeze dried salmon and one and a half cups of boiling water per sitting.

Camping sounds fun.

I

Romeo and Juliet is, for me, a tear-jerker to the max. I can relate to emotionally charged, impetuous decisions of the type made by the very young Romeo and the even younger Juliet. Everything for them is so absolute, so final – there are no shades, no gradations. There have been times when I saw my days in just this way.

And that whole bit about arms taking your last embrace? It sets off torrents of tears for me. It’s like when Molly gets to have her last dance with Sam in the movie Ghost, to the track of “Unchained Melody.” I can’t even watch that anymore. Way too sad.

Still, R&J outdoors in Spring Green is Madison magic. Okay, not really Madison, since it’s Spring Green, but it’s magic nonetheless.



walk up to the theater



past flowering meadows


The last time I had watched R&J I was recovering from my most dire medical crisis (brain bleed). Life was so replete with drama that the woes of the Capulets and Montagues seemed like just another horror in the sack of life’s tragedies.

This night it was different. The air was hot, the rose wine for the picnic was chilled – small things that made the evening mellow and calm. It’s easier to take in the drama on stage when the scent of the forest is there to tickle you and chocolate covered vanilla ice cream bars are sold at intermission.





And on the drive back, the fireflies kept the spell alive for just that much longer.


II

Ed tells me: we need to see if the tent is large enough for our camping trip to the Rockies. Can you take a look at it today?

We set up a light little bundle of canvas and poles in the small lakefront park across the street from my loft.

How many is this supposed to sleep? It looks awfully tiny…
It’s described as being adequate for one and half.
Fantastic. It’s good for one person and a dog. Can you even fit in this thing?

I want to note here that Ed is a solid 6 foot 4 inches. He dominates spaces far larger than this one.
I am skeptical. I climb in and try to imagine what it would be like zipped up there for a whole night.




Are these little dots on the bottom the beginnings of rips? How old is the tent anyway?
I guess there are tiny holes... It is pretty old -- so old that when I called the company to ask about parts, they didn’t even have this particular model in the database.

Small and ancient and with holes. I’m sold.

What else can I say? I am not the one who will be carrying this thing. The tent is light, the hike is steep. How fair is to ask for bigger and brighter accommodations, maybe with a tad fewer holes in the floor? Ah... frugal Ed.

I just hope it never rains in the Rockies.

III

A new eating place in Madison? Let’s try it.

I admit it, last night was my first foray into the Overture Center for the Arts. There are many reasons for my avoidance of it. It became sort of like daily blogging – I wondered how long I could continue the trend, of abstinence, in the case of the Overture Center (even as I passed it almost daily on the way home from work).

It figures that a new restaurant on the terrace would finally pull me inside.

I’m a fan of good views and bright spaces and Fresco, the restaurant up there by the MOCA (Museum of Contemporary Art) terrace has both.





The place has a kitcheny feel to it: it’s all techy white and chrome and there aren’t fussy table cloths nor fussy wait-persons. It's all straightforward and to the point. The food is pricey, but not up there with l’Etoile or Delmonico's or any of the other high-end establishments and that’s good because you can forgive unfussy preparations so long as they don’t break your budget.

I ate spicy shrimp and mushroom-crusted halibut and I wolfed down a giant tart with cream and strawberries and I sipped an espresso and admitted to myself and anyone who would listen (for once I was not dining alone) that Fresco is good and robust and very lively. I like the noisiness of it. I like anything that knocks down stuffiness in eating places, especially those located in buildings that aspire to be great Art Centers with expensive tickets to great performances.



halibut with a black trumpet crust, over scallion risotto


It is a shame that the name reminds me of the diet soft drink of the seventies, but maybe that’s just me. I was addicted to Fresca once upon a time and its flavor lingers on my palate with all the memories of coming to the States with a single suitcase and $200 on a hot July night exactly thirty five years ago.

Happy Independence Day.

I haven't an ounce of energy to put up a post. Not an ounce. You want detail? Okay. tomorrow, but not today.

It has been, to the day, two and a half years since I started Ocean. I have bragged incessantly about my commitment to daily posting. That is what Ocean is in my mind: a place where I make a daily appearance. No matter what.

Daily blogging has been good for me, for sure. It lightened the drama when houses weren’t selling, when passports got lost, when rogue cowboys lead me into swamps, when obnoxious diners in restaurants threatened to wreck great evenings. And it made me think hard about how someone else would regard an event noted here, on Ocean.

People say that blogging is self indulgent. I don’t see it. Getting up at 5 to fit it in. Looking relentlessly for just one person who would be willing to lend me a phone line. Finding themes. Editing like crazy after three glasses of wine. Taking 100 photos and liking none of them. Sullen moods, blank minds – I’ve known them all. Daily blogging reminds me of getting up at night to quiet a screaming baby. You want to do it well and sometimes you just can’t but you're committed to trying.

The forthcoming trip up to the Canadian Rockies will break my two and a half year posting trend. I’ve got two hikes before me, each lasting three days. [In between: a long long bath, great food and wine, a down comforter… mmmm, I can dream, can’t I?] And so I thought I’d reconsider how I handle in general potential interruptions in blogging.

One thing I do know: I don’t want Ocean to become irregular. I want planned outages, noted in the sidebar. And so it will be thus: breaks will happen, but they will be announced. [Look to the left: I've done it already!]

Of course, I don’t have to do it that way. Of course, no one will care if I skip days, weeks even. But I want predictability and regularity. I want the challenge to be what it has been: to stick with what I set out to do. Keep to a schedule. Edit when I am too tired to edit. Write about a day with some anxiety about how it all comes out at the end.

The winds are blowing through, reminding me very much of the warm afternoons in the Languedoc. Restless winds, moving clouds around, alternating here with moments of hot stillness.

I’m skipping tonight’s fireworks especially because they are the biggest and best in the Midwest. I considered it a milestone when daughters were old enough to take themselves and I never went back. The streets are quiet then – everyone is at the park, all five million people from Madison, from Illinois, from Alaska for all I know. Maybe not Alaska.

At the market this morning I thought how the Capitol here is like any other looming city landmark. You see it suddenly, in odd places. Its whiteness always astonishes. White against blue. All that’s missing is the red.



a Languedoc basket, the Capitol



absence of red



presence of red


UPDATE: and the rains came. Largest, grandest fireworks in the Midwest cancelled. Five million (perhaps a little less; okay -- a lot less) disappointed. So nature takes over the skies and the bombs bursting in air are bolts of lightening. Sad, really. I myself am not drawn to it, but still...