wet.

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.

what is it about me...

…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.

morning whispers

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.

from d.c.: roof with a view

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?

from d.c.: bears revisited

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.

from Jason’s chair

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.

in chicago: crab apple

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?

in chicago: waiting

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.

in the matter of birthdays

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!

pshaw…

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.

wild things

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.

wild things: unorthodox beginnings

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.

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.