Researching Yellowstone

Posted on October 7, 2013 | Leave a comment

This trip was unlike any we had as a family. Most summers, we camped in state or national parks, as do many families of teachers—public servants using the public parks.  We visited nearly every California State Park, our particular favorites including Calaveras, Donner, Grover, Big Basin, and Big Sur. We camped in national forests when we could not get the spot we wanted in a national park, e.g. Yosemite or Grand Canyon or Sequoia. We traveled and camped from June through September, when we started back to school.

Our children began their camping adventures when they were merely weeks old. Dale’s down jacket served as a sleeping bag for a 6 week old and nursing was a snap in the middle of the night. No bottles to boil, no formula to mix—made for an easy vacation. By the time our girls were in high school, they could put up a tent in record time, which was often serious family competition. Cooking on the Coleman stove was a creative art, which we mastered. Therefore, this particular summer, while I was studying, testing, and recording, my family was fishing, swimming, and relaxing by the Yellowstone River.

University of Montana offered this field study. As with any graduate level course, required reading was assigned ahead of time. I ordered the requisite texts, and weeks out, began the reading assignments.  At the start of class was a preliminary test, so I plunged into the mandatory reading while we drove to Yellowstone. This geology course covered scientific testing of some of 10,000 hot spots, such as geysers, fumaroles, and mud pots.  By casting a fishing line, attached with a thermometer or water-collecting instruments, into geyser basins, researchers gathered data without endangering lives.  Every season, occasional tourists and random pets fall prey to geysers or fumaroles by straying too far from the boarded walkways and falling into the boiling waters—despite the posted warnings, newspaper accounts, and cautionary words of rangers. Some locals keep mortality rates on visitors searching for that perfect picture, or unleashed, wandering dogs that lose their lives to the hot springs, or bison who pummel them.

For our research, we were nowhere near the boarded walkways or civilization. We collected data in the Norris Basin, the most seismically active area of the park, and therefore the most dangerous. We brought along biological testing kits and medical supplies and a park ranger, who carried his walkie-talkie, our only link to the outside world and help, should we need it. Recording data all day long in the hot summer sun, while dodging flies the size of small bats and mosquitoes the size of small birds, yet this was my idea of an exciting vacation. I love outdoor biology—my true calling—and I felt in my element as I crouched in the dust and dirt, inhaling fumes of sulfur, and batting away at the constant attack by insects.  And, I was ready to pack up and move to Yellowstone permanently.

One particular trek skirted a blackened sulfur pool, a tar-y-blackness that I had seen before, but always in a lab and never in nature. The pool was blacker than the blackest charcoal I ever made in many a science lab, pouring sulfuric acid over sugar, watching as the bubbling mass oozed out of the beaker, while students ooh’d and aah’d and held their noses.  Here, we stopped to run the spectrophotometer and assess the compounds present in nearby streams and fumaroles. We ran tests to measure biologic variations, to assess seismic changes in the basin—to determine the rapid or slow but constant evolution that Yellowstone is famous for. The dramatic variations in color are due to the differences in pH and temperature and we tested nearly every color in the spectrum.

On the last day of our vacation, my exhausted family bedded down at nightfall, while I studied by flashlight for my final exam.  Sammy saw a bear, the one animal she had searched for, and which earned her Yellowstone National Park Junior Ranger patch, while I earned my one-graduate unit that moved me to the farthest column on the pay scale.

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Ode to an Old Couch

Posted on October 5, 2013 | Leave a comment

It was in the first year of my “starter marriage” that my husband and I made the substantial purchase of bed, couch, and dining room set. Our prospect of owning “real furniture” was exciting, albeit we lived in a rental apartment. Therefore, when we selected our meager furnishings, we took this task seriously. Who knew how long we would be sitting on this furniture? 5 years? 10 years? Longer?

The couch was long, a full nine feet, with a multitude of pillows, in a straight-back modern style. The fern pattern in chintz fabric was trendy then, done in 1970s colors of blue and brown, and fit perfectly in our tiny apartment. It became my bed many nights over the next year as my husband spent his evenings at the hospital. I drifted off as television channels slowly shut down, one by one until nothing save snow was left on our 12 inch black and white TV. Some nights I listened to the radio and read Stephen King or Michael Creighton, which meant I got no sleep at all. Every sound in the apartment exacerbated my elevated heart rate because there is nothing like reading a horror story before bed. Two years later, older but barely wiser, my “starter marriage” dissolved. I got the household furnishings; he got the car.

The couch crowded out my even tinier apartment, which could not accommodate such a beast, and the blue-brown colors clashed with the lime-green shag carpet. It was a miserable look, but there were no reality shows back in 1981 that could fix this problem. Even in my next house, similar shades of green (trending toward olive) shag rug covered the floors of the turn-of-the-century craftsman, I shoved the couch into a back bedroom. Finally, after being ignored for over four years, the couch was moved to the living room of our new home with my new husband; but, not for long, as within three years we found another place, a larger home to accommodate our growing family, with even worse carpeting in a hideous orange hue. We moved anyway.

For the next five years, the blue-brown couch sat on wall-to-wall ginger-colored carpeting as my husband and I removed “cottage cheese” off the ceiling, wallpaper off the walls, linoleum off the kitchen floors, and eventually the rest of the rug throughout the house. Finally, after years, we enjoyed the couch, but the problem was the couch was too long and fit better in the living room, while our family congregated in the kitchen and family room. On holidays, children and grandparents visited on the couch; on occasional sleepovers, the couch served as futons, and with three-year olds, the cushions became “hideouts,” but eventually our family neglected it for the leather model by the television.

Until recently, that is. Our youngest daughter moved to her college apartment and wanted the sofa, as it matched her tasteful tan carpet. Getting it through the door of the second floor apartment meant Sam and her dad climbed onto the roof and angled it in, but they managed. At the end of that school year, the ingenuity of the college students moved the couch, again, to another place—a five-bedroom house with five fellow music majors. The couch hosted many a concert (all classical music performances) and all the requisite revelry that goes with being in college. Now, in Sam’s third college home, the couch resides in the center of her living room, surrounded by pizza boxes and wine and sheet music and musical instruments. I visited recently, sat on the couch and sank to the floor—the cushions barely respond, the springs are shot, the fabric is thread bare, and stuffing is showing, but the college kids do not mind.

They also do not know this story, so this is for them. Just as I read recently that furniture can be recycled, wood chips reclaimed from wood furnishings, cotton, stuffing, and other fabrics reused, little is tossed in the landfill. My heart smiled at the thought that this old couch and its elements can be recovered or restored like memories.

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On the Road to Yellowstone

Posted on October 3, 2013 | Leave a comment

Sometime around the last government shutdown, I transferred school districts and needed a one-unit course to move to the farthest column on the pay scale. Figuring this was an ideal opportunity for travel, (I generally use any excuse for that); I searched for places to take our family. Europe? Africa? Asia? Terrific travel destinations but costly for a family of five’s vacation and one’s education, especially on a teacher’s salary, and even with my new raise.  An exhaustive internet search led me to the precise seminar that met all my requirements in course level, length, price, and destination—at Yellowstone National Park. The University of Montana offered a one-unit graduate level course covering “Geysers, Mud pots, and Hot Springs Research.” Let the family escape begin!

After three days on the road, with stops at Uncle Steve’s in Nevada for horse wrangling, then Uncle Carl’s for fly-fishing, we drove towards our final target of Yellowstone. Our three daughters were camping veterans, who had experienced nearly every summer in state or national parks, since that is what families of teachers often do. The girls knew that the next few weeknights would be sleeping in down bags and under the stars (by my terms, luxurious), bathing in solar-powered showers (translation, just above freezing), dining on camp gruel (edible, by any bear standards), but according to our teenage and tweenage daughters—not so much.  So, to make this a “real family vacation,” I conceded and made a one-night reservation at a local hotel in American Falls, Idaho near enough to our final destination, requesting two rooms with four beds, so adults could have privacy and quiet. “No problem,” the clerk responded and we replied that we would arrive by early evening.

The recently remodeled hotel sat on the corner of the American Falls with balconies over leaning the rushing waters—magnificent and thunderous. I handed the clerk my credit card and explained that I called earlier. He seemed perplexed, and then left to find the manager of the hotel. At this point, we were hungry, tired from travelling, and cranky from family time. “Please don’t tell me there are no rooms,” I was thinking and mentally preparing my next move, when the manager approached. “No problem” (I had heard that before) as he handed me a key. He explained, “We had a slight mix-up with the rooms, but I am certain your family will enjoy this room much better. It is the same price.”

I accepted the key and thanked him. We grabbed our backpacks and headed to room 2106. The elevator doors opened on the twenty-first floor, a smallish floor compared with the others, on the other hand, we were on the top floor. We got out and found 2104 and 2108. No 2106. No odd numbers either, which was strange. The only room between 2104 and 2106 had a sign—“Penthouse.” Ha! Like that would happen. My husband glanced around to see if anyone was watching us, all of us feeling slightly sheepish as though we did not quite belong, but the doors opened. Viola! We were going to experience how 1% of the wealthiest lived!

With wrap-around balconies directly over the deafening falls and spray wafting up all twenty floors, none of us could believe the good fortune this trip had afforded. The beds—all queen or king size–were soft yet firm, with downy comforters over satin sheets; amenities at every elbow, including a walk-in shower and a bathtub large enough for a party, velvety towels galore, and, of course, a fancy bidet, of which my kids were clueless. We savored the moments in that hotel and I doubt if any of us slept that night—too stunned at our windfall. Checkout time was 11:00 the next morning; we returned the key at 10:59—then headed to another miracle of sorts, Yellowstone Valley—but that is another story.

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Removal of Memories is Wrong

Posted on September 29, 2013 | Leave a comment

Every decade or so, my husband performs a thorough purging, almost purifying, of our garage. We are not hoarders, but we are not OCD people either—somewhere in between the extremes. Most things we keep are because parting represents a removal of memories, some too dear to be recycled. This year, we reminisced over Meghan’s box of bones, stored in a broken cardboard box strewn with spider webs and dust, sweet reminders of 4H children and county fairs, of raised animals and silly adventures.

Meghan, during her second year (a veteran) of 4H, decided for her county fair project to display the bones she acquired through countless hikes and ravine roaming. A random deer skull here, a tibia there, a jawbone found in the bushes, a vertebrae recovered from the gully—all collectables that would stand up against the best of other 4H exhibits. Usual displays included perfectly boxed match cars, Ken and Barbie and Polly Pockets (not a family that I know) and their accessories, horse-cow-pig-goat-or-other-animal ribbons, and the ubiquitous baseball card collections, but our Meghan was a budding scientist, and her collection reflected her scientific inclinations. Each bone within this box had its tale, along with its date found, location, and identification.

Meghan, age 10, approached the stern directors of the collections exhibits at the Monterey County Fair, Exhibit Hall “A.” She carefully placed her meticulously itemized and organized bones on the table and smiled, and Meghan looked perfect in her uniform. The two gray-haired, experienced veterans of “supreme collections” smiled in return. 4H children in their crisp, white shirts adorned with green hats and scarves, are the embodiment of perfect children—wholesome, spunky, yet respectful, and most importantly, sparkling clean.  The elderly women nodded as they took Meghan’s box and handed her the receipt for retrieval at the end of the fair. We would know the results of the judging by Friday.

The box included one three-foot vertebral column from a steer, complete with beef jerky between each vertebrae. Meghan dragged that still moist and meaty spine for over a mile to our house. I said, “I am not taking that home,” and she said, “Fine, I will,” and then she proceeded to heave it all the way. I was sure it would be dropped somewhere between our house and the backwoods we hiked, but my daughter proved me wrong, pulling that thing all the way home.  Five random deer skulls also in the box showed the insatiable appetite of our local mountain lion. The mountain lion snaps off the deer snout with brute force, suffocating in a quick swoop. Finally, the box contained numerous other bones, such as jaws or humerus—mostly remnants of deer who once roamed our neighborhood.

Friday morning, after feeding their county pig, Meghan and her sisters ran to the Exhibit Hall. There, in the glass case between the sewing projects and scrapbooks, rested Meghan’s display of bones. Carefully placed just as Meghan would have done herself, the “Ladies of the Hall” found a way to display a child’s precious memories—moments of learning, moments with family, moments of fun. And, best of all, was the Best of Show ribbon, the purple ribbon that carried a check for $13.98. How can I possibly get rid of this?

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Posted in 4H, Childhood Memories, Humor, nature

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Close Encounter of the Wild Kind

Posted on September 24, 2013 | Leave a comment

In the fall, deer freely graze on roses at our front door; mother turkey protectively hovers over her tiny poults in our bushes, and our local mountain lion stealthily roams our neighborhood. It was not long ago that I ran into him, almost literally, and this time of year, running reminds me.

On a cloudless autumn day, the hills were a deep indigo, so I decided to run to the top of the hill, near our water tower. The grade is steep—over 10% at least—so running is a term I use loosely. Mostly, I employ a bounce with a slight forward motion, barely detectable at times, especially up hill. At this point, I was a few miles into my jog and near the tower when I heard rustling in the bushes off my left.  Some days, especially at dusk, I run free—without ear buds and my iPod—to enjoy the birdsongs and wind. Thankfully, this was one of those days.

I paused to listen further because chaparral on a quiet afternoon is nearly soundless, and just as I stopped, out bounded a herd of six deer. The deer gave me a fleeting glance as they sprang down the path and up the hill. I thought this was a bit unusual; in fact, in that split second of realization that deer generally run away from humans and not towards them, it was nearly too late. I saw him—all 6 feet, 250 pounds of blonde feathery fur, with golden eyes and gigantic paws, and a gaping mouth full of long, shiny teeth.  He stared at me. I stared at him. Not sure how long this stare-down lasted, but long enough for me to comprehend he was close enough to pet and I was close enough to devour.

My response, according to the Fish and Game, saved me, i.e. the baring of my teeth. My family often tease me about the largish size of my canines and incisors and of their whiteness, but this time, my teeth paid off. I should say I did not intentionally bare my teeth, rather, I was laughing. “Oh, you’re the reason; that’s why the deer are sprinting,” I think I even muttered this aloud. Normally, I do not laugh in the face of danger.

On his second glance, I understood I needed to exit first, so slowly and steadily I backed down the hill, studying him as I went. Had I turned to run, I would not be writing this. This magnificent cat was merely a larger version of our domesticated kitty, the one who purrs on my lap at night or who attacks my leg as I walk past. Our local mountain lion was after the big chase, and gratefully I am not a swift runner, so I was not enough of a challenge.

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drawN to the darK Side

Posted on September 20, 2013 | 1 comment

As I left my Yoga session last night, I noticed a few of my fellow Yogis wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the periodic table. Any other year and these graphics would go unnoticed, but I knew they were hooked on “Breaking Bad,” the TV series, just like me. Then, when I stopped at Starbucks, I overheard two different conversations on the same topic—Walt and Hank and Jesse. I knew we were all thinking the same thing. What is going to happen?

We have free choice, which is so evident in “Breaking Bad.” Walt chooses multiple times throughout each show and it is his choices each time that lead him down a path of destruction or one of affirmation. What guides Walt’s decisions is his love—love for his wife and his family, and then rivaling that is his love for his money. Walt lies, cheats, or kills to protect Skyler, to protect his family and friends, ultimately, to protect himself and his profit margin.  Making Walt all the more complex of a character is that he behaves with inconsistency, making him believable, more human. I knew a Walt, once; in fact, I do still, but not really, because does anyone? My “Walt” seems all kind and pure love, at times, but then just as often the other “Walt” appears bitter and angry. Heisenberg, the quantum mechanics physicist, is the perfect pseudonym for Walter White, the chemist, who taught about change and gradually demonstrated a slow reaction at the subatomic level–from a high school teacher to meth cook and to drug king.

I look at the choices in my own life—never as dire the ones in Walt’s—no cancer, no loss of home, no loss of job nor family. My mundane choices are nonetheless set by prior decisions, just as in Walt’s life. As an example, I choose to leave work early, so my workload the next day is increased.  I choose to skip exercise on Monday, so I work out longer on Tuesday. I choose to party hearty one night, I suffer the consequences the next. I willingly choose to stay in one relationship and painfully choose to say goodbye to another. Walt’s final choices are coming up…and I can hardly wait to see which path he chooses.

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Paddling Upstream

Posted on September 16, 2013 | Leave a comment

Standup Paddling grants me peace and balance in the world. When I glide away from the shore, otters and seals, pelicans and cormorants, all manner of sea birds and sea life surround me, and they are a refreshing distraction from my “real life,” especially given the events in the past two weeks. My ex-husband, out of the blue and out of my life for over 34 years, randomly messaged me asking and offering forgiveness for both of our transgressions, and informed me of his scheduled repeat angiogram, and requested that his ashes be scattered in La Jolla, near where we were married. I needed a long SUP today.
I paddled up the Elkhorn Slough, essentially a “birthing” and “nursery” center for sea life, where juvenile sea otters frolic and younger ones lay wrapped like cocoons in kelp. With the wind at my back, the sun kissing my shoulders, and the birds singing such beautiful notes, I felt as though I was beginning to regain my balance. Rocking my paddleboard and my life were the undercurrents of discontent and unresolved issues of long ago, like long strands of seaweed that occasionally wrap around the skeg of the board. I think I am doing fine, and then suddenly, Wham! Stopped short of my goal. Alternatively, I move along at a smooth pace, but gradually I realize that I am working far harder than necessary, from the hitchhiking seaweed (and more baggage) that I drag along.
This time, my goal was the distant railroad tracks, about 3 miles upriver, an easy half hour paddle—out, that is. My return trek, on the other hand, took 1 ½ hours as I fought the rising tides, afternoon winds, and complete exhaustion. At some point, I stopped paddling for a brief respite, only to find I was swept back some 10 feet by the currents and conditions. I needed to garner all my energy just to finish—on my knees at this point. Standing, I was merely a sail.
Lesson learned—Focus on the moment at hand, just one stroke at a time.

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Best Decade Yet

Posted on September 14, 2013 | Leave a comment

A decade ago, I began practicing Yoga–all styles, no preference–intent on becoming more flexible than I was, which doesn’t say much since I am about the most inflexible, wooden stick on the face of this earth. In my early Yoga sessions, holding any position, let alone correctly, was a challenge in the extreme. My teachers perpetually moved my hands, feet, hips, basically my every extremity to some crazy-ass-asuna that no man or no woman can attain.  No wonder Yogic positions are named and modeled after animals other than human, e.g. why the “camel” hurts my hips or the “dolphin” kills my arms or the “pigeon” stretches my back. The breathing part I mastered since I delivered three children, proof that Lamaze lessons carry over outside of childbirth; but, everything else-asana was difficult for me and I consider myself to be an athlete.

So, this week, after I did three (yes, three!) head-stands–unassisted–away from the wall, I feel as though I am ready to tackle Everest! Perhaps not Everest, maybe K2. My essential point is this:  The second half of my life, in some areas anyway, is an improvement on the first half. Wow!

Lesson learned:  Never give up learning something new. It might take an entire decade, but it is worth it.

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