wild things: from all sides

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.

wild things: the part about making my heart sing

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.

wild things: broken on the mountain back

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

wild things: arrival

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.

wild things: stampede

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.

wild things: I might get eaten by a bear

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.

wild things: being prepared

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.

summer tickles

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.

summer

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

tide and time

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.

(red) white and blue

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...

interrupting daily tribulations for the sake of daughters

I never quite got into the 4th of July. Rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air – I understand patriotism, but feel that those particular images are not altogether something I can wrap my soul around. I tend to more get into the food of it (so predictable): tarts with blueberries and raspberries over the years have played well. July 14th (Bastille Day) is cool as well, considering all the food options (if you can get yourself to not think about how many times the word "blood" and its derivatives appear in the words of their anthem).

In Poland I celebrated July 22nd with the rest of the pack (one way to do it: purchase lots of sweets from a Polish chocolatier that carries the name "22nd of july"), only to have the national holiday switched on me when I left the country. I'm not even sure which date acts as the new "flag was still there" equivalent, but it does not matter -- I am not going to be swept away into a feverish belief that on that day my allegiances should be to Poland and Poland only, though I am happy to honor her many victorious moments of the past by eating, say, poppyseed cake.

Still, this year, I am hot on the 4th bandwagon. It is a loooooong week-end if you take Monday off and so people living far away can actually come and visit you. I'm especially thinking of daughters, the ones who live on the coast.

I was waiting this afternoon for my latte at the local café and I noticed for the millionth time the poster right there, by the counter.





A girl giving a gift to her mom. For me the gift is her arrival. Their arrival. The blog post will be (mercifully?) shorter today. All spare minutes are devoted to the preparation for, cooking for and being with daughters.