Mr. Crotchet

Merry Christmas Eve

The year was 1981. I was seven, and mesmerized by our neighbor: a crotchety man, I will call him Mr. Crotchet, who tirelessly ranted about everything and everyone. I found him fascinating.

Sometimes I sat on my bike in his driveway, listening while he puttered and muttered in his garage.

Sometimes I would inch closer and start handing him tools while he worked on his motorcycle and raged against the world. He taught me sophisticated insults: insipid, fatuous, obtuse, and more. I never heard an adult so articulately voice anger on a consistent level. I honestly did not think he noticed who handed him tools, or that a seven-year-old intently listened to his diatribes on the current state of affairs.

One day he uncharacteristically asked me a question: when were we getting a Christmas tree?

The night before, my dad explained there was no money for a tree. His shoulders slumped as he said he hoped I was not disappointed. I only wanted my parents not to worry, I did not care about a tree.

I explained all this to Mr. Crotchet, and shrugged my shoulders to indicate that a stupid tree was not important. He asked if we had enough to eat, and inquired about my baby brother. We were fine, I said, and then took off on my bike after wishing him a Merry Christmas.

The next day I came home from school to find the biggest, fullest, beautiful fir tree leaning up against our house next to a box filled with jars of baby food and a frozen turkey. The electric bill was due that day, and when my mother called the power company to explain why we were not able to pay on time that month, the receptionist said someone paid our bill the day before.

I told Mom it was Mr. Crotchet. She doubted it, but piled a clean styrofoam meat tray with cookies, wrapped it with Saran Wrap and stuck a bow on top. We marched across the street with the tray full of cookies topped with a bow and knocked on his door.

As we thanked him, Mr. Crotchet claimed he didn’t know what we were talking about and rushed to firmly shut the door in our faces.

Mom bent down to set the cookies on his stoop and met me at eye level. “Clearly, it wasn’t him,” she said with a look that made it clear this was a secret we would let him keep.

His gift was not the tree, the turkey, the baby food, or even the paid bill.

The gift he gave us was kindness.

Being kind is not the same as being nice. Niceties are shallow, and disappear quickly, like snowflakes melting on a fingertip. Kindness leaves a lasting impression, an indented fingerprint on our souls of clay.

Festivus, 2019

Brothers and sisters, let us gather together once again for the holiday that brings us all together, Festivus. The hallowed tradition of the Airing of Grievances connects us all in our mutual annoyance of all things annoying. Place a solemn gloved hand on a pole, and let us begin. 

Toilet paper rolls with one remaining square. Nothing ruins the sacred grounds of trust more than a previous user failing to replace the role of toilet paper. 

One headlight out. The dashboard of a car is filled with useless lights and warnings. I can readily see that my seatbelt is not fastened, I don’t need a flashing cartoon reminder accompanied by a loud ding. The ‘Check Engine’ light is too generic to be of any use. What I can’t readily see from behind the wheel of the car is that one headlight is out, causing a whole host of perilous dangers. We can put a man on the moon, but can’t develop a dashboard notification of a Popeye.

George RR Martin has yet to finish the final two books of his series, A Song of Ice and Fire. He’s procrastinated for over two decades, pumping out other novels, a daily blog, essays, and granting interviews. Instead of just sitting down to focus on finishing what I want, he just does what he wants. The audacity of being an independent human being. 

Drivers who drive too slowly when the roads are dry and weather’s awesome. Look buddy, I know you’re out on a scenic drive, but this two-lane highway is a conduit for people who have somewhere to be and we don’t all have the luxury of going 35 in a 60 zone. That’s what the back roads are for. Take that whimsical drive over to the back road. 

Drivers who drive too fast when the roads are nasty and the weather’s thick. Look buddy, I know the speed limit is 60, but there’s people driving around with one headlight out and nobody can see more than ten feet in front of the car. Slow your roll to 35, and let’s try to live until Georgie-boy cranks out the final two novels of A Song of Ice and Fire. 

Brimmed hats indoors on someone’s head. Do they need a ‘check engine’ light on the brim to remind them to remove their hat? Or should I just make a ding noise next to them until said hat is removed?

Speaking of hats – outdoor lights with no lamp shade. The light just spills out all over the place, lighting up other neighbor’s windows and copious amounts of sky. Can you afford to light the whole neighborhood? Nobody wants your extra light. 

Vacuums with bagless canisters and hinged openings on both the top and bottom. Having two hinged openings on one bagless cannister opens up a whole dusty bin of opportunity for failure of multiple hinges. Nothing aggrieves me more than a dust bin unexpectedly opening from the bottom to release all the dirty contents on a freshly vacuumed floor. 

Happy Festivus! 

This article originally appeared in the Methow Valley News, 11 December 2019

Elderberry Canyon Trail

Elderberry Canyon, located in the Libby Creek drainage, has no elderberries. At least, from what I observed on a recent foray. I could be wrong. My attention was oft distracted by views of silvery granite peaks of the Sawtooth range, adorned by seasonal colors of golden larches. 

If you are looking for a short and sweet, in and out, close to town, and relatively flat walk, Elderberry Canyon is one option. To get there, travel one mile south of Carlton, and turn right into the Libby Creek drainage. After 3.6 miles, take the left fork and continue on Libby Creek Road for about a quarter of a mile. An old forest road sign indicates “Elderberry Canyon Road End, 2”. The first portion of this dirt road is private. If driving a high-clearance all-wheel drive vehicle, you could drive to the end of this two-mile rutted road and park in a small clearing. Otherwise, park alongside Libby Creek Road. Do not block the entrance, and do not stray from the easement.

Elderberry Canyon trail begins at the end of this two-mile rutted and overgrown jeep track. Wide and shaded, the trail is a roadbed that gently climbs for approximately two miles through red ponderosa pine, dressed in brilliant wolf lichen. At two miles, the trail disappears into a small meadow. Lookout Mountain rises ahead, and the ambitious hiker in search of views can continue on the open ridge line to the lookout. 

This gem is a go-to trail for all seasons. In the spring, yellow balsam and spring beauties carpet the forest floor and frame the views of the Sawtooths. In summer and fall the shaded roadbed is an easy mountain bike ride with rewarding views. Elderberry Canyon is accessible in winter, as Libby Creek Road is reliably plowed. Skiers and snowshoers should look for wider parking pullouts at the junction of Libby Creek Road and Smith Canyon Road and walk the quarter mile to the beginning of Elderberry Canyon Road.

Harts Pass to Grasshopper Pass

Original publication, Methow Valley News, September 4, 2019

The holiday weekend crowds were delightfully sparse along the Pacific Crest Trail between Harts Pass and Grasshopper Pass. A parking spot was available, there were no lines at the outhouse, and the hikers were stretched few and far between.

All the elevation was gained via Harts Pass Road 5400. The road climbs above 6000’ in elevation into the heart of the North Cascades, where Hart’s Pass accesses a network of trails into the vast Pasayten Wilderness. 

Hart’s Pass is the highest road in the State of Washington. Built in 1893, the route gave access to gold and silver mines and over 1,000 permanent residents. According to “High Hopes and Deep Snows, How Mining Spurred Development of the Methow Valley,” author Marcy Stamper states the town of Barron near Harts Pass served 2,500 miners with a post office, a butcher shop, a trading company, several restaurants, gambling establishments, and “dancing women.” The road is named after Thomas Hart, the mine owner who built the road to transport equipment and ore. When the gold ran out, so did the people. The town of Barron was hastily abandoned in 1907, people left just as quickly as they first appeared, leaving tools of trade and personal belongings behind. Sally Portman, in her book, “The Smiling Country” relays the humorous account of sisters Ruth and Florence McLean camping up at Hart’s Pass with their family in 1910:

              “The two sleuths dove into some old boxes left in haste by former dance hall girls and delightedly lifted out fancy-lady dresses…Florence put on one and started running as fast as she could up the path. When asked why she was running away, Florence answered, ‘I heard this dress belonged to a fast woman and I’ll bet I’m just as fast as any of them.’”

All that remains today are the views that leaves one either speechless or reaching for superlatives. Summer flowers are still in limited bloom, while other blooms have dried to perfection on the stem. The larch will turn golden in a few short weeks. The hike from Hart’s Pass to Grasshopper Pass is relatively easy and flat, following the ridgeline along the Pacific Crest Trail. To get there, travel Lost River road from Mazama to the end, continue the gravel forest service road 5400. At roughly 13 miles on 5400, the road forks. To the left is Meadows Campground, straight on is Hart’s Pass. There are many trailheads and views at Hart’s Pass, but for this hike, I recommend turning left and heading towards Meadows Campground. At another fork in the road, the left leads to the campground, while the right fork continues to Brown Bear Trailhead. Take the right fork and park at the Brown Bear Trailhead. 

Follow the trailhead to the Pacific Crest Trail mark. A large sign indicates left to Glacier Pass, and right to the Canadian Border. Turn left. Grasshopper Pass is 4.7 miles from this trailhead. A detailed trail description with mileage and points of interest can be found at https://www.wta.org/go-hiking/hikes/grasshopper-pass. 

Shock Waves, Sound Waves

Original publication, Methow Valley News, September 11, 2019

That was a lovely little storm, wasn’t it? I have not enjoyed a raucous storm in years. Five years, to be precise. But this time was different. I thoroughly reveled in the cacophony of light and sound. Perhaps because there was an accompaniment of rain, or maybe because it is September, and the leaves are starting to turn, a delightful presage to snow.

In the morning after the storm, I strolled through the woods. My hands slid over the tops of heavy sodden shrubs, releasing a cascade of raindrops from the golden red leaves to fall once more to the ground. I thought of a certain poem, expressing the angst of a summer storm, versus the sigh of relief exhaled when a storm ushers in autumn. 

Mother, Summer, I - Philip Larkin

My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,
And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can't confront: I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An autumn more appropriate.

Is a thunderstorm a power anthem of Mother Nature? A single bolt of lightning travels 200,000 mph and is hotter than 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit. The sun is practically frigid in comparison at slightly over 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit.

Lightning occurs during a dance of molecules and temperature. As water vapor rises into the heights of the atmosphere, it cools and forms ice. As more molecules join the party, they dance with a greater frenzy. Bumping and grinding, these ice crystals collide and build up an electrical charge. Positively charged ions are lightweights, and rise to the top of the cloud. Negatively charged particles carry more weight, and drop to the bottom of the cloud. When these particles build up to a tipping point, a bolt of lightning streaks between the positive and negative charges, bringing equilibrium to the cloud once more…and the dance continues. If there are positive charges on the ground below, then a lighting bolt of energy will occur between the ground and the cloud. But you already knew all this.

The extreme heat of the lightning bolt, five times greater than the sun, attempts to expand into the cold air of the cloud. But, traveling at 200,000 mph, there is no time or space for the release of energy to expand. The force of energy results in a shock wave that rips open a tunnel through the cold air. As the tunnel collapses, the shock wave is then expressed as a sound wave. Rolling thunder that goes on and on is an audible signature of the length of the tunnel as it closes behind the shock wave created by super-heated lightning bolts. And now you know a thing, that perhaps you already knew.

First People of the Methow, an informative guide

A beautiful and informative map featuring the First People of the Methow Valley is now available at the Methow Valley Interpretive Center (MVIC).

The map features trade routes, settlements, and important fishing and gathering areas along the main corridor of the Methow Valley, along with ten informational stops along the way. Users are encouraged to visit the interpretive sites noted on the map: the Methow Monument in Pateros, McFarland Creek Fishing area, the Methow Valley Interpretive Center and Native Plant Gardens on the TwispWorks campus, the Twisp Ponds Discovery Center, the Cottonwood Trail, the new Homestream Park in Winthrop, the Interpretive Loop Trail at Sun Mountain, the Sa Teekh Wa Trail in Winthrop, and Early Winters Campground.

The map includes a geological timeline from when the Methow Valley was covered in glaciers up to a mile thick. As the ice receded, the First People settled throughout the Methow Valley, where food and cultural resources were available. They established several trails and trade routes and traded goods with the coastal and plains regions.  The descendants of these First People, the Methow, continue to live in this region - teaching and practicing cultural traditions passed down through hundreds of generations.

Featured on the map is an introduction to the Coyote Story and a large artful representation by Virgil “Smoker” Marchand, filled with images of important plants and animals to the First People. One of the Coyote Stories, as recorded by Ella E. Clark, and featured at the Fort Okanogan Interpretive Center reads, “Old-One told Coyote to teach the Indians the best way to do things and the best way to make things. Life would be easier and better for them when they were no longer ignorant. Coyote then traveled the earth and did many wonderful things.”

The map was created by a talented team of volunteers, professionals, and Methow descendants: Randy Lewis, Crystal Miller, Arnold and Gail Cleveland, Chuck Borg, Mary Yglesia, Julie Grialou, and myself, Joanna Bastian. Funding came from two private and anonymous donors: one through the Methow Conservancy, and the other through MVIC. MVIC served as fiscal sponsor. Confederated Colville Tribes (CCT) History/Archaeology program provided oversight and editing. Tara Gregg of Terra Firma Design was the graphic designer. Images and artwork were donated by the History/Archaeology Program of the CCT, MVIC, Methow Conservancy, Okanogan County Historical Society, artist Virgil "Smoker" Marchand, David Moskowitz, Tom Forker, Solveig Torvik, Randy Lewis, and the Miller family. The map was approved by the Colville Business Council. 

With less than 2,000 to distribute, distribution points are limited to a small sampling of school districts, museums and libraries in Okanogan County. The map is available at these locations: Pateros Museum and Public Library, in Twisp at the MVIC, Methow Arts, and the Public Library, in Winthrop at the Shafer Museum, Public Library, and Methow Conservancy; in Omak and Okanogan public libraries and the Okanogan County Historical museum, at the Fort Okanogan Interpretive Center, and at the Colville Tribal Museum at Coulee Dam.

The First People Map will be distributed to three pilot school districts in Okanogan County, with established MVIC field trip programs. As funding becomes available for more prints, distribution will grow to include all nine school districts in the county. Donations to the MVIC are welcome to help with these efforts.

Visit the MVIC website  http://www.methowvalleyinterpretivecenter.com/ for information on locations highlighted on the map, including trail descriptions and directions.

Methow Valley Interpretive Center, located on the TwispWorks campus in Twisp, features in-depth exhibits of the unique geology and natural history of the Methow Valley, and pre-European native inhabitants. While visiting the informational points along the map, please respect the land and personal property. Do not disturb archaeological sites and leave only footprints, take only memories. 

The MVIC Map point of contact is David H. LaFever - Methow Valley Interpretive Center Education Coordinator, (509) 919-0686, dhlafever@gmail.com.

Aunt Rosie

The same year my great-aunt Rosie was born, her 17-year-old sister Jean gave birth to my mother Carol. Being just a year apart, my mother Carol and her Aunt Rosie were playmates and confidantes, as close as sisters. They had sleepovers and play dates, inside jokes and secrets.

When we visited Grandma Jean and Grandpa Harvey, Aunt Rosie would drop in for a visit. She was a whirlwind of punch lines and vivacious color. When she stood and announced she was going to the restroom, Harvey would complain that Rosie used too much toilet paper. With a flourish, Aunt Rosie whipped out a roll of Charmin from her ample bosom. “Don’t worry Harvey, I brought my own!”

Her cleavage was like the bottomless hat of a magician. Car keys, wallet, lipstick, Kleenex and more appeared and disappeared with a flick of the wrist. My memory includes an endless string of colorful scarves and a white rabbit, but I’m willing to bet — hesitantly — that she probably never tucked woodland creatures into her brassiere.

Eventually, my mom moved to Idaho, Jean and Harvey retired to Florida, and Aunt Rosie remained in Ohio. I would come home from school and find my mom doubled over in mirth, the long cord of the kitchen phone jiggling wildly with waves of her glee. It was either Aunt Rosie on the other end, or Grandma Jean talking about Aunt Rosie’s latest antics. Grandma Jean often said, “just sit on Rosie’s porch, and life happens!” They were a treasured trio who loved and laughed regardless of the time and space that separated them.

If Aunt Rosie was the life of the party, my mother was the joy. Once, while we were waiting for my mother to arrive at a get-together, my father leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Watch how the room lights up when your mother walks in — see how everyone smiles?”

My mother Carol was the first to die, and my Grandma Jean soon followed. Aunt Rosie’s communications with me were always a reminder of the closeness that the three women shared.

One morning, I had the most vivid dream. I was suspended in space, planets and stars in prescribed orbits were all slowly moving according to plan. In the distance, I could hear Aunt Rosie laughing. She was somersaulting through time and space, having a grand time. I could feel the wind blow as she rushed by, a smile and a wave she gave me. I looked down to see a sunny meadow below — dotted with white and yellow flowers. Carol and Jean stood ready, knees bent and arms extended, their faces upturned expectantly to the sky. Falling through the blue came Rosie, tumbling into their waiting arms. The three rolled to the grass in laughter.

I awoke still holding that sense of joy, but also a bit of sadness. Rosie took her leave from this world while I was dreaming that morning, and I’m so grateful she passed me by on the way.

Happy Asteroid Anniversary!

Original publication, Methow Valley News, June 12, 2019

Pack up the car, pack up the kids, pack up the sunscreen, broad-brimmed hats, sunglasses and water bottles and sally forth to where the Methow River meets the mighty Columbia.

Saturday, June 22, is the sixth annual Salmon Bake and Cultural Celebration at the Methow Monument in Pateros Memorial Park. Festivities start at noon. Randy Lewis will serve up traditional flame-grilled Copper River salmon. Lunch includes salads and SweetRiver Bakery rolls, for a suggested donation of $10. Cultural demonstrations in the park will include basket weaving, beading, canoes, music and more. There will be a silent auction and raffle with all proceeds from the event to benefit programs offered by Pateros-Brewster Community Resource Center. The Salmon Bake and Cultural Celebration promises to be a fun event to celebrate our Native American neighbors and support community programs.

Summer solstice is right around the corner. I have mixed feelings about the longest day of the year, the changing of the seasons. On one hand, the summer solstice is the one day of the year with the most hours of sunlight – a positive, solar-charged, illuminating event. However, it is the longest day of the year – and the word “longest” has never impressed me. World’s longest limo, world’s longest hot dog, world’s longest tapeworm … these translate as “impossible turning radius,” “indigestion,” and “gross.” The word “longest” is laden with a long list of negative connotations. At the end of a tortuous mind-numbing work or travel day, no one says, “That was the longest day,” with any modicum of enthusiasm. I’ll have to travel to the southern hemisphere to celebrate the winter solstice, I suppose.

A tragic thing that more than one person has said to me is, “I don’t believe in the solstice.” Instead of patiently explaining how a spherical Earth rotates around the sun, I usually just reply, “Don’t say that out loud, it makes you look stupid.” Here we live in the age of information and Google and someone doesn’t believe in a physical event they can view with their own eyes. I hope they are enjoying their foot-long hotdog on the longest day of the year.

I must admit that any wondrous reminder that we are the smallest part of large universe fills me with joy. Our tiny green-and-blue rock is situated in the most perfect position of all the planets to receive just enough light and warmth to foster life, but not to toast our existence into burnt bits.

Speaking of burnt toast, sometime between June and July is the 66-million-year anniversary of when an asteroid toasted the dinosaurs. Based on analysis of pollen in fossils found at the impact site, scientists know that the asteroid impact occurred between the flowering of lotus and water lilies.

Perhaps on this very day, 66 million years ago, a 6-mile wide asteroid named Baptistina hurtled towards Earth at 20,000 miles an hour and barreled into the surface. The impact liquified rock, which turned into steam. The resulting plume exploded into space, and then cooled and re-condensed into tiny droplets of glass. The hell balls spread out through the atmosphere and creating the greatest meteor shower no one has ever seen, except for the dinosaurs in a few hot moments. You can see these glass balls, aka pseudomorphed tektites, embedded in a patch of mudstone from the Powder River Basin in Wyoming. All the details can be heard in “Dinopocalypse Redux,” a RadioLab podcast found here: www.wnycstudios.org/story/dinopocalypse-redux.

Happy Asteroid Anniversary season, and Happy Solstice!

Bad Advice for Good People

This article first appeared in the Methow Valley News, May 22, 2019

This time of year is filled with celebration vibes, and a wagon load of well-intentioned advice. People are either walking a graduation line or down a wedding aisle. Tables are laden with iced cakes, floral arrangements and congratulation cards scribbled with lines of well-wishes and advice.

I tried to compile a list of sound, excellent, life-skill advice for this week’s column. But, all that came to mind were the reams of terrible advice I received from well-meaning people. What follows is bad advice for good people.

“That plaid couch is so you.” No, it is not you. You are a colorful being with many textures and patterns. Do not define yourself by a patterned fabric that you will be stuck with for the next decade. Avoid print-patterned furniture at all costs, because, five years from now you will abhor that plaid couch and wish you had saved yourself some hard-earned cash by going with a neutral tone futon and a few sporty throw pillows.

“Say yes to everything for one year.” No. Do not say yes to everything. In college I had a semi-roommate who convinced me to say yes to every opportunity, including dating, for one year. Here’s how that year went: fencing lessons, banana-flavored everything, ballroom dancing, a plaid couch, a tense moment at gunpoint on a beach in Mexico, 37 awkward dates wherein I learned what I definitely did not want in a life-partner, and a brown paper bag filled with 52 ska CDs. I don’t even like ska. The only high point of that year was learning a few parrying techniques that I’ve never used again.

“Make direct eye contact to show confidence.” Eh … within reason. Half of the uncomfortable situations in my life have occurred because I made direct eye contact and the person on the receiving end mistook the look for one of interest. This has led to several marriage proposals from complete strangers, an offer to kick my assets, unwanted windshield cleaning at stoplights, and TMI from seatmates on trains, planes and automobiles.

Charcoal-activated anything. Charcoal belongs in potting soil and barbecue pits, not in any body part with a mucus lining and surfaces sensitive to abrasives. Activated charcoal is used to treat drug overdoses. It works because drugs and toxins chemically bind to the charcoal and leave the body. It’s become more popular to take activated charcoal as a supplement, or for mild discomfort. According to WebMD, activated charcoal can cause gastrointestinal blockages, and will reduce or prevent absorption of other medications including pain killers, heart medication, asthma medication and anti-depressants. As an alternative to toothpaste, charcoal use is discouraged by scientific evidence. A recent study published in the British Dental Journal reveals findings that activated charcoal causes tooth decay and staining.

In other news you didn’t want to hear: The Pateros Super Stop gas station has declined to continue offering the Methow Valley News to customers. If you have an idea of a local distributor please email editor@methowvalleynews.com.

There is a bright side! In an effort to support readers in the lower valley, Methow Valley News is offering a $5 discount on subscriptions to any Pateros address. This discount will be honored through the end of June 2019.

Wells Wildlife Area

This article first appeared in the Methow Valley News, April 10, 2019

Any fan of Steve Martin’s hilarious comedy, “The Jerk,” will remember his uncontrollable excitement when the new phone books arrived.

I re-enact that scene every spring, with slightly different words. “The new blossoms are here! The new blossoms are here!” Or, “The birds are back! The birds are back!” Or, my favorite sentiment, “The trails are open! The trails are open! Things are going to start happening for me now.”

Some of the lower-elevation trails are ready for traipsing, including the Golden Doe area south of Twisp. That trail has everything: buttercup blossoms, mountain views and wetlands filled with birds. A recent foray yielded views and songs from redwing blackbirds, spotted towhees and western meadowlarks. For details on the Golden Doe unit of the Methow Wildlife Area, access the Lower Valley column from last year.

If you are looking for a cure to cabin fever, wide open spaces with long-range views are the balm-diggity. (I just made that term up, patent pending.) For views of the Cascades, a symphony of bird songs and glimpses of the mighty Columbia, I highly recommend an excursion to the Central Ferry Canyon Unit of the Wells Wildlife Area. Over a thousand acres — 1,914 to be exact — of shrub steppe and mixed forest provide the perfect backdrop to birdsong resonance in the mornings and late afternoons.

To find the Central Ferry Canyon Unit of the Wells Wildlife Area, cross the Columbia River at the bridge in Brewster. You can’t miss it. It’s the only bridge in Brewster. Turn right on Crane Orchard Road. Travel for 3.3 miles and turn left on Central Ferry Canyon Road, a well-maintained dirt road. Follow Central Ferry Canyon Road for a little over a mile until entering the Wells Wildlife Area, marked by a sign.

In the wildlife area there are three different parking areas off the main road, all marked by Discover Pass signs. Not all areas have maintained trails. For a distinct jeep track trail, I recommend following Central Ferry Canyon road up towards the ridge and using the third parking area found on the left-hand side of the road, below the tree line. For more information on the Central Ferry Canyon Unit of the Wells Wildlife Area, visit https://wdfw.wa.gov/places-to-go/wildlife-areas/central-ferry-canyon-wildlife-area-unit.

For those who enjoy a picturesque walk amongst gravestones, Packwood Memorial Cemetery is located at the top of the ridge, within the pine trees.

Finish up your excursion with a meal at Camperos Mexican Restaurant. The colorful décor is as much a feast for the senses as is the menu. The walls are a canvas of brilliant murals depicting orchard life in Brewster, and a nod to Mexican ancestry and culture. Camperos is located at 301 E. Main Ave. in Brewster. Or, get a feast to go from La Milpa, featuring amazing fresh-baked Mexican pastries, and family platters from their deli. La Milpa is located at 324 E. Main Ave. The chili rellenos will have you channeling Billy Idol, “More! More! More!”

Water Dance

This article first appeared in the Methow Valley News, March 27, 2019

It must be the end of winter.

All the tell-tale signs are here. Robins nibble on dried-up berries and rosehips at the edges of the yard. The dogs are shedding their winter coats, leaving tufts of hair like a breadcrumb trail wherever they go. The roof shrugs off layers of snow and ice, with a cacophony of drips throughout the morning followed by thunderous slides that shake the house in the afternoon. The winter food storage, so plentiful at the end of harvest, is nearly gone but for a few shriveled carrots, a handful of sprouting potatoes and one lone jar of tomato sauce.

Afternoon mud puddles transform overnight into crystalline shards of intricate geometric ice castles, glistening in the morning sun. As the day warms, ice crystals melt into rivulets that trickle down the walkway, joining other trickles in a rush to the creek that soon will become a roaring torrent, rolling down to the river in a rush towards the open ocean. As the poet Mary Oliver so wisely observed, “It is the nature of stone to be satisfied. It is the nature of water to want to be somewhere else.”

In our valley of plenty, it’s easy to take water for granted. According to an article published in the Los Angeles Times last week, 1.6 million people in the United States don’t have access to clean drinking water. Recently I traveled to the Bahamas — where there is no surface water and the freshwater resources are finite and vulnerable. The tap water on the island was filled with salt and sulfur. After a salt-shower, I would wet a washcloth with bottled water to rinse the residual salt off my body. My travel water bottle was useless as the only available drinking water came in plastic bottles. As we were instructed on the dangers that sunscreen posed to coral reefs, I couldn’t help but think of all those plastic bottles, and the impact on the fragile eco-system of the limestone and coral islands.

Returning home, I realized the stark differences between the water-rich and the water-poor. I ran four loads of laundry, took a shower, mopped the floors, filled the water fountain, turned on the humidifier, and filled the dogs’ water bowl with the ease of rotating a handle. Filling a quart jar with well water from the tap, I drunk deeply.

People in Flint, Michigan, still don’t have clean drinking water. An interactive map at www.drinkingwateralliance.org tracks all the areas in the United States with unsafe drinking water, and how the community has responded, or has failed to respond.

All these watery ruminations drove me to seek out the poems of Mary Oliver, who died early this year.

What is the vitality and necessity

Of clean water?

Ask a man who is ill, and who is lifting

His lips to the cup.

Ask the forest.

“Water,” by Mary Oliver

Whales hear shapes, bees dance maps, and plants eat sunshine. What happens when it ends?

This article first appeared in the Methow Valley News, March 13, 2019

Long walks in the woods with friends can lead to fascinating conversations.

On a recent sunny day, our footsteps crunched over freshly fallen snow. A group of friends shared how they each experienced listening to ensemble music. Some choose to close their eyes and picture a story unrolling, like a movie reel. Others enjoy the technical aspect of the music, how the different instruments emerge in solo or interact with others. Individual notes tracking over a range of scales, sending waves and ripples of sound through a concert hall.   

The conversation stuck with me for days, as I thought about how other living creatures experience sound, like whales, for instance. The ocean’s dark abyss limits eyesight, while water dilutes scent. With limited sight, and muffled scents, whales must depend on other sensory skills. Soundwaves move faster in water than in air, and the ear bones in whales are highly developed to process sound. Whales vocalize ultra-sonic pitches that travel through water and echo back, allowing whales to “see” their environment using echolocation. Whales depend primarily on sound to navigate, feed, and socialize.

Bees also depend on communication to navigate, feed and socialize. A scout bee will return to the hive and share her findings in a detailed “waggle dance.” She dances out a map indicating the length of distance to the nectar source, the richness of the nectar, and the direction in which to travel. Her co-workers will watch the dance once, and immediately fly off in the direction indicated.

Plants that are visited by the bees have their own unique way of processing food. They absorb sunlight, convert the energy to sugar, and grow into a food source to sustain other living creatures. Plants breathe in carbon dioxide and breathe out oxygen, a key component of our own survival as humans.

Whales hear shapes, bees dance maps, and plants eat sunshine.

Plants are made of sunshine and air; humans are made of water. Sixty-five percent of the human body is water, the same salinity as the sea. Soundwaves move through us as we dance our own maps. Sunlight makes us happy, and our bones strong.

What a wonderful world we live in. A symphony of sights, sounds and smells that nourish our bodies, and engage our senses. And yet, there is the sense that the slightest tremble of butterfly wings will set calamity in motion and disrupt the entire balance.

Here’s where it gets dark.

Whales throw themselves ashore to escape something terrifying they’ve “seen.” Bees suffer colony collapse under a storm of pesticides, damaged eco-systems and mono-crops. Just as air pollution causes respiratory disease in humans, dirty air kills plants. 

What if we humans were the proverbial butterfly, the cause of massive disruption? Industries contaminate the water that fills our bodies. Pollution disrupts photosynthesis, killing off pollinators and plants. The delicate interplay of clean water and clean air is essential to whale, bee, plant and human survival.

Real protection comes in the form smart legislation to manage resources and curb pollution. Liberty Bell High School students interning with the Methow Valley Citizens Council researched climate bills and armed themselves with knowledge. This week, that student envoy met with elected representatives in the Washington state Legislature to advocate for action on climate change. We should follow their lead, and demand an effective strategic plan from our representatives that addresses the human causes of climate damage and provides real solutions.

Preparing for Snowmageddon - Methow Edition

This article originally appeared in the Methow Valley News, Feb 13, 2019

While visiting family below the Mason-Dixon line, a curious cousin leaned forward to ask an important question. In a whisper normally reserved for wakes and hospitals, she asked me what winter was like. If she were wearing pearls, she would have clutched them while asking. Instead, she put a hand to her chest in a dramatic motion.

I told her winter was wonderful. I described trees flocked with snow against the bluest winter sky, mist rising from the river in the crisp dawn morning, and sunlight glittering like diamonds over a snow-filled meadow. She looked doubtful. I handed her my phone, and for the next hour she flipped through winter photos, growing more and more impressed. At one point she told her husband, “Honey, we need to visit her in winter.”

I thought of her this weekend as I began preparations for the winter storm that would shut down multiple highways, bury cars and knock out power throughout the state.

To prepare for a huge snowstorm, the first thing to do was to put my affairs in order. By that I mean eating tacos at El Sabor Norteño.

After my tacos were all ingested, and affairs in order, I took a ski lesson from Ray at Sun Mountain Lodge. I’m a terrible skier with no coordination or athletic skill. I figured with all this snow on the way, I better figure out how to get from point A to B with my boots locked onto long narrow boards. Ray gave excellent guidance, and with some pointers on kicking, gliding, and a lesson on how to stop, I felt ready for snowmageddon.

The next stop was Hank’s Harvest Foods. I had to stock up on macaroni and cheese, chocolate, and donate to a good cause. When you use your own reusable bag, the cashier will give you a wooden nickel to donate to a local nonprofit. At the front of the store are large glass jars for eight local nonprofits in the valley. Drop your wooden nickel into any jar of your choosing, and Hank’s will donate a real nickel to that nonprofit. Donate to a good cause and reduce waste at the same time, all while stocking up for the next big storm.

After winter clouds disgorged their load of snow, we strapped on skis and floated through a hushed landscape. Tree limbs shrugged burdens of show, springing back into formation in a cloud of sparkling ice crystals. Throngs of birds serenaded the forest — flitting from tree to tree as we glided our way below.

I’ll take the red cheeks, the cold fingers and numb toes for these fleeting moments of winter beauty above the Mason-Dixon line.

The Houseguest

Grief is a strange companion

An unpredictable house guest 

She comes and goes on a whim

When she finally takes her leave

It’s always a turn to discover

She might have left your heart

Better than she found it

A Festivus for the Rest of Us

This article originally appeared in the Methow Valley News on November 28, 2018

In this season of Gratitude, it is important to keep the balance in the universe by practicing the age-long tradition of Festivus - the Airing of Grievances.

Let us begin.

• Wasps – I would be grateful for weather that is too cold for the little buggers, but now I’m vacuuming up their carcasses as they fall out of the woodwork to die. They may be less annoying now, but they are creating more housework. I just cleaned these floors, and there are three more dead bodies that appeared.
• Dead bugs on the carpet. If only they would be considerate enough to stay within the walls when they die during the chilly months. Less vacuuming, more insulation. Win – win.
• Junk mail masquerading as real mail. I just spent two whole minutes opening an envelope that looked important. All I got was a papercut and an added chore of recycling. That is two minutes of my life that I will never get back. Who knows what number of unidentified germs just jumped off the envelope and into a freshly sliced papercut?
• Molded plastic packaging – nothing is more irritating than to realize that the knife you needed to purchase because you have no knife is encased in an impenetrable package that requires a knife to open the package that holds the knife you need. Three entire minutes of my life wasted, and an open wound from jagged plastic covered in countless germs. Between this and junk mail I am now out a perfectly good five minutes and have developed a case of gangrene. Dear manufacturers, just pack those things in a little recyclable cardboard box.
• Movies with no plot line. That was two hours of my life that I will never get back. However, as there were no gashing wounds involved, this grievance is slightly lower on the list than junk mail and molded plastic packaging.
• People who claim they don’t eat vegetables – they might as well announce their constant state of constipation and a degraded immune system. It’s disgusting. Eat a vegetable.
• Coats that don’t have that little loop of fabric that goes on a coat hook. What are we, savages?
• People who complain about loud chewers. There are people starving in this world who have nothing to eat at all. Celebrate that someone is eating. Unless, of course, it’s a crinkly bag of potato chips – in that case, hand them a bowl.
• Crinkly bags. Whoever makes these should be stuck next to a crinkly bag snacker in a movie theater, watching a movie without a plotline. Boxes are quieter. Boxes are great. Boxes are recyclable and don’t result in open gaping wounds! What do you have against boxes?
• Socks that ball up underfoot in a boot. What is point of that elastic sock top if not to hold up a sock? It’s like a coat without a coat-hook loop.

To practice an Airing of Grievances, find a pole. Any pole will do: telephone pole, fence pole, flag pole, or even a pole dancing pole, and with your gloved hand placed upon the frozen pole, air a grievance. Happy Festivus!