oh Canada, oh my!

Some days just heap the rewards, one after another, boom boom boom! I'm going to say that this day was one such runneth over day.

Take the weather. Normally a ho hum subject, but when you have sloshed through wet terrain, you are dazzled when, upon waking, you find a perfect sky. A brilliant, stunning, crispy blue. One they haven't seen at the Gaspesie for a long while.

A good morning photo, taken across the road from the youth hostel, where we pitched our tent:





And one of the hostel itself:






Breakfast -- well, it's a hostel with food on its mind. Good eggs, toast, fruits. I'm looking around the room. Not surprisingly, a young crowd, though with some salt and pepper types as well. We need a ride to the point where we left the trail. That's some ten kilometers up the road from the hostel. Ed thinks I should announce in the dining room that we'll pay someone's entrance fees to the National Park in exchange for the ride to the park. Yes, sure! Graduate students from Montreal. They'll take a free anything. (Most everyone here is from Quebec, quite a number from Montreal.)

And so we pick up the trailhead where we jumped off the IAT yesterday. We're now close to the tip of the Gaspe Peninsula and not surprisingly, we have some day trippers here. It's the place to go if you're in search of the most stunning view this side of the Mississippi. And on this day, this clear and brilliant day, you are in for a heady trip if you follow the portion of the trail that leads up to the observation tower at Mont Saint Alban.

What a view. What a beautiful, beautiful view.





To the north, the wide gulf of the St Lawrence, with Newfoundland on the horizon.





To the east - the Cap Gaspe, our final destination and the end of the IAT. Beyond that, the ocean.





To the south, the coast of the Gaspesie.






To the west - the Appalachian chain that we had walked the past three days.





Most come for the view, then turn around and hike back to the parking lot and so as we continue up and down the IAT, we have the delicious pleasure of a few quiet kilometers. And yes, we see tracks again. As a commenter pointed out, the Gaspesie is uniquely fortunate to have both caribou and moose and I cannot say whose hoof prints we continue to pick up but they are fresh. And large.

(Just so you know, we never on this day run into either.)

As the peninsula grows thinner, the IAT jumps the road and hugs the shore for a bit. We pass an old Gaspe farmstead, recreated to show what life was like for the settlers who came here (from England, France, Italy and shockingly, Poland) to fish in the previous century.





And we continue along the trail. And we are rewarded with something I did not hope to see - a whale, breaching, hump and fin out for the world, or at least for us to see. I was not fast enough with the camera. But, here he is, retreating into the water.(Forgive me, I don't typically post failed shots, but this one has meaning for me.)






Still marveling at the incredible luck of a whale sighting, we continue along the lovely path, through a thicket of firs and meadows of flowers...






...except, something is there ahead of us, an obstacle of sorts...
Ed, that is a black bear!
We pause. He doesn't see us, he is busy eating. But he's advancing toward us.






Act big, Ed they say that you have to act big if they approach!
I am big. Stand quietly. Wait.
I stand quietly, but with arms out, hoping that I seem big to the bear even if he could nicely tear me up with one swipe of his paw.
But he doesn't do that. He looks at us, hesitates, turns around and goes back, veering off the path into the thicket of flowers, with one last soulful look in our direction. The Ferdinand of bears, lost in his world of flowers and berries.





We continue and now I'm just so psyched for wildlife. A whale, a bear, what next?

A porcupine. Retreating as we walk down the trail.





And now is the time to concentrate on the flowers, the cliffs, the deeply blue waters that are a constant presence on this portion of the IAT.





I never got tired of it. Each turn delivers a view that was exciting, fresh.





We've been hiking for some six hours and we cross the road again and start climbing for what is the final ascent. Up up the last of the Appalachian summits, with a pause on a beautifully positioned wooden bench, just before the last decent.





And then suddenly, there is the lighthouse. The end of the IAT.





And it catches me in the throat, in a really satisfying way. The end of a fifty kilometer journey, a breeze today, more like a hurricane the previous days. But always majestically beautiful.

There is a map of the entire trail -- the blue northern stretch is where the AT changes to the IAT.





As we look around the lighthouse and gaze out toward the waters of the choppy ocean, someone points to a dozen seals playing in the water, just to the right of the rocks.





They add a lovely closing moment. The sun is now mellow but still warm. We are surrounded on three sides by water. And the seals play and romp as if there is nothing particularly special about this moment or this day. It is just the way life is.

We have hiked for a long stretch today (without packs we cover twice the distance) and as we walk now along the road toward the park's parking lot, taking in the strong fragrance of golden rod and who knows what else...






...we're also hoping that we'll find someone to give us a ride back to the hostel. And we do! A lovely Italian couple who save us a few hours of walking along the shore road.

It's our last day at the hostel and in the Forillon Park. Thursday afternoon we take the bus half way down the northern shore of the peninsula. They say storms are moving into the region. Funny how inconsequential this is for me now. And how unsettling it was just two days ago.

We eat dinner at the hostel. Tomato soup, seafood, chocolate tarts.

After dinner I want to post, but I cannot stay awake. My thoughts stray. I think back to the bear and the look of indifference in his eyes. Preoccupied with his own food search. He did not know I had a nice trail mix of nuts and raisins and seeds in my bag. Likely he didn't care. Content with what he had before him. A meadow of plants, a breeze from the ocean.

Pause

No, no not another pause! How reliable are you anyway?

Just one day. So that the soreness abets and I can relax again.

Tomorrow. I'll catch up then.

oh Canada, one day at a time

Perhaps peeking into someone's hiking adventures and mishaps is not your thing. Tally forth, then, to the next post. This one's not for you. For the others - sit back. I've got a lot of catching up to do.

Saturday: failing in the art of compromise

The day is brilliant, the views are enticing... but the train is late pulling into Gaspe. It is already two in the afternoon, we have no maps, no idea yet how to get to where we want to begin our hike.

The general plan is spectacular: we will take the International Appalachian Trail to its end -- at the tip of the Gaspe peninsula. The trail commences in Georgia and both Ed and I have hiked various segments of it (he, significantly more than I) and so it is quite a thrill for us to take it along its final Canadian segment. And I'm even okay with wild backwoods camping and with having an ambitious walking agenda for each day, despite the iffy weather forecast for this region.





But as we discuss our options at the Gaspe Tourist Office, the clock ticks forward and I am growing uneasy.
I want a tiny bit of time on the computer, I say to Ed.
Okay, we'll find Internet first thing.
There's some kind of festival in town. Places are packed. An how do we find the trailhead for the International Appalachian Trail (IAT)?
Here, it's off this highway. We'll have to hitch a ride there. It's about two dozen kilometers from here.
And if no one takes us?
Someone will take us.
The lady here says it's so packed with tourist this weekend because of the festival that hitchhiking is not an option.
We'll walk then.

I look at my watch. It's nearing 3. Maybe we should stay here overnight at some BandB and start out refreshed in the morning. (I'm thinking of the sleepless night on the train with the moaning kid and the last shower back on Friday.)
We can start the hike now and camp.
What if we have to walk the two dozen miles to the trail head and it turns dark?
We'll pitch off the side of the road.
I don't want to pitch off the side of the road.

I may be bold in matters of rains and planes, but in all matters related to camping, Ed is the one who is maximally adventurous. I'm fussier. Camping anywhere, including, if need be, in the gutter, won't do. I don't need campsites. I don't need toilet facilities. Running water can be of the brook kind. But I do need ambiance. A nest of sorts.

Hoping for a day's pause in Gaspe, I find a place for us to stay halfway up the road toward the trailhead. Ed's not happy. He urges us to push forward. I'm not happy. And so we reach a compromise and of course that simply means that neither of us is happy -- we book what's left in town and what's left is a room that is, by our standards, too much and it looks out onto the loud festival.

On the upside, the fast food place where we find WiFi also has fantastic local tiny shrimp, served in a pita wrap.





And surly the festival music will end before midnight.





Later:

In the hotel now. I plug in the iPad, Ed tries to sleep. The music down the road is blasting. Oh, oh oh oh, da da da da! Ed is tossing. I say to him, want to go take a walk through the festival? He responds - no... He admits it, he's sulking. If there is one thing you don't expect in northern Canada it's noise and here, by happenstance, there's plenty of it. I feel sorry for him. An inauspicious beginning, indeed.

Okay, do you want to leave? I ask.
Can we?
Even if they'll charge us for the room? We haven't used anything, but still...
I'll talk to them.

He does. No charge. We're out. Now what?
Want to reclaim that room half way up the road to our hiking trail? I ask. Now he's feeling magnanimous.
But it was not to be. All places within miles are now booked solid. You know, because of the festival.
Let's get a ride to the trail head and begin our hike now.
Really Ed? It's after six. It gets dark here early. Really?

We get a ride to the trailhead. The driver is chatty, a little baffled by our plan, but he drops us off right where the sign reads: the International Appalachian Trail. In French and English.

We aren't ambitious on this night -- how could we be, it's almost seven, dusky dark and the forest around us is thick. Perhaps a kilometer into the hike we start looking for a spot to pitch the tent. It's hard! The sloppy terrain offers no choices. Finally, we sort of find a half level surface. We unload our bags and settle in. Not hungry for dinner, not thirsty either. Tired. Out by 8:30.


Sunday: all hell breaks loose

Well, you know we are alive, because you're reading this post, but man oh man, this day had it all: the steep uphill climbs, spontaneous clouds of bugs -- in a few spots swarming as if nothing worth eating had passed through in years. Then, too, storms and torrential rain. And flooded paths with ankle deep mud. Still more: washed out stream crossings. Three of them.

But let's not forget luck. We had a lot of good calls and even more good luck.

We set out highly optimistic and hugely behind schedule. Sleeping for some 12 hours, lolling for a couple more, it's 11 before we're packed and out. Still postponing eating. Waiting for the right spot, the right moment.

The path is initially ridiculously steep. The packs feel heavy and despite the cloudy skies, we're sweating. We reach a slight spur -- a descent to Lac Renaud. Here's where we pick up the hoof prints of an elk and here's where we also pick up the boggy, muddy portion of the trail. We begin now, too, to feel the mosquitoes. Still, we pause at the lake, wash ourselves to the core and Ed even takes a brief plunge. Total immersion. Good for him.





Me, I'm hearing the rumble. And feeling the familiar unease when I am in the middle of nowhere, in difficult terrain and a storm is about to descend.

It wasn't supposed to storm today!

Ed, can we get out of this lake area?
He reluctantly gets out of the water and then in a painfully slow manner, begins to pack his pack again. Louder rumble. Ed, please hurry.
But for what reason, one may well ask. It's not as if there's shelter nearby. Deep rumble. I just want to get going. Away from the lake, somewhere under some cover even if it's only tree cover.
We're wading through thick, puddled mud, finding our way back to the trail, which, too is one mud bath (the Gaspesie has had a horribly wet month) and now the sky looks like we are in for a cloudburst.
Let's put the tent up! Now! It's not easy to find enough of a level surface to pitch a tent, but I tell you we are lucky, because behind some thick branches there is enough of a level-ish spot that we can quickly and I mean QUICKLY throw the tent up. Not a minute too soon. The skies open up and it pours, buckets and buckets of crashing, thundering rain. It's nearly two now, we haven't eaten breakfast yet, but all I feel is the tremendous relief of having shelter.

Two hours later, it passes. The skies clear and it is actually quite pretty outside. Our tent is soaked and there is still a patter of drops from the wet branches, but Ed finally boils water and oatmeal and coffee never tasted so good.

We set out again, buoyed by the luck, by the narrow escape, by the trail before us, by the fresh scent of wet pine.











But much of that high five feeling passes as the trail deteriorates. It's flooded in places: streams gush through it and there is so much mud that sometimes it's impossible to avoid sloshing right in, ankle deep. Hiking boots are soaked, pants -- don't even ask.

And never before have we hiked to washed out stream crossings. Not just any stream -- gushing torrential streams with icy water and terribly slippery rocks.






And all the while, hoof prints in the mud, to remind us that we are not alone. Except we really are alone. The are no backpackers here, no camping people, no hikers either. We plod on. What can you do but continue. We have a goal -- there is a rough camping space some kilometers ahead. To make it there, ah to make it there! Past lakes, severe now in the fading light, past clumps of mushrooms growing on the path, up an incline, sloshing down again, and so we continue...
















We're there! And miraculously it is by a lovely stream so we can wash away the mud from pants, socks and shoes.






And oddly, the mosquitoes disperse so that in few minutes, we are with no bugs at all. As if the Canadian mosquitoes do not like dusk, or the cool night.

We splash and wash and Ed boils water again for our pouched dinner.

We had wondered why the label for this stretch of the IAT is "difficult." How could it be, when the elevations aren't so steep. Now we know. Difficult indeed. So happy to be inside a semi dry tent now, typing away...





Monday: it's how it should be

Wake up to the sound of rushing waters. I go out and note the fresh hoof prints in the mud. The stalking elk was here last night.

The water is icy cold, but we wash up anyway. Who knows when the next opportunity will present itself.

I've gotten used to drinking water treated with Ed's iodine pills. We fill up our bottles, boil some, too, for breakfast and really, it all is so predictable and therefore comforting -- the routines of camping and hiking are finally setting in.





And it continues to be this way throughout the day. We have a huge climb early in the day and a descent on along a stretch of slippery rocks that sends me crashing on my butt, and, too, there is an hour of a mosquito attack that comes out of nowhere, but all this is not unusual. The skies stay gray early on, but by late afternoon, we see spots of blue.





And the flowers. In clumps along the path, in fields, everywhere we see the purple buds.





Berries, too. You can tell where the bears have recently passed -- the plants will have their heads cut off. In other places, you can see them, untouched yet.





And the mushrooms. Under the tree, on the tree...





And every few kilometers, we come to a view, to the mountains, to the gray sea waters beyond.





Perhaps our finest moment is when we pause on a bridge (yes, imagine that! A bridge! This second segment is much more tended than yesterday's path) and dangle our feet, even as we don't quite touch the water.





We reach the wild camping spot in good time and here, too, there is the sound of a stream nearby. Soothing sounds. And the smell of pine. Sweet Canadian pine. I imagine that this smell will stay with me. A reminder of these dense, sloping forests, and elk tracks mixing with our own.


Tuesday: in search of civilization

We're a day or two away from the end of the IAT, but we want to take a break from the wilderness and touch base with the world. It feels odd for me to be out of contact for so many days. And so when the trail crosses a road, the plan is to veer off and head to the shore. Surely there we will find ...well, for starters, Internet service.

A good plan. A mutually agreeable plan. Except in the middle of the night, the rain starts. And it continues -- a steady drumroll of water against a sagging wet tent. 6 am, still pouring. 9 am, pouring. 11 am, raining hard. Noon - a momentary lull. We take the tent apart and hide under a roof, conveniently there at this particular campsite. (There are 3 wild camping areas along this 45 kilometer stretch of the IAT. We stayed at two. All have been completely empty.) And we wait some more.

Finally, at 1, I make the call. Let's go! Now! Go, while it's only drizzling!

Ah, but it's slick out there! This time Ed lands on his butt. We have rain gear but the drizzle lets up (for the most part) and so we relax. And really, as always, we are thrilled by this magnificent forest (the part we hike belongs to the Forillon National Park of Canada). The fragrance alone can send you into a dizzy spin. The fauna is dense and always changing. On this day, we pick up the tracks of animals again. We're told later it's not elk at all, it's moose. And we completely lose all pesty bugs. Despite the cloud cover, the views remain breathtakingly splendid










We reach, finally, intersection with a road. Ed thinks we can hitchhike our way to civilization, but our crossing point is on a steep hill and no one can slow down for us, even had they wanted to. And so we continue. One more mile, another, and another, moving along the trail, aiming to at least reach the Park's Recreation Center. Surely they'll have WiFi.

They do not. But the ever so nice receptionist is almost done for the day and if we wait for her, she'll drive us to the Youth Hostel (someone mentioned there is one down the road). We wait. There is a snack bar and we order shrimp salads to pass the time.





She drives us the dozen kilometers or so and even though there aren't available rooms at the hostel (or, is it that we aren't youth?) we are allowed to pitch a tent and use the facilities, including WiFi.

We're sitting in the lobby room, on futons that remind me of student days. Ed has pitched the tent somewhere in the back of the house. We're both enjoying being online. But the smell... What is it? I go to investigate. Ah, a youth hostel that serves dinner. I look at the list of foods for tonight: lobster, crab, seafood over pasta, tarts, pre dinner drinks, after dinner drinks...what? This is hostel food? It's late, but we ask if we can have just one plate of something -- the sea food pasta will be just fine. With a half carafe of wine. The tent is waiting -- Ed tells me he had to pitch it just off the parking lot. I don't mind. Ambience? Eh, overrated.

riding through the Gaspesie

It's not a fast moving train. But it's fast enough. It leaves Charny (east of the Saint Lawrence) at 10 pm and it makes its way across the peninsula so that we approach the tip of Gaspe from the south, along the Chaleur Bay. Sorry, you gotta know your geography to put an image to what I just wrote. Just know that Gaspesie (the Gaspe peninsula) is the southern land mass that juts out into the enormous Gulf of the St Lawrence. We're north alright. At the 49 parallel. And east, far east, even as we're only one time zone away from home. But New Brunswick, just to the south of us, is in the Maritime zone. Odd how that works.

The seats on th train are ample, with plenty of room to recline. In the middle of the night the train splits in two, with one half (not us) going to Halifax and the rest, the smaller handful of passengers, continuing on to Gaspe.

I don't think anyone slept soundly. The kid -- there's always that kid who can't make it through the night and we have her in our midst. If you slept through that, you may have been roused by the sneezing lady or the mumbling duo. Still, there is something immensely soothing about the gentle sway of the car. If planes (and for me, cars) cause you to twitch, trains are like a massage. They take out the knots you typically travel with.

We meet a pair of train buffs from Ontario. He happens to also be a model train collector. No one collects these things anymore, He says with a sigh. Guess kids are into computers and games instead. A shame. Another train buff nods in agreement. This one's from Australia. He's ridden his share, too. Through Wisconsin once. He asks now if he would have passed Madison. No, not our town. We're not on any rail line.

We're in the observation car in the morning hours and that's just lovely! Views in all directions. Peeks at the bay, meadows with yellow and purple flows, forests, streams. An osprey nest perched on an electric pole. A mostly sunny day in the Gaspesie. As for photos? Oh, they'll be more fun to take once we leave the train. For now, I leave you with Ed, eating our deliciously fresh and honest take-out pizza at the station last night.





Oh fine. One more for the memory bank. A look inland, to the left.

Charny

I'd forgotten how hard it is to understand Quebecois French. We are on this evening somewhere in Quebec. Actually, I know where we are: Charny. We should be in Quebec City waiting for a bus to Charny, but hey, the airport transport person thought this would be better, so here we are. There is a bar by the railway station and it has WiFi and good draft beer, so who are we to complain. Across the street, people gather to eat ice cream and stare at a small fountain. The bar tender loves my iPad. Loves it! Friday evening in Charny.






This is safe adventuring. I like that. A bit of mystery but really, so little risk. I've said this before, when we are away from home, Ed turns more cautious, I gamble. Sure, Monsieur, if this is where you think we should be, let's go! But what do I know. He may have been asking something else altogether.

We're waiting to catch the train that passes through this place, on the way to the tip of the Gaspe peninsula. The light is so different here! It's a clear sky, but the color of the sky is not the same. Ed thinks I'm imagining it, but believe me, it is not the same.

A rather disjointed post, but celebratory too. Because we landed in Quebec City...





..and now we are heading north. In the new light of northeastern Canada.

oh, Cananda

I have wanted to hike up by the Atlantic coast of Canada for a long time. I don’t know why I should want to focus on that area, but my images of the communities and landscapes that form the south and northern shore of the St Lawrence, all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, are powerful. And so a while back, I suggested to Ed that we should finish the summer with a visit there. Typically he would say no to travel twice in one season, but I had three strong cards to show: 1. He had a Delta coupon worth hundreds that was about to expire 2. I reminded him that August in Wisconsin is miserable at the farm because of the mosquitoes and finally 3. I agreed to camp for a “significant” (to be determined) portion of the trip.

He sighs deeply now, or at least one third of him sighs deeply, because in a shocking development, there have been no mosquitoes this year. None. The air is free of their blood sucking presence. We do not know why. We wish we would know why. We wish whatever happened would continue to happen in the future, even as we know it will not ever be repeated – this year of no mosquitoes.

Still, there is the coupon and the camping and what the heck, we are both happily setting out today.

From one perspective, it is not a long journey. Not the flight parts anyway. We fly into Quebec City in no time at all, compared to, say, crossing the ocean. From there – it’s a challenge to get where I want to go: to the tip of the Gaspé Peninsula. We’ll be taking a fifteen hour overnight train from Quebec City to Gaspé. After that – well, there are a lot of question marks.

One thing I know for sure is that there will be at least two or three days at the beginning and who knows how often thereafter when I will be without Internet. I’m not even taking my computer – just the iPad. We have enough stuff to carry for the hike. Every pound matters.

So please be patient. As always, I will try to connect as much as I can. But life sometimes pushes you into places where you don’t have all that you need to keep you happy. You have to make do.

So, Isis has a cat sitter, our packs are loaded, all ‘to do’ things are checked off the lists. We’re off. Wish us luck as we navigate the cool, maybe damp, maybe buggy (or foggy or all of the above) forests and hills and costal shores of eastern Canada.

A bientot.

porch charm

We all have days loaded with 'to dos.' This was ours. Ed had a list, I had a list. Both were terrifically long.

Rosie springs into action. I’ll help! Need a filter for your camera lens? Let’s go! And she takes me right to the store on Capitol Square and parks her sweet little butt right in front of the door of where I want to be. This is how things look from Rosie’s saddle:





Meanwhile, Ed’s revving up to tackle his list. Wait, not just yet. First, he needs to figure out what those coupons from Copps are all about. Monopoly! If you fill in one square, you get stuff! Grocery stuff! Here he is, plugging coupons onto the Copps “monopoly board” as if he hadn’t a single other thing to do on this day.

You think you’re going to make a killing that way?

No, I’m just killing time.

Do you have time?

I’m idling here waiting for you.

Okay, he’s right, I am rushing this way and that, and boiling potatoes and cleaning the farmhouse and boiling sour cherries – the list continues. Sorry, Ed, for running four minutes behind schedule.

We dash for coffee, and dash to the Fitchburg Farmers Market... (Just six ears of corn, that’s all we need...)





...and dash home again, because we have company for dinner. Not a big deal meal, it has to be simple, but simple in August at the farmhouse is fun and rich in foods from the fields around us. To the shrimp, add potatoes, and our own garden tomatoes, and basil. Then there’s the local corn for the grill. And chicken brats with sauerkraut, or, if you prefer – with a meaty heirloom tomatoes from the yard.

Our guests are perfect porch guests – two generations: her kid, my kid, then there’s Ed...





For dessert – macerated peaches over homemade sour cherry ice cream.





Three times as many cherries as yogurt/milk. I cannot tell you how cool it is to decide your own proportions!


So the light fades and the leftover ice cream is melting, but who cares, it’s all good, all wonderful, because kids, adult kids, summer food, traveling companions, they really make you feel like you’ve got nothing in the world to fret about. It's my belief that the porch brings out those kinds of feelings.

rosie and me

It takes time to purchase things. I’d forgotten. There’s the search, the inspection, the decision. Then, the acquisition, both for real and on paper. And after, the formalities. Registration, pay here, pay there, for this, for that. Insure, read the regs – state, then city then campus. Finally. She’s mine. Little red Vino. Call her Rosie, Making her way home among the cornfields.





And in the evening, I hopped on her saddle and scooted downtown. True, the wind blew at me ferociously and I worried about the battery holding its charge, but once downtown, I remembered how luxurious it is not to worry about parking. Mopeds are a privileged lot! Kick her up anywhere on the sidewalk, lock her and away you go. In my case for a burger with daughter at Graze.






In the moon beamed evening, we walked to watch the boats out on Lake Monona.





The ride home was ... vibrant. The air cooled down a bit and I had valleys of warm air followed by peaks of cold, as if no one yet wanted to claim ownership of this beautiful weather.

And so it continued. My first day zipping around on Rosie.

restoration and transportation

Don’t think for a minute that the great farmhouse transformation has neared completion. There are small details inside, yes, tiny details – shelves in closets, that kind of thing.

But there are still two huge, draining projects ahead of us and we were out early this morning beginning to undertake the first – the reconstruction of the front stairs. We don’t use the front door at all – it’s shut tight. But it’s there – one could say it’s a good escape, should you need to escape. Though if you stepped out anytime before this morning, you’d have stepped out onto rotting boards and no steps. Here: it looked like this:





And if you drive by the house, you can’t help but think – that is one sad farmhouse, just look at the front steps.





With the help of crowbars and mostly Ed’s enormously strong arms, we tore apart and removed the boards, planks and posts. There. The removal is done.





Now what?

Well, we’re entering the contemplation and design stage. Ed is a designer and it takes him a while to mull, search, imagine, price and finally begin. It goes like this: he’ll ask what I have in mind and I’ll say – whatever is the easiest. He’ll shake his head, as if to say – I can’t believe you have no further suggestions. I’ll venture forth with a hint of this or that, he’ll listen, grow silent and turn his attention to something else, like cutting branches or weeding tomatoes until the impulse to design strikes again.

You cannot rush a creative temperament.



In other news, against all good advice of a few Ocean commenters, I put down hard cash on a used moped. A tad battered, but as Ed says – hey, the body’s plastic, it can’t rust.

To George H: I know taking the darn thing on a county road feels unsafe and awful. Too big to squeeze onto the shoulder, too small to make an impression on a monster truck breathing down your spine. And that’s assuming monster truck even notices you down there scootin’ along. But my commute is actually quite easy. I have a few empty stretches of road and then I am in the city. I would take a baby in a stroller on those country roads, they are that empty.

To Saul: No motorcycle. It’s all about the cost of parking. The moped, with its 'park wherever permission' is a bit of a godsend. In two semesters, it’ll pay for itself.

So I have myself a moped. Does that make me a Biker Girl? And if so, do I need he attire? You know, for protection. Like, I’m told I should never venture out without leather gloves, a jacket, goggles. Ed, who rides a motorcycle in shorts and a t-shirt ignores all clothing covers (except for the helmet). The motorbike is transportation for him, not a hobby.

You do not need a leather jacket, he’ll say. Do you use a leather jacket every time you take out your bicycle?

But there are safety considerations! Mopeds are fast.

Not that fast.
Fine. I don’t need biker clothes. I'll resurrect my ex's ancient scuffed and torn leather jacket. He left it behind.

A moped. I’m set for going to work now. The semester can begin. Well, soon. Give me a few more days.

things are not as they seem, continued

The law

Ed and I stop at Engelhart's. He has a battery to pick up for his thirty-plus year Honda motorcycle (a 200, for those who care).
You want to get out and look around?

No, I’m recovering.

Sure?

Yes.

He’s inside, I glance at the parking lot. Oh my, that is one hell of a cute moped out there!





I get out to look. Man oh man, I can see myself scooting on this to work. Face it, it’ll be a rare day that I bike to campus and back on my bicycle. One hour each way is a real disincentive on super busy work days.

I go inside and say to Ed – I should consider a moped.
A moped? We can find you an old one on the Internet.

I like the red one outside. Nice and shiny and new. It would save me in parking. In two years, it would be practically paid off. (I do not really want to plunk down two thousand plus on a moped, but it's good to dream every now and then.)

We go look at the scooter. Ed returns inside to talk to the sellers. In a minute he's back.
I want you to hear what these guys are saying about riding that thing. Inside now. Go ahead, tell her.

Well, it’s a 30 mph bike. And sure, there’s this ancient law that says you cannot take it out on any street with a speed limit over 25 mph. But it’s like “you can’t take a donkey to the voting booth when the sun is out and it's a Tuesday” – a weird law that makes no sense anymore and so everyone ignores it. Cops do not ticket mopeds, so long as they’re not on highways.

But I need it to go out on County MM. That’s a 50 mph in certain places. So forget it. There is no way to get to the farmhouse except to go on a higher speed road.

But really, because we have so many students – in Waunakee, Fitchburg, cops do not ticket mopeds around here.

Thanks, but I can't buy something that is going to cause me to violate the law on a daily basis.

You don’t want a new moped anyway. (This from Ed who is, of course, correct.)


The visit

The reason I had said earlier “I’m recovering” is because I had just spent several hours in the hospital (granted, so did Ed) for reasons of mix-ups, miscommunications and inexplicable inconsistencies. The upshot is that a fantastic doctor took hold of years of scattered work and put it all together but, to be thorough, told me I needed more biopsies. And so from what I thought would be a routine office visit, I went straight into surgery. This time the results were quick and conclusive (for now). I'm good.

In medical jigsaw puzzles, things are not always what they seem. Some pieces may be pushed under the carpet until someone, down the road (my brilliant physician today) uncovers them and wonders why they’re there to begin with.

My "take away" (to use my students' phrase du jour) from this day: know your moped laws and don't look for easy answers. In the alternative, coast and see what happens. No, maybe not that. Let’s go back to the first and tweak it a bit: understand the law and, as best as you can, find all pieces of the puzzle that is you.


Tonight’s the night to chill and open up the carton of rosé I brought back from the Dordogne. I'm hell of a lucky person.





UPDATE: You would think that a motorbike salesman would know the law on moped use. You'd think. FYI, you CAN ride a moped on a county road, or on city streets with higher speed limits. Phew! Trust professionals, only do get a second opinion.