Friday, August 10, 2007
Center Lake campground, Custer State Park, South Dakota
Thanks to my parents for the tip about this place, which deserves an entire vacation spent only here. Excellent naturalist programs, children’s activities, wildlife, hiking trails, hot showers, a good sandy swimming beach with very shallow water, etc etc make this the nicest place we’ve been (aside from the Lochsa). Beautiful too. So say I, comfortably warm and entirely relaxed after an entire afternoon reading a book at the beach while Reed practiced his back float and built castles at the lake’s edge.
I too remember spending hours playing in the water and wonder why now I am satisfied with mere dips, a 25 yard swim out and back, then enduring the five minutes of exquisite torture while the wind dries me off and then I can sit unmoving in the shade.
Now our new neighbors, deux adultes et deux enfants are moving into their campsite, speaking French, which has sent me into an immediate fluttery panic about trying to converse with them in my oh so limited French. The opportunity seems God-given, but perversely premature.
We drove most of the day yesterday from the Big Horn mountains, through Sheridan (where we indulged in a mom and pop restaurant lunch of cheeseburgers and fries – the real thing in Wyoming) then through Gillette and south to Newcastle and across the border to Custer. The long day was worth it, allowing us to spend today entirely in one place. We warmed bean quesadillas on the charcoal grill for supper last night, saving the steaks we bought at the store for tonight, with potato salad and baked beans on the side. We visited the visitor’s center this a.m., seeing a buffalo up close on the way there and on the way back. While there Reed participated in one of the kids’ programs, making a cute little buffalo bank out of a recycled plastic water bottle. On the way back to camp we dropped Walt at the trailhead of a 3 mile trail that led back to our camp and he had a hot but welcome solitary hike while Reed and I ate sandwiches and packed the bag for the beach. Reed and I also stopped at the box office of the Black Hills Playhouse and got tickets for him and me for the musical “A Year with Frog and Toad.” He must be excited about it because he is willingly foregoing a night around the fire for this play. How could he resist, when it features characters from one of his favorite books?
Saturday, August 11, 2007
High Elevations
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Porcupine Campground, Big Horn Mountains, Wyoming
We’re settled into an alpine campground at about 8000 ft. elevation in the Big Horn Mountains in northern Wyoming, after a steep climb up from Lovell yesterday afternoon, that Betty Subaru performed admirably in a very low gear. (We sold our old Betty Su but our new gal just seems to be named Betty as well…) We immediately changed into long pants and sweatshirts and boots since at 6 pm the air temperature was rapidly cooling down into the 50s. We ate our cold dinner (while Reed complained about not having hot food) of deli fried chicken, baked beans from a can, applesauce, and carrot and broccoli spears with blue cheese dip, finishing with storebought chocolate chip cookies.
The night was restful despite two thunderstorms that blew through, one with a fair amount of rain, and the other just lightning and thunder. It was just as the ranger at the visitor center for Big Horn Canyon said: up here you’re right with the lightning and clouds. Here in the trees there was no amount of wind to speak of so the storm seemed lovely and comforting, compared to the one we experienced Sunday night at Lewis and Clark Caverns State Park next to the Jefferson River in Montana, where the storm that blew through just after bedtime was accompanied by fierce winds that tried to take down our tent. Walt and I stayed awake for two hours holding the tent up from the inside while the rain lashed down. I was already tired of Reed’s chatter so the storm keeping him awake kept me from appreciating his good attitude about it. He sang songs loudly, asked if I’d remembered to get the suitcases off the top of the car, asked if he could help hold up the tent, etc. Finally around midnight things quieted down and we fell into sleep at last.
The food situation improved this morning after Walt and I took apart the stove (which we’d given up on) and used the wire from a twist tie to clean it out. When we put it back together and tried again it worked beautifully so instead of a cold breakfast on a chilly morning we had a hot breakfast instead, and can look forward to hot pasta this evening to accompany the hot dogs we’ll grill on the fire. Maybe even have scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow before heading towards Sheridan.
There is a creek running next to this campground (Porcupine) that we’ll hike along this afternoon. Some mild excitement yesterday was that the rangers trapped the black bear that had been rummaging around our camp and the neighboring camp the previous night.
After the storm in Lewis and Clark Caverns S.P. we awoke to a sunny, warm morning, perfect for the 2 hr. guided hike through the really spectacular caverns, which started with a bit of an uphill trek to the caverns entrance. The view from up top was postcard Montana, with a river meandering through a lovely green valley with steep, rocky hillsides rising on either side. Fairly dry country, there were tiny prickly pear cacti all over the place, and Walt almost stepped on a snake. He doesn’t think it was a rattler but doesn’t know for sure. Saw an old mine setup too, now rusty and sad. We finally got the car packed up after lunch and hit the road around 2 p.m., driving just about 100 miles to the KOA campground in Big Timber, where we happily stayed in a little “kabin” knowing we were safe from any big winds. Walt has always been a snob about developed campgrounds like this but even he had to appreciate having a pool, a hot shower, clean laundry, and not having to set up the tent on a blustery night. It was Walt’s first KOA so Reed was excited to show him the whole thing; it was my first KOA where I didn’t have a dog and a child with me every single minute; our previous KOA stays have always been on road trips with just Reed and me and Fiona. This KOA was too close to the interstate for comfort but it was also just down the road from the Prairie Dog Town, where we saw dozens of the “petite chien” as the early explorers used to call them. Most were pretty shy but there was one who lived quite close to the main road who was trolling for handouts as we departed. We seem to be leaving a trail of hungry rodents in our wake, since we never feed them.
We were happy to get out of smoky Western Montana, where the fires are raging. Sometimes in Missoula the smoke was so thick we couldn’t even see Mt. Sentinel. Still, it was wonderful to visit with old friends and smell the familiar enticing spiciness as we entered the Butterfly to order espresso milkshakes. Unfortunately we never got there early enough in the morning to visit with Dave Beans; we console ourselves knowing we’ll be back through in a year on the return trip. Ray Shackleton let us set up camp in his backyard and allowed us to treat his house as our own, besides treating us to Vietnamese food for dinner one night. We visited with Jennie and Blake Bucher who have lived in France before and who kindly refrained from ridiculing our poor French. Bonnie Connery and her girls took us out to breakfast for lunch at the Uptown Diner; we enjoyed an evening of catching up and drinking wine with Ted and Laura Heuchling while feasting on Laura’s tacos and cowboy caviar (while Reed and Teddy played well and only ended up scuffling over something once.) We went for a wade in Rattlesnake Creek too and afterwards went for ice cream at the Big Dipper. Steve Loken (who actually performed our wedding ceremony 15 years ago, besides being our boss for a time) fed us scrumptious omelettes and hashbrowns at his house up the Rattlesnake on our last morning and led us in typical Loken style on a brisk walk up and down the Rattlesnake, exercise we desperately needed. We left town on Saturday afternoon, August 4, and headed for Piney Campground at Georgetown Lake where we thought we’d escape the smoke but no such luck.
We’ll stay here again tonight since Walt feels so happy in the mountains and I am enjoying the solitude as well – if you can call being surrounded by frolicking little squirrels solitude, which I do.
Later in the afternoon…
After a difficult start with a whiny 6 year old we finally got a nice walk in along a tiny portion of what is a very long national recreation trail, through the alpine meadows of the Big Horns. We shared part of it with some cows, and went just as far as two broken down old cabins down by Porcupine Creek. We headed back and were caught up by a real Wyoming cowboy on a lovely horse named Chantilly Lace and accompanied by a scruffy cowdog was named Mickey, who seemed appreciative of my gentle scratching behind his ears even while he was still wary of Reed. The cowboy and I’m assuming his associates bring up the cows and calves – who bawled quite a bit when we climbed over a fence by them to keep following the trail through the rocky opening in the valley called “the jaw” - in late June and stay through September, when the snow sends them all back down to their ranch in Lovell. The association as he called it has 950 pairs grazing up here now; this gentlemen lives in a cabin or an R.V. all summer and rides to check on the cattle every day. I’d never thought much about Wyoming cowboys before but this guy has a life I have to admit is pretty good: all summer in a spectacularly beautiful place, just keeping his eye on the cows, riding his horse, only going to town every 3 weeks for groceries and dog food. Wonder if he has a wife down below, or if she comes along too. The cows, at least, get to spend most of their lives on open range in lush greenery, before getting “finished” (kind of an ironic term) on grain back on the feedlot in Lovell and sent off to market.
Porcupine Creek meanders along its rocky bottom, with a few deeper pools here and there, where there are some cagey little fish that are almost impossible to see. A shadow sends them into hiding. Lots of pretty shrubs are in the creek bottom; it reminds me of some of the dwarf prostrate sand cherry that we’ve got at home. Also there is a type of sage, I think, growing on twisted, dead looking branches, that smells heavenly, fresher and more herby than the sage that grows in eastern Washington. I’d like to fill the whole tent with it, it smells so good. The sun got hot on us while we were walking, hot enough that I wanted to slide into one of those rocky pools, if the water hadn’t been like ice, so cold that even Walt wouldn’t go for a dip and that’s saying something.
Porcupine Campground, Big Horn Mountains, Wyoming
We’re settled into an alpine campground at about 8000 ft. elevation in the Big Horn Mountains in northern Wyoming, after a steep climb up from Lovell yesterday afternoon, that Betty Subaru performed admirably in a very low gear. (We sold our old Betty Su but our new gal just seems to be named Betty as well…) We immediately changed into long pants and sweatshirts and boots since at 6 pm the air temperature was rapidly cooling down into the 50s. We ate our cold dinner (while Reed complained about not having hot food) of deli fried chicken, baked beans from a can, applesauce, and carrot and broccoli spears with blue cheese dip, finishing with storebought chocolate chip cookies.
The night was restful despite two thunderstorms that blew through, one with a fair amount of rain, and the other just lightning and thunder. It was just as the ranger at the visitor center for Big Horn Canyon said: up here you’re right with the lightning and clouds. Here in the trees there was no amount of wind to speak of so the storm seemed lovely and comforting, compared to the one we experienced Sunday night at Lewis and Clark Caverns State Park next to the Jefferson River in Montana, where the storm that blew through just after bedtime was accompanied by fierce winds that tried to take down our tent. Walt and I stayed awake for two hours holding the tent up from the inside while the rain lashed down. I was already tired of Reed’s chatter so the storm keeping him awake kept me from appreciating his good attitude about it. He sang songs loudly, asked if I’d remembered to get the suitcases off the top of the car, asked if he could help hold up the tent, etc. Finally around midnight things quieted down and we fell into sleep at last.
The food situation improved this morning after Walt and I took apart the stove (which we’d given up on) and used the wire from a twist tie to clean it out. When we put it back together and tried again it worked beautifully so instead of a cold breakfast on a chilly morning we had a hot breakfast instead, and can look forward to hot pasta this evening to accompany the hot dogs we’ll grill on the fire. Maybe even have scrambled eggs for breakfast tomorrow before heading towards Sheridan.
There is a creek running next to this campground (Porcupine) that we’ll hike along this afternoon. Some mild excitement yesterday was that the rangers trapped the black bear that had been rummaging around our camp and the neighboring camp the previous night.
After the storm in Lewis and Clark Caverns S.P. we awoke to a sunny, warm morning, perfect for the 2 hr. guided hike through the really spectacular caverns, which started with a bit of an uphill trek to the caverns entrance. The view from up top was postcard Montana, with a river meandering through a lovely green valley with steep, rocky hillsides rising on either side. Fairly dry country, there were tiny prickly pear cacti all over the place, and Walt almost stepped on a snake. He doesn’t think it was a rattler but doesn’t know for sure. Saw an old mine setup too, now rusty and sad. We finally got the car packed up after lunch and hit the road around 2 p.m., driving just about 100 miles to the KOA campground in Big Timber, where we happily stayed in a little “kabin” knowing we were safe from any big winds. Walt has always been a snob about developed campgrounds like this but even he had to appreciate having a pool, a hot shower, clean laundry, and not having to set up the tent on a blustery night. It was Walt’s first KOA so Reed was excited to show him the whole thing; it was my first KOA where I didn’t have a dog and a child with me every single minute; our previous KOA stays have always been on road trips with just Reed and me and Fiona. This KOA was too close to the interstate for comfort but it was also just down the road from the Prairie Dog Town, where we saw dozens of the “petite chien” as the early explorers used to call them. Most were pretty shy but there was one who lived quite close to the main road who was trolling for handouts as we departed. We seem to be leaving a trail of hungry rodents in our wake, since we never feed them.
We were happy to get out of smoky Western Montana, where the fires are raging. Sometimes in Missoula the smoke was so thick we couldn’t even see Mt. Sentinel. Still, it was wonderful to visit with old friends and smell the familiar enticing spiciness as we entered the Butterfly to order espresso milkshakes. Unfortunately we never got there early enough in the morning to visit with Dave Beans; we console ourselves knowing we’ll be back through in a year on the return trip. Ray Shackleton let us set up camp in his backyard and allowed us to treat his house as our own, besides treating us to Vietnamese food for dinner one night. We visited with Jennie and Blake Bucher who have lived in France before and who kindly refrained from ridiculing our poor French. Bonnie Connery and her girls took us out to breakfast for lunch at the Uptown Diner; we enjoyed an evening of catching up and drinking wine with Ted and Laura Heuchling while feasting on Laura’s tacos and cowboy caviar (while Reed and Teddy played well and only ended up scuffling over something once.) We went for a wade in Rattlesnake Creek too and afterwards went for ice cream at the Big Dipper. Steve Loken (who actually performed our wedding ceremony 15 years ago, besides being our boss for a time) fed us scrumptious omelettes and hashbrowns at his house up the Rattlesnake on our last morning and led us in typical Loken style on a brisk walk up and down the Rattlesnake, exercise we desperately needed. We left town on Saturday afternoon, August 4, and headed for Piney Campground at Georgetown Lake where we thought we’d escape the smoke but no such luck.
We’ll stay here again tonight since Walt feels so happy in the mountains and I am enjoying the solitude as well – if you can call being surrounded by frolicking little squirrels solitude, which I do.
Later in the afternoon…
After a difficult start with a whiny 6 year old we finally got a nice walk in along a tiny portion of what is a very long national recreation trail, through the alpine meadows of the Big Horns. We shared part of it with some cows, and went just as far as two broken down old cabins down by Porcupine Creek. We headed back and were caught up by a real Wyoming cowboy on a lovely horse named Chantilly Lace and accompanied by a scruffy cowdog was named Mickey, who seemed appreciative of my gentle scratching behind his ears even while he was still wary of Reed. The cowboy and I’m assuming his associates bring up the cows and calves – who bawled quite a bit when we climbed over a fence by them to keep following the trail through the rocky opening in the valley called “the jaw” - in late June and stay through September, when the snow sends them all back down to their ranch in Lovell. The association as he called it has 950 pairs grazing up here now; this gentlemen lives in a cabin or an R.V. all summer and rides to check on the cattle every day. I’d never thought much about Wyoming cowboys before but this guy has a life I have to admit is pretty good: all summer in a spectacularly beautiful place, just keeping his eye on the cows, riding his horse, only going to town every 3 weeks for groceries and dog food. Wonder if he has a wife down below, or if she comes along too. The cows, at least, get to spend most of their lives on open range in lush greenery, before getting “finished” (kind of an ironic term) on grain back on the feedlot in Lovell and sent off to market.
Porcupine Creek meanders along its rocky bottom, with a few deeper pools here and there, where there are some cagey little fish that are almost impossible to see. A shadow sends them into hiding. Lots of pretty shrubs are in the creek bottom; it reminds me of some of the dwarf prostrate sand cherry that we’ve got at home. Also there is a type of sage, I think, growing on twisted, dead looking branches, that smells heavenly, fresher and more herby than the sage that grows in eastern Washington. I’d like to fill the whole tent with it, it smells so good. The sun got hot on us while we were walking, hot enough that I wanted to slide into one of those rocky pools, if the water hadn’t been like ice, so cold that even Walt wouldn’t go for a dip and that’s saying something.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Working Out the Kinks
Monday, July 30, 2007
Wilderness Gateway Campground, Lochsa River, Idaho
First the embarrassing confessions. Last night Walt’s camping stove wouldn’t work properly, having not been used for probably 8 years. I refrained from reminding him that I had tried to talk him into a new one last summer. Then, yesterday at lunchtime we drove away from Apgar campground where we had stopped for a picnic with the pillows sitting on top of the car, where Walt had put them when he got the cooler out of the back seat. At bedtime when we discovered they weren’t in the car, and we realized that when Walt put the cooler back in the back seat he neglected to replace the pillows, well, he felt pretty bad, having been forgetful so often lately in his opinion. So I again kept my mouth shut. Second, we were so concerned with getting Walt his double espresso on ice on our way out of Kamiah yesterday morning, we forgot to get a fresh bag of ice for the cooler; consequently, there was no ice left by this morning. Apparently when we drove away from the house we forgot to pack our brains. Reed and I finished off the milk to avoid wasting all that calcium, I tossed out the ketchup and the horseradish (leftovers from the fridge), and put the rest of the stuff in plastic bags and into a spare duffel which I then set in the cool water of the creek. It would be silly to drive 20 miles just for a bag of ice, so we’ll make do.
Anyway, after the stove, pillow, and ice incidents, when the clouds rolled overhead this morning as if to storm, Walt and I looked at each other like, is this trip going to be one thing after another? But then blue sky appeared and the day got hot and sunny as always, and as it turned out we didn’t miss the pillows that much last night anyway. And the stove worked for breakfast.
Last week I dreamed that we were at the airport and I’d forgotten the passports in the dresser drawer at home. (Yes, I have them now, I just checked.) Last night I dreamed we’d gone home to get the bag of ice and some more pillows, and discovered that a thick layer of dust had settled immediately over everything that I’d just cleaned. Then, Walt and Reed came in with their stuff as if to spend the night, spreading things out on the counter and in the bedroom while I scurried around fretting, saying, “No, we can’t spend the night! This place is all clean, we’ve got to get OUT of here!” So waking in the tent to the sound of the river was a relief.
Nights in a tent are long and luxurious, since we go to bed when it gets dark and don’t get up until the sun is well up. You wouldn’t think that after such a night I could possibly lay around all afternoon but indeed I did, after going for a mile long hike along the river after breakfast, and then reading through lunch. I’m reading Simple Cooking by John Thorne, published in 1987, the kind of really good book about food and cooking that makes me wonder what else I missed when I was in college studying the supposed great works of literature. There are some passages in Thorne’s book that beg to be read aloud on a summer evening in bed with someone you love who loves things like clotted cream and strawberries as much as you. Such a communion of tastes ought not to be taken lightly, I realize now. Thorne reminds me that I seemed to have missed James Beard, Waverly Root, and Elizabeth David in my youth as well, although I’ve certainly heard of them and I’ve started trying to catch up, first with Elizabeth David. But who has time for James Beard when there’s still M.F.K. Fisher and Jane Grigson to enjoy?
Reed and Walt returned from their hike around lunchtime too, and we settled next to the river on our private beach for the afternoon, swimming in a deep pool with a sandy bottom behind a large rock when the urge struck, and lying face down on a towel in the sand other times. Reed paddled a little bit after we pointed out to him that he recently learned to swim; we also gave him a safety lesson in river swimming. I wish I could be one of those happy go lucky moms who never pay attention and whose children seem to survive nevertheless, but I’m not. I imagine every little danger, and try to warn him against them.
So many people think of wildlife as big animals but it was a regular nature’s half-acre around here today. Baby fish of all sizes nibbled on our ankles when we stood still in the river, hopefully finding something tasty, or at least to satisfy their curiosity. We spotted a bright red crawdad or crayfish about 6 inches long, looking for all the world like a baby lobster. He fiercely struck out at the stick I poked at him, then moved stealthily away into the shelter of another rock. Then, a snake about 2 feet long swam through Reed’s little pool after catching a fish about 2 inches long. He swam past and then headed back up the bank through the rocks. A pika got into our picnic basket this afternoon and ate half an apple, and in my last swallow of spritzer at lunchtime I got a mouthful of drowned hornet. A few minutes later I was stung on the back of the knee by one of his kin, probably an insect act of revenge. The finale, though, was at supper, when Reed said, “Look! A deer! In the trees!” It took me a full two minutes to find the well-concealed deer; I was fully ready to deal with Reed’s disappointment at having mistaken a log for an animal. But no, it was a deer. Reed is right so often about things it’s a little scary.
On the Road
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Wilderness Gateway Campground, Lochsa River, Idaho
Already I’m having a hard time remembering what day and date it is, so quickly have we gone from non-stop packing and cleaning and preparing, to not doing anything in particular. At 4 p.m. yesterday, Saturday, we finished mopping the floors of our empty and shining house (empty except for the brim-full garage and extra room in the basement, both padlocked against the possibility of an unscrupulous renter – although we have high hopes that we’ve leased our home to someone who will eventually become a friend), climbed in the loaded car, got out one more time to check that the door was locked, and drove away. “We’re in the car!” I crowed into the cellphone to our friend Kathy, awaiting our arrival in Kamiah. “See you in two hours!”
We spent a restful night on the futon in the spare room at Pat and Kathy’s. Always ready to pull up stakes themselves, jealous but not unpleasantly so, they were ideal company for our first few hours away from home. We finished off Walt’s birthday cake for dessert (we did manage to have a small party on the 26th, a small gathering to celebrate Walt’s 50th, and how he loves the way people never believe he’s that old…). We also picked up a book there for Walt to read – 1491, by Charles Mann – and left a book there that I finished this morning – Whereabouts, by Alastair Reid. Reid writes much about Spain, so I know Pat and Kathy will appreciate it. The trading was good practice for the journey, where clinging to our possessions and being overly picky about our reading material will not be wise.
After a leisurely breakfast of apple pie with cream and homemade bread with homemade jam, we waved goodbye and headed east on Highway 12, up the Clearwater River, which turned into the Lochsa River, winding up into the forest towards Lolo Pass. We are camped now at a forest service campground called Wilderness Gateway, with a campsite right next to the river, near where Boulder Creek empties into it. The sound of the shallow water on the rocks drowns out the sound of the little bit of summer traffic on Highway 12, and it’s quiet now at the end of the weekend, with no one camped near us, and our secluded site is nestled down in the trees, with a rocky path to our private beach. I did have to chase off some very bold and very fat ground squirrels or pikas, who would’ve stolen our food from right in front of me if I’d kept still.
We all went in the river several times this afternoon to cool off. The creek was chilly but the river in mid-afternoon under the blazing sun was quite comfortable, warmer than any mountain river I’ve felt before. In between I drowsed in the shade on my towel on the little bit of pebbly beach, while Reed rearranged the smooth river rocks into a little pool at the edge of the water that he was gratified to watch fill up with inch-long baby fish, trout I would guess. They seemed to like the restful place, and he created a channel so that it would have a continuous flow of fresh water. Walt sat in the cold rapids of the creek for a while, and he didn’t have to say anything for me to know that doing so made him supremely happy. The Lochsa is the river where Walt and I did our first hiking and hot springing together, these woods are where he took his first “lichen” to me; with Missoula, our first home together, just a short drive over the pass, we feel strangely at home here, even though I can’t walk around identifying the flora and fauna with much authority. Walt having grown up playing in the Cascades feels completely himself in the woods. I dipped again to stave off crankiness before getting the fish and potato salad for supper ready and helping Walt put up the tent. I didn’t pack with much aforethought, throwing everything from the fridge and freezer into the cooler at the last minute. But our supper was good: a piece of halibut from Lisa and Peter, fried in butter, served with more butter and lime juice. And on the side, prebaked potatoes, now cold, cut up with cold hard boiled eggs and some diced red onion, dressed with mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, and lime juice.
Now it is well into evening and perfectly cool. I’m still wearing my swimming suit and intend to do so all day tomorrow as well, although in this campsite I could go naked and no one would notice, or if they did, they wouldn’t care. That’s one of the things I love about the wilderness out West. Apparently the owners of the R.V. parked down the way a little bit and across the river feel that way as well since I saw the man skinny dipping earlier this afternoon. Perhaps we’ll stop in at Jerry Johnson hot springs before we go to Missoula on Tuesday, so Reed can have his first hot springs experience. Why not? We’ve got plenty of time.
That we will not be home for a year, that in just over a month we’ll be in France, doesn’t feel quite real, of course. On the other hand, our year divided between France and Ireland is something so inevitable, something I’ve been preparing for on some level for so long, that it is always a little shock when I recall that very few people who would like to do this are able to, and even more amazing to me, that there are some who wouldn’t even dream of it.
“I wish my parents had thought of it when I was 7,” Pat said last night, reminding me that I don’t need to feel guilty for taking Reed away from his friends, our house, and his violin teacher for this extraordinary year. As with everything in parenting, I console myself that someday, he’ll be grateful. I, on the other hand, don’t have to wait for someday.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Screech-a!
Screech-a! That’s the sound – in Italian – of the Italy portion of our trip coming to a sudden halt after we learned a couple weeks ago of some regulations regarding travel in Europe that have developed in the past decade, while I was busy earning a living, giving birth, getting settled in Moscow, Idaho, and not traveling overseas for more than 4 weeks at a time.
Ever heard of the Schengen countries? Neither had I, until the owner of a house in the Abruzzo region informed me of their existence, when I was trying to talk him into letting us housesit for him for four months this coming winter, during the months when we weren’t at Spannocchia (see earlier blog entry). And in case you’re wondering, like my husband was, why I didn’t know about this earlier, it’s because the French consulate website says nothing about it, even though they are a Schengen country; plus, they never answered my emails which laid out our original travel plans and asked if they were acceptable. I figured, no news was good news, but apparently that phrase doesn’t translate.
Never mind what your friends try to tell you about bopping over the border into Switzerland to re-start your immigration time clock. You can’t be in the Schengen countries (there are fifteen of them which include most of the countries we’d want to spend time in) for more than 90 days out of 180 days, unless you’ve got a long-stay visa from one of those countries. And getting a long stay visa isn’t very easy; you need to visit the appropriate consulate in person, pay a lot of fees, produce a lot of paperwork, and in general, convince them that you’re rich enough to afford to live in their country and have enough insurance to get shipped home in the event of an emergency.
At first I didn’t panic, I thought, no problem: I’m not afraid of paperwork, I can get an Italian visa, the consulate says it only takes 30 days. But then the reality of it sunk in, when I discovered the consulate’s visa office was only open a few hours each week, and when I got two different explanations from two Italian consulates about the type of visa we needed. “Welcome to dealing with the Italians,” my new Abruzzo-based friend consoled me.
I spent one whole afternoon, evening, and night barely able to function, I was so distraught. My husband suggested I record the funk – unusual for me - for future reference. I woke up the next day determined not to be beaten, going so far as to actually get through to a live person on the phone at the United States Passport Processing Center in order to get my updated passport expedited to me. Later in the day, after a couple of emails from the consulates and some research about the Schengen regulations, I realized it was useless, and gave Italy up gracefully, feeling like Joan of Arc or Anne Boleyn, dying a dignified yet completely unnecessary death. I’m trying to get out of the U.S. so the fact that my citizenship is preventing me from spending as much time in various places throughout the world as I’d like is ironic and frustrating. I don’t even have the advantage of having ancestors who recently immigrated, which might make it possible for me to get citizenship from another country like Italy or Ireland. But no. My ancestors came from England and Wales, long long ago, too long ago to make it easy for me to go back.
Fortunately, our travel plans include Ireland and the U.K., which are not Schengen countries. We’ll spend a few months in France this fall, and then go to Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland for the winter and spring, before returning to France for the summer, legal as camembert. I’m excited about Ireland but believe me it has not been easy to let go of my desire to experience Spannocchia. I’m beginning to think of this trip as a shakedown sabbatical, in preparation for the next one, in which I’ll have long-stay visas arranged well ahead of time, perhaps through the Dutch, who aren’t famous for their impossibly frustrating red tape (to my knowledge).
Ever heard of the Schengen countries? Neither had I, until the owner of a house in the Abruzzo region informed me of their existence, when I was trying to talk him into letting us housesit for him for four months this coming winter, during the months when we weren’t at Spannocchia (see earlier blog entry). And in case you’re wondering, like my husband was, why I didn’t know about this earlier, it’s because the French consulate website says nothing about it, even though they are a Schengen country; plus, they never answered my emails which laid out our original travel plans and asked if they were acceptable. I figured, no news was good news, but apparently that phrase doesn’t translate.
Never mind what your friends try to tell you about bopping over the border into Switzerland to re-start your immigration time clock. You can’t be in the Schengen countries (there are fifteen of them which include most of the countries we’d want to spend time in) for more than 90 days out of 180 days, unless you’ve got a long-stay visa from one of those countries. And getting a long stay visa isn’t very easy; you need to visit the appropriate consulate in person, pay a lot of fees, produce a lot of paperwork, and in general, convince them that you’re rich enough to afford to live in their country and have enough insurance to get shipped home in the event of an emergency.
At first I didn’t panic, I thought, no problem: I’m not afraid of paperwork, I can get an Italian visa, the consulate says it only takes 30 days. But then the reality of it sunk in, when I discovered the consulate’s visa office was only open a few hours each week, and when I got two different explanations from two Italian consulates about the type of visa we needed. “Welcome to dealing with the Italians,” my new Abruzzo-based friend consoled me.
I spent one whole afternoon, evening, and night barely able to function, I was so distraught. My husband suggested I record the funk – unusual for me - for future reference. I woke up the next day determined not to be beaten, going so far as to actually get through to a live person on the phone at the United States Passport Processing Center in order to get my updated passport expedited to me. Later in the day, after a couple of emails from the consulates and some research about the Schengen regulations, I realized it was useless, and gave Italy up gracefully, feeling like Joan of Arc or Anne Boleyn, dying a dignified yet completely unnecessary death. I’m trying to get out of the U.S. so the fact that my citizenship is preventing me from spending as much time in various places throughout the world as I’d like is ironic and frustrating. I don’t even have the advantage of having ancestors who recently immigrated, which might make it possible for me to get citizenship from another country like Italy or Ireland. But no. My ancestors came from England and Wales, long long ago, too long ago to make it easy for me to go back.
Fortunately, our travel plans include Ireland and the U.K., which are not Schengen countries. We’ll spend a few months in France this fall, and then go to Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland for the winter and spring, before returning to France for the summer, legal as camembert. I’m excited about Ireland but believe me it has not been easy to let go of my desire to experience Spannocchia. I’m beginning to think of this trip as a shakedown sabbatical, in preparation for the next one, in which I’ll have long-stay visas arranged well ahead of time, perhaps through the Dutch, who aren’t famous for their impossibly frustrating red tape (to my knowledge).
Monday, April 23, 2007
Cleaning House
The flannel sheets we bought new ten years ago just gave out. My husband kicked a soccer ball in his sleep and put his sharp toenailed foot right through it, where it had frayed thin as gauze. Today I spent half an hour cutting what was left into rags, remembering the basement apartment in Sitka, Alaska where we lived when we bought those sheets, and how many homes we’d lived in since then, what we have survived, and celebrated.
So now seems like as good a time as any to go abroad for a year.
Same thing with the dishcloths and dishtowels that I bought when we were first married – they’re getting frayed and faded and turned into cleaning rags at a high rate, and for that matter, the futon mattress in which we have sunk gratefully and comfortably to sleep for a decade – in those cozy flannel sheets - has developed matching indentations, his and hers, which will not disappear not matter how many times I rotate it. It is time to pass these things on to someone who isn’t yet married or to recycle them, in a more thorough version of spring cleaning than I’ve tackled since the last time we moved south from Alaska.
The cleaning house metaphor is often used when relationships have crumbled but in fact Walt and I are still married, 15 years this year, on June 13. I know that might be a letdown for people who love a good tragedy, like my writing teacher in grad school who was sorry that we’d worked through the difficulties associated with a white bread Protestant Midwestern flatlander marrying a heathen from the Cascades. The plot of that particular story would’ve been more poignant, perhaps, if our differences had been insurmountable, but here we are. I’m proud that our marriage has outlived our linens; if we’re lucky and keep at it perhaps we’ll even outlive the quilts I’ve inherited from my grandmother. More likely, Reed will inherit the quilts, which don’t get near as much daily wear and tear as Walt and I.
Some people think preparing for a trip such as we’re taking, a year in Europe, is a lot of work. For me, it is sheer joy. I’m never happier than when I’m sorting through the closet dumping the old stuff into a box for a garage sale, shredding the contents of old files, taking inventory of the cupboards and planning how many apple crisps I will need to make before we leave in order to use up all the plum jam from the pantry. (12, which is also the number of chickens in the freezer that I need to roast, fry, grill, or stew before August 1. I will never be able to eat the 10 jars of bread and butter pickles – so they will go to friends.)
Living out of a backpack for a year at age 39 doesn’t scare me, in fact, I can hardly wait to pack and get going: 7 pairs of underwear, pajamas, two t-shirts, two sweaters, two trousers, two skirts, 5 bras, 7 pairs of socks, work shoes, town shoes, a book, a reading light, my laptop, a towel, and a little bag of bandaids and toothpaste and stuff like that. I won’t need to carry any scouring powder, keys, or the thick pad of paper on which I usually write my “to-do” lists. Housework isn’t something one spends a lot of time doing when one is living out of a backpack; neither is driving a car, or doing good deeds for one’s church or community, all things wonderful and necessary but of which I am tired. I can still do the things that are essential to me. What might it be like to be a writer and a wife and a mother, still, but while living out of a backpack? Why not see? Why not see NOW?
When I was 15 my dad had to transfer and I was offered the opportunity to change high schools and towns, from a small one to a medium sized one, both still in Iowa, but a universe apart. At first I reacted sentimentally about the friends I’d grown up with since kindergarten. How could I leave them? But then a boy from the new town kissed me, something none of my old friends were likely to ever do, even D.P., my neighbor who’d walked with me hand in hand to kindergarten until peer pressure got to him and he learned that girls had cooties. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed and given D. the chance, once we were 17; after all, he had never stopped being the first boy I ever really liked. But I packed my things with a good dose of teenage resentment and left almost without looking back. Ever since, I’ve had no trouble giving in to my itchy feet.
So now seems like as good a time as any to go abroad for a year.
Same thing with the dishcloths and dishtowels that I bought when we were first married – they’re getting frayed and faded and turned into cleaning rags at a high rate, and for that matter, the futon mattress in which we have sunk gratefully and comfortably to sleep for a decade – in those cozy flannel sheets - has developed matching indentations, his and hers, which will not disappear not matter how many times I rotate it. It is time to pass these things on to someone who isn’t yet married or to recycle them, in a more thorough version of spring cleaning than I’ve tackled since the last time we moved south from Alaska.
The cleaning house metaphor is often used when relationships have crumbled but in fact Walt and I are still married, 15 years this year, on June 13. I know that might be a letdown for people who love a good tragedy, like my writing teacher in grad school who was sorry that we’d worked through the difficulties associated with a white bread Protestant Midwestern flatlander marrying a heathen from the Cascades. The plot of that particular story would’ve been more poignant, perhaps, if our differences had been insurmountable, but here we are. I’m proud that our marriage has outlived our linens; if we’re lucky and keep at it perhaps we’ll even outlive the quilts I’ve inherited from my grandmother. More likely, Reed will inherit the quilts, which don’t get near as much daily wear and tear as Walt and I.
Some people think preparing for a trip such as we’re taking, a year in Europe, is a lot of work. For me, it is sheer joy. I’m never happier than when I’m sorting through the closet dumping the old stuff into a box for a garage sale, shredding the contents of old files, taking inventory of the cupboards and planning how many apple crisps I will need to make before we leave in order to use up all the plum jam from the pantry. (12, which is also the number of chickens in the freezer that I need to roast, fry, grill, or stew before August 1. I will never be able to eat the 10 jars of bread and butter pickles – so they will go to friends.)
Living out of a backpack for a year at age 39 doesn’t scare me, in fact, I can hardly wait to pack and get going: 7 pairs of underwear, pajamas, two t-shirts, two sweaters, two trousers, two skirts, 5 bras, 7 pairs of socks, work shoes, town shoes, a book, a reading light, my laptop, a towel, and a little bag of bandaids and toothpaste and stuff like that. I won’t need to carry any scouring powder, keys, or the thick pad of paper on which I usually write my “to-do” lists. Housework isn’t something one spends a lot of time doing when one is living out of a backpack; neither is driving a car, or doing good deeds for one’s church or community, all things wonderful and necessary but of which I am tired. I can still do the things that are essential to me. What might it be like to be a writer and a wife and a mother, still, but while living out of a backpack? Why not see? Why not see NOW?
When I was 15 my dad had to transfer and I was offered the opportunity to change high schools and towns, from a small one to a medium sized one, both still in Iowa, but a universe apart. At first I reacted sentimentally about the friends I’d grown up with since kindergarten. How could I leave them? But then a boy from the new town kissed me, something none of my old friends were likely to ever do, even D.P., my neighbor who’d walked with me hand in hand to kindergarten until peer pressure got to him and he learned that girls had cooties. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed and given D. the chance, once we were 17; after all, he had never stopped being the first boy I ever really liked. But I packed my things with a good dose of teenage resentment and left almost without looking back. Ever since, I’ve had no trouble giving in to my itchy feet.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Looking forward to another dose of Irish hospitality
The following is the sidebar to an article I wrote on Irish food history in America for the Spokane Spokesman-Review, published in March, 2007.
Picture a nineteen year old near-broke and Dublin-weary backpacker, with 9 pounds of Irish money to her name, set to sail back to England from the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghaire the next morning. Imagine her dismay when she discovers, late in the rainy December afternoon, after the banks have closed, that the ferry terminal is not open all night, and that the B&B’s in town charge at least 12 pounds per night.
After hours of tearful wandering in a shopping center, hungrily nibbling on crackers, wondering where and how she will sleep, our backpacker finally phones Mrs. Pittman’s B&B, inquiring in a pitiful voice whether they might accept a few English pounds along with Irish pounds as payment.
“Why, yes, dear, of course. And if you just have the English breakfast in the morning I’ll just charge you nine pounds.” (As if Mrs. Pittman knew just how much money the girl had!)
The next thing our damp backpacker knows, she’s eating a bowl of hot Irish stew by Mrs. Pittman’s roaring fireplace, followed by a thick wedge of chocolate cake and a glass of creamy milk for dessert; then, after a hot, hot bath, is tucked into a frilly bed with clean sheets in an upstairs bedroom for a sound sleep, such a change after raucous youth hostels.
An English breakfast consists, to our backpacker’s dismay, of oatmeal and toast and juice and tea and eggs and sausage (she wonders what she would’ve been served if she’d paid the full charge). It is the biggest and tastiest breakfast she has eaten for months. And then, since it is still raining, Mrs. Pittman directs the cheerful Mr. Pittman to drive our now well-fed traveler directly to the ferry terminal so she doesn’t have to walk clear across town.
Yes, the Irish are indeed lovely, generous people. That backpacker was me, and I have never forgotten the wonderful Mrs. Pittman in Dun Laoghaire and how she rescued me that cold, rainy night almost 20 years ago.
Picture a nineteen year old near-broke and Dublin-weary backpacker, with 9 pounds of Irish money to her name, set to sail back to England from the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghaire the next morning. Imagine her dismay when she discovers, late in the rainy December afternoon, after the banks have closed, that the ferry terminal is not open all night, and that the B&B’s in town charge at least 12 pounds per night.
After hours of tearful wandering in a shopping center, hungrily nibbling on crackers, wondering where and how she will sleep, our backpacker finally phones Mrs. Pittman’s B&B, inquiring in a pitiful voice whether they might accept a few English pounds along with Irish pounds as payment.
“Why, yes, dear, of course. And if you just have the English breakfast in the morning I’ll just charge you nine pounds.” (As if Mrs. Pittman knew just how much money the girl had!)
The next thing our damp backpacker knows, she’s eating a bowl of hot Irish stew by Mrs. Pittman’s roaring fireplace, followed by a thick wedge of chocolate cake and a glass of creamy milk for dessert; then, after a hot, hot bath, is tucked into a frilly bed with clean sheets in an upstairs bedroom for a sound sleep, such a change after raucous youth hostels.
An English breakfast consists, to our backpacker’s dismay, of oatmeal and toast and juice and tea and eggs and sausage (she wonders what she would’ve been served if she’d paid the full charge). It is the biggest and tastiest breakfast she has eaten for months. And then, since it is still raining, Mrs. Pittman directs the cheerful Mr. Pittman to drive our now well-fed traveler directly to the ferry terminal so she doesn’t have to walk clear across town.
Yes, the Irish are indeed lovely, generous people. That backpacker was me, and I have never forgotten the wonderful Mrs. Pittman in Dun Laoghaire and how she rescued me that cold, rainy night almost 20 years ago.
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