Far from the Madding Crowd - Day 16

<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ADbeYT9Bnhk/YYlPVFWNeXI/AAAAAAAAf9Q/nX5KpoXgRz0hv_BxA30bYY52XvANR9yHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Lake%2BDiablo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ADbeYT9Bnhk/YYlPVFWNeXI/AAAAAAAAf9Q/nX5KpoXgRz0hv_BxA30bYY52XvANR9yHwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Lake%2BDiablo.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Washington State Highway 20 continues to run west from Lake Diablo along the Skagit River and that’s the direction I was heading. Just before Marblemount, twenty miles out from my campground in the North Cascades National Park, is a sign on the right for the Alpine RV campground with a laundromat for public use. Exactly what I was needing just then. There were just a couple washers and dryers but only one other person was doing his laundry; he was using only one of the dryers and was just about finished. He ignored me, a resident I figured. I ignored him too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I keep a container of quarters in my car, but it was about due for replenishment so while the clothes were in the washer, I knocked on the manager’s door and asked if he’d like to swap a twenty for a portion of his treasure trove. He was amenable.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I took advantage of the time to clean out my car. Even sheets and pillowcases were in the wash. I gave the down comforter a hearty shaking and let her get some fresh air while I swept and wiped, polished and shook. I keep a canister of natural oil scent in the car, so once the bedding was all back on, clean cloths and clothes folded and replaced and everything was shiny and happy, I gave a little spritz, turned on the music and hit the road. I swung into the convenience store in Marblemount, which I found a welcoming place and picked up a couple choice items, that is, a couple IPAs. The cashier was animated and kind and also sold me a couple postage stamps. She even had a couple international ones which was good because the post office across the street was closed and did not have a ticket vending machine in the lobby. The food truck in the parking lot advertised fresh pulled pork sandwiches, but they didn’t have any and I was feeling just quirky enough to not want an Italian sausage just then, even though I’d waited in a car line for a stupid amount of time for such a small place. Too bad as I’d pictured myself at a picnic table overlooking the river having a sandwich with a cold beer. There were several pastry and coffee shops, but I'd had my coffee and didn't want any sweets just then.  And so I simply enjoyed the scenery on a mildly empty stomach. I was heading toward Tacoma to see the Chihuly Bridge, which meant going through Seattle. This posed a bit of a quandary to me as I’d never seen Seattle and had friends from another lifetime, actually two other lifetimes, who might be fun to visit there, but something about the traffic streaming from the City… it was a Saturday, something about all of the traffic and COVID made me shy away this time. I hope there’s another chance. Actually, I think I’d like the night life there on a weekend night with an energizing date. How edgy weekends felt before COVID. The edginess now is of a far different sort. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span>    </span>Not far from Marblemount the Sauk River begins, running south from the Skagit River and that’s where route 530, a short cut to Seattle begins as well. I was happy to read in a Wikipedia article that it is a National Wild and Scenic River. I confirmed this on the US Department of Agriculture Forest service website. The Forest Service is responsible for ensuring the protections under the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act, that is, that they retain their free-flowing condition, their water quality and their special character. It’s not the strictest of protections as the forest service balances interests when it comes to development and as we all know, that can be a slippery slope. The upside of their flexibility is that they retain the authority to protect areas from overuse and development can certainly be questioned, if nothing else. The Wikipedia article has a nice photo of this section of the river which I refer you to as I didn’t stop to take a photo during this stretch, and I feel like I already use too many hyperboles. If you use Wikipedia, you should support it. They ask so little and deliver so much. I appreciate the non-commercial contributors in the way I appreciate medical personnel in the front lines. And to a lesser but still significant degree, helpful store personnel.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was also happy to read that fly-fishing is good on the Sauk River. That’s a good indicator of a river’s health. And it’s romantic.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In Darrington I ordered a take-out meal from Dos Agaves. It was exactly what I wanted, and I was looking forward to finding that picnic table. The Sauk River continued south here, but 530 turned west and I soon found myself traveling along the milky white Stillaguamish River. I loved how mellow the colors of the waters were here, soft jade or milky white. I will never look at a muddy river with anything but awe again, wishing it was clear but instead will ponder what it carries, what changes it is part of. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xB5E-Awox6Y/YYlP1eHzxkI/AAAAAAAAf9g/k17vTw7U8AE1OPwGo2QB1XpMGFmWCA_eQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Stillaguamish%2BRiver.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xB5E-Awox6Y/YYlP1eHzxkI/AAAAAAAAf9g/k17vTw7U8AE1OPwGo2QB1XpMGFmWCA_eQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Stillaguamish%2BRiver.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Keep an eye open on route 530. Only two miles west of Darrington is an organic blueberry farm. I bought a generous basketful for only $5. They proved a delicious snack over the next day and a half.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had my tasty meal and not quite my fill of scenery before hitting Highway 5 and the nightmare that would be: Seattle traffic. I had hoped to avoid the worst by traveling through on a Saturday. It was bumper to bumper for so long that I thought there must be an accident or a football game, but there wasn’t. I got off once to get gas, which was priced about five times higher than gas prices as I’d recalled them. Prices had been getting progressively higher as I headed further west, but now I was simply confused. I regretted getting off, finding myself ensnared in traffic, making a turn I didn’t want to and spending an inordinate amount of time just trying to get back to the road I needed to on, to get out of there. The red lights took longer than it takes a person to sing the Star-Spangled Banner very slowly four times, and there was either somebody outside my window panhandling or a group of furious protestors. Through the confusion of heavy traffic rumbling, horns blaring and angry shouting I was able to discern a group of anti-vaxers, though if you examined their posters more closely, some of the members qualified their position: they weren’t necessarily opposed to vaccinations, just the fact they had to get them. What good was any of this doing? There are plenty of cases where civil liberties are being eroded for no valid reason. Direct your energy toward those. I’d finally lost my patience being courteous to those of subpar intelligence and now just wished they’d all die. Preferably from COVID. Or poor diet. Getting back on Highway South was more of the same aggravation and getting gas was a nightmare as well. There must have been thirty pumps where I stopped. Maneuvering for a spot required a melding of creativity and caution one I felt I had to get just right or possibly be shot. This was followed by a long span of patience as the person in front of me showcased a protracted litany of bizarre and dramatic behavior, delaying her departure in anything remotely resembling a timely manner. She threw in a couple false starts too. Like she was truly about to leave. My hopes soared and plummeted. Soared and plummeted. Then the pump didn’t work. I’d have left but it was holding an open purchase on my credit card in what looked like a place where the next person, probably in a monster truck with two tanks would be stoked to find free gas. This required making a trip into a convenience store you’d only see while hallucinating: with the endless line to one working register.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s okay. I eventually made it to Tacoma. It was pleasant. Quiet. A small town Sunday quiet, only it also offered culinary delights and the opportunity to slip into a cool art museum. And that was just on my walk from the parking lot below the art museum to the Chihuly Bridge.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S5UWN54t9VA/YYlPeHT8CCI/AAAAAAAAf9U/xw9qttxw2kAGqTurjvIzQhh9Q6TUuPYFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/bluegreen%2Btourmaline%2Bsky.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S5UWN54t9VA/YYlPeHT8CCI/AAAAAAAAf9U/xw9qttxw2kAGqTurjvIzQhh9Q6TUuPYFQCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/bluegreen%2Btourmaline%2Bsky.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I don’t know much about Dale Chihuly. Thinking about him makes me miss living in South Pasadena, a short walk to St. Pete Beach and just down Gulfport Boulevard to St. Petersburg where Dale Chihuly has a glass blowing studio as well as a super cool museum within walking distance of the equally cool fine arts museum, fantastic restaurants, the Salvador Dali museum and not far from where the Florida Symphony Orchestra plays, as well as around and right down the block from Studio 620. As I stood directly under one of his chandeliers in the museum, the showcase of the small room, I was vaguely aware that the vibrant colors of the hand-dyed cut-out felt scarf I wore made me a perfect camouflage of his work. Several people exclaimed as they entered the room and I found myself in a photo op. I felt proud that they found me one with his sculpture. And each time I’ve come across one of his works in a public space, like the tall red glass reeds in the reflecting pool outside the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, I fill with joy. So, I wanted to see his Bridge of Glass in Tacoma. It was definitely worth it to me. I did not know at the time, how many of his works were modeled on the sea life I was about to learn and see in intertidal pools or, in the case of the myriad jewel-like grasses, washed up on the beach. The lighting through the ceiling of sea sculptures was lovely at the end of the afternoon.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uFUcr7yHwYw/YYlPrYIfwYI/AAAAAAAAf9c/5zbBgLm81eIC9T1R_J7Lh88CKY4Y9al2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/better%2Bchihuly%2Bpic.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uFUcr7yHwYw/YYlPrYIfwYI/AAAAAAAAf9c/5zbBgLm81eIC9T1R_J7Lh88CKY4Y9al2wCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/better%2Bchihuly%2Bpic.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">  </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span>    </span><span>    </span>I relaxed on the bench under the bridge’s dome and just regarded the colorful, imaginative vases in the glass case lining the wall across from me. I left when I was satiated. Tacoma was a relatively easy town to navigate and I found that the hell on Highway 5 was just about over. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I didn’t keep very good notes about where I slept that night. I just recall being very tired driving down an unpaved road toward an ostensibly legit campground. Darkness was fast descending as I tunneled through the woods. I got the heebeegeebees before reaching my destination and with much consternation turned around. It may seem silly to pay heed to such ethereal warnings, but who knows, I can’t discount the astonishing fact that despite my impulse to live on the edge I’ve made it this far. Nonetheless, I turned around and found the next suitable spot on public land to pull over and sleep. Another velvet night immersed in the susurrus of crickets and the quiet calls of frogs and night birds. In the morning, I woke, availing myself of one of the emergency tasty canned coffee drinks and swerved out onto the highway, ready to explore the wonders of Olympic National Park.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LBV3FnZJLAI/YYlQH4-P2aI/AAAAAAAAf9s/GJ-GF_E4KXscBdTYfp_07e_feFNTZ_2KACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/sea%2Bstacks.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LBV3FnZJLAI/YYlQH4-P2aI/AAAAAAAAf9s/GJ-GF_E4KXscBdTYfp_07e_feFNTZ_2KACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/sea%2Bstacks.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>

Oliver's Travels

Far from the Madding Crowd - Day 16

  Washington State Highway 20 continues to run west from Lake Diablo along the Skagit River and that’s the direction I was heading. Just b...

Pacific Northwest 2021

<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/b0MNEuFLjlU" width="320" youtube-src-id="b0MNEuFLjlU"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>My iPhone made this movie from my iPhotos taken in August this year. I am presuming they bought the copyright to the soundtrack and that I as a customer am beneficiary of their rights. I love these!<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />

Viva

Pacific Northwest 2021

My iPhone made this movie from my iPhotos taken in August this year. I am presuming they bought the copyright to the soundtrack and that I a...

Five Minutes on the Farm #33 Autumn 21 Preparing for Winter

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Five Minutes on the Farm

Five Minutes on the Farm #33 Autumn 21 Preparing for Winter

 

Wild Pacific Northwest Coast

<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: justify;">I wake, realizing that if I slept next to the ocean every night, perhaps I'd be far calmer. All night the surf thunders, booming its curling weight down on the ocean floor, then washing through me, decimating frozen thought patterns. Then it sucks everything out with the mighty pull of my sister moon. With her comforting whisper, she draws out every sin, every worry, the concerning gossip, each embarrassing foible. She finds and flushes even my carefully concealed cavities. I wake cleansed. The morning is a new beginning. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">I have slept well and am running late for a Park Ranger Program on Beach 4. I set up fire for coffee on a bluff above the sleeping campground. Morning's rosy light creeps into the glassy silver tidal pools on the beach below, tinges the billowy white clouds hugging the horizon, casts rainbows in the ocean spray.</p></blockquote><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A0Y9-BAQzAA/YVcL82DEtgI/AAAAAAAAf2U/tZ62MwNfitsZGDjgU8XbdiegNQOTrDJvQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A0Y9-BAQzAA/YVcL82DEtgI/AAAAAAAAf2U/tZ62MwNfitsZGDjgU8XbdiegNQOTrDJvQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/coffee.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: justify;">I am quietly conversing with the ranger when two others approach. We laugh when we meet and agree that there was something familiar about our relationship even before we met 770 miles ago on the trail along Two Medicine Lake at Glacier National Park. We do not know then that we will have another chance encounter soon, but it would not surprise any of us.</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: justify;">The splendor of life in the intertidal pools surrounding the sea stacks floors me. I touch the clonal sea anemones. They are sticky and feathery and beautiful, in orange, red, yellow and green hues. I fall head over heels for the thick, fat sea stars in their glorious rich colors and cringe when I see those afflicted with the wasting disease. There is so much we simply don't know about life. About diseases. About dying. About species extinction. In the parking lot as I am leaving I hear a couple whining to our hapless Ranger. "Why can't we take our dogs to the beach?" For God's sake, can't we save marine life on any beaches? What is wrong with people that they need the constant companionship of a pet? Holes to fill, I mutter to myself. We are a deficient species. Maybe that's the overarching reason we're going down. In a very real way, our consumer demands are destroying the very air we breathe. But maybe there doesn't even need to be a reason for a species to wink out.</p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-peUzWXJTJk4/YVcMNc6Dq0I/AAAAAAAAf2c/uG-3Kog35SYKAmqbPLQsiHAHp5SddnbEQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/burgundy%2Bsea%2Bstar%2Babnd%2Bgreen%2Banemones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-peUzWXJTJk4/YVcMNc6Dq0I/AAAAAAAAf2c/uG-3Kog35SYKAmqbPLQsiHAHp5SddnbEQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/burgundy%2Bsea%2Bstar%2Babnd%2Bgreen%2Banemones.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xnv8zh-P5Ns/YVcMZ8V_fSI/AAAAAAAAf2g/HvnLLr-ob6oINqdeA2kuTNjDlfScjrQvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/clonal%2Bcolors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xnv8zh-P5Ns/YVcMZ8V_fSI/AAAAAAAAf2g/HvnLLr-ob6oINqdeA2kuTNjDlfScjrQvwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/clonal%2Bcolors.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oatdVv654xs/YVcMhvE-YMI/AAAAAAAAf2o/lWOOH31prE83fhXEkIr4juzxQx_JAl-8gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/orange%2Bsea%2Bstar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oatdVv654xs/YVcMhvE-YMI/AAAAAAAAf2o/lWOOH31prE83fhXEkIr4juzxQx_JAl-8gCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/orange%2Bsea%2Bstar.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DChufdc31eQ/YVcMoNblHJI/AAAAAAAAf2s/nC-wTAsKtbUOfvl19XEH1ei9NVARw0f7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/plae%2Bred%2Bclonal%2Bpatch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DChufdc31eQ/YVcMoNblHJI/AAAAAAAAf2s/nC-wTAsKtbUOfvl19XEH1ei9NVARw0f7ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/plae%2Bred%2Bclonal%2Bpatch.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VpHsjlBO5fw/YVcMyOn36-I/AAAAAAAAf28/6OdgQpfGM04WeNoQpZP89jWQdjSMZ7UzwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/cohabitation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VpHsjlBO5fw/YVcMyOn36-I/AAAAAAAAf28/6OdgQpfGM04WeNoQpZP89jWQdjSMZ7UzwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/cohabitation.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: justify;">I decide to visit Third Beach. Surprisingly, it is over an hour's drive from Beach 4. The names of the beaches on the Olympic Peninsula make little sense, even considering the vantage point of the Navy operations when they were named. The southernmost beaches in the Olympic National Park running from south to north are Beaches One through Four and then Ruby Beach, named for its ruby crystalline sand.  Traveling north, crossing the Hoh River and turning beachward from the town of Forks, I take La Push Road out to First Beach, before stopping for a cold can of beer from a store on the Quileute Indian Reservation to stuff in my backpack, and heading south to the parking lot for the wilderness trail to Third Beach.</p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P7JWNVZlyGg/YVcNeu5BnJI/AAAAAAAAf3k/CEkcZODdXvMk8YD4P_943_iFsb5Is7ukACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/beer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P7JWNVZlyGg/YVcNeu5BnJI/AAAAAAAAf3k/CEkcZODdXvMk8YD4P_943_iFsb5Is7ukACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/beer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: justify;">Third Beach is wild, with strong cross currents running between magnificent sea stacks. It is fairly empty. Just a few backpackers drying out damp tents on black jagged rocks among giant whitewashed logs that have crashed against the shoreline.  It feels mythical. The seaweed strewn upon the shore glimmers like jewels. </p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OAhyjEwpfqI/YVcM91nfWyI/AAAAAAAAf3E/Hk3gjBbFzj8QlPgm8OmlOUx5RCQpr0pkgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/third%2Bbeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OAhyjEwpfqI/YVcM91nfWyI/AAAAAAAAf3E/Hk3gjBbFzj8QlPgm8OmlOUx5RCQpr0pkgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/third%2Bbeach.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SeDc7aIdLOs/YVcNKuYEVUI/AAAAAAAAf3Q/ZdcS0OlBe0Q7woea32GOYjWPZoKTEkwXwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/close%2Bup%2Bwild%2Btide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SeDc7aIdLOs/YVcNKuYEVUI/AAAAAAAAf3Q/ZdcS0OlBe0Q7woea32GOYjWPZoKTEkwXwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/close%2Bup%2Bwild%2Btide.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DSF-oK5sJHk/YVcNTPzkBPI/AAAAAAAAf3c/dYnbybHBHSIrjrAllWzVasAmNPHnGdufACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/jewels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DSF-oK5sJHk/YVcNTPzkBPI/AAAAAAAAf3c/dYnbybHBHSIrjrAllWzVasAmNPHnGdufACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/jewels.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I am three weeks into a car camping trip and feel fantastic. I have not eaten any processed food at all and I have not eaten out. I usually have oatmeal with granola in the morning, fresh fruit from a farmer if I can find it or nuts and dried fruit as a snack in the afternoon and an organic vegetable dish (Tasty Bites or Maya Kaimal) in the evening from pouches I have packed. But today I follow my mantra "everything in moderation," with the emphasis on "everything" and the advice from a Ranger at the Kalaloch District Station to try the fish and chips in La Push. I only had time for coffee for breakfast and want to patronize the tribe there anyway. Thankfully, they too are concerned about COVID and offer outdoor dining. The meal is enough for three, but I polish it off and it is wonderful. Between bites, I dismiss a complaining German woman who doesn't understand why the local tribes don't have more gift shops. They'd make a killing in Europe. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7A3CfkZIqKI/YVcNoptk_0I/AAAAAAAAf3s/6rZIs2-HsCMsoR0DZXUo2CoKD9uZzdzngCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/fish%2Band%2Bchips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7A3CfkZIqKI/YVcNoptk_0I/AAAAAAAAf3s/6rZIs2-HsCMsoR0DZXUo2CoKD9uZzdzngCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/fish%2Band%2Bchips.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Afterward, I follow the hand painted sign I'd seen earlier for smoked salmon, winding my way through a somewhat impoverished suburban neighborhood. The Quileute Indians have been relying on the salmon run here for centuries and run a spring fed hatchery, The Lonesome Creek Hatchery for raising salmon and steelhead and releasing them into the nearby creeks and rivers. Far from dissuading me, I found the architecture of the smoke house alluring. When I get home I will find that this smoked salmon is by far the best I have ever tasted.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uw6gdZNog6Q/YVcN8-zipFI/AAAAAAAAf34/fJhNThCSiYExDwK_oF_bQJNxRpiwlxbGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uw6gdZNog6Q/YVcN8-zipFI/AAAAAAAAf34/fJhNThCSiYExDwK_oF_bQJNxRpiwlxbGgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/sign.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-66JfnGh8udg/YVcOOMYwmBI/AAAAAAAAf4A/eL0E4jYPBC4h4eXHfSHyFc5UzzoGzwPWwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1765/architecture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1765" data-original-width="1324" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-66JfnGh8udg/YVcOOMYwmBI/AAAAAAAAf4A/eL0E4jYPBC4h4eXHfSHyFc5UzzoGzwPWwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/architecture.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2-didUNbLa8/YVcOSGHibwI/AAAAAAAAf4E/rQVEGhainpw9ebwioGdtzVd6BK5s0RHmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/smoky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2-didUNbLa8/YVcOSGHibwI/AAAAAAAAf4E/rQVEGhainpw9ebwioGdtzVd6BK5s0RHmwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/smoky.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZZud_0wutJI/YVcOY88Q0_I/AAAAAAAAf4I/lKc27uFZTXsJbblof9c8ZlgikYLYMINEwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/smoked%2Bsalmon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZZud_0wutJI/YVcOY88Q0_I/AAAAAAAAf4I/lKc27uFZTXsJbblof9c8ZlgikYLYMINEwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/smoked%2Bsalmon.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />

Oliver's Travels

Wild Pacific Northwest Coast

I wake, realizing that if I slept next to the ocean every night, perhaps I'd be far calmer. All night the surf thunders, booming its cur...

Strange Fascination

<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>    </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5jfK_N4pAWg/YPnxL1x9JyI/AAAAAAAAczE/qSMpRuHFxUcWdlsKwCkGVTXPg4WSVKUGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Chatham%2BCounty%2BLine%2Band%2BGS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5jfK_N4pAWg/YPnxL1x9JyI/AAAAAAAAczE/qSMpRuHFxUcWdlsKwCkGVTXPg4WSVKUGQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Chatham%2BCounty%2BLine%2Band%2BGS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>    </span>Don't tell me we don't create our own reality. I'll tell you that you don't see what is right before your eyes. My favorite song for the past many months has been <i>Strange Fascination</i> by Chatham County Line. Bluegrass is the soundtrack to life here in Appalachia. I've been playing it over and over, simply slayed by the soft harmony. Orchid petals sift through the tangles of my mind, and I've been drifting in the seductive resonance of <i>I want a lover's kiss, soft and loose.</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>    I live a million miles from nowhere, alone, a recluse deep in the forest. A few people come and sit on my front porch now and then, but most people scare me. Or bore me. Seldom anything in between.</span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span>    I do have a friend who lives over the next ridge, but I don't see her much. She e-mailed me mid-week and told me that Chatham County Line would be playing at their home in the woods on Saturday. Did I want to come? Turns out, neither she nor her husband knew who they were, but she had been trying her hand at throwing small festivals and coming across them, called their manager, inquiring about prices. They had not settled on anything and she didn't have anything scheduled for the weekend, but their manager had written it in their calendar. And the band wanted to play, even without pay. So, there we were, less than two dozen of us and Graham Sharp, one of the best balladeers alive and the lightning bugs and kids chasing bubbles on a magical summer evening in Bath County, Virginia.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span>    I can't even tell you what happened to me when the stand-up bass player slid into his seat at the pedal steel. And the first few strains of Strange Fascination floated through the velvety night. It felt like air surrounded each one of the molecules that make up what  is me and I was God. Or maybe I was a tiny flower. Or maybe ocean spray. Or everything at once. And nothing.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span>    I remembered acutely what it felt like to be in love. God, it had been so long since I cared. My sigh was a quiet moan as my eyes closed and I melted into the high bar table I'd been leaning against. Unconsciously my hands formed in front of my heart and I gave deep thanks. For everything.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">    Now <i>I want a lover's touch. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>    </span>Don't keep me waiting.</i><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>    </i>That's a good song. That will be my mantra on my trip westward.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>

Viva

Strange Fascination

          Don't tell me we don't create our own reality. I'll tell you that you don't see what is right before your eyes. My...

Five Minutes on the Farm #32 Red Asian Pears

<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/J9tqAutObGk" frameborder="0"></iframe>

Five Minutes on the Farm #32 Red Asian Pears

<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AEhZwZ4lbHo/YGDAtudfuLI/AAAAAAAAZ9s/M_EvdnXWXiIwq0mYTpgj9NA87E-E76PuACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AEhZwZ4lbHo/YGDAtudfuLI/AAAAAAAAZ9s/M_EvdnXWXiIwq0mYTpgj9NA87E-E76PuACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_7258.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My phone just sent me this photo taken of the Fuchs House just outside Vienna, Austria a few years ago, along with this one,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hmZazIHKn0M/YGDBFrz9YoI/AAAAAAAAZ90/KH89vwqn5gg_OEQsDIxDwOD2kwjzeL_BwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hmZazIHKn0M/YGDBFrz9YoI/AAAAAAAAZ90/KH89vwqn5gg_OEQsDIxDwOD2kwjzeL_BwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_7253.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">that my niece took of me that day,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">this photo of my train companions earlier that summer on a train ride through Morocco from Tangier to Fes,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aBPpr3RLSQM/YGDBcesI6fI/AAAAAAAAZ98/8VeqmY2LCVwt-2o40LWWdORJPetaUknjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aBPpr3RLSQM/YGDBcesI6fI/AAAAAAAAZ98/8VeqmY2LCVwt-2o40LWWdORJPetaUknjQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/IMG_5978.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>a random snapshot of street art I took along the Donau Canal which my phone says is the Danube, close enough,<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LkRvPXuhzms/YGDBvzDPWCI/AAAAAAAAZ-E/pI-Z_fw6iTc_E6bib41YMmtUPfR_nhzDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_6605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1956" data-original-width="2048" height="612" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LkRvPXuhzms/YGDBvzDPWCI/AAAAAAAAZ-E/pI-Z_fw6iTc_E6bib41YMmtUPfR_nhzDQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h612/IMG_6605.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>and finally this one of the thermal plant in Vienna designed by one of my heroes, Friedensreich Hundertwasser.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OX0Rlo_qMUE/YGDCWPI03TI/AAAAAAAAZ-M/HiN6cOFu_m0fyiZ4UFvqOEqUDjmu3zYKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OX0Rlo_qMUE/YGDCWPI03TI/AAAAAAAAZ-M/HiN6cOFu_m0fyiZ4UFvqOEqUDjmu3zYKgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_2475.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Well....these definitely stirred the wanderlust which has been simmering...I keep having to move it to the back burner to settle down a bit as COVID is still rampant so I can't travel, except across the US. Pretty grateful to be quarantined in a large country, but won't travel until I'm vaccinated and my foot heals enough to hike. <div><br /></div><div>The photos also stirred a thirst for COLOR! It's such a grey grey day, with just a splash of gold, a surreal  brilliance - emanating from the daffodils and forsythia - and illuminating my foggy yard. Pushed open the storm door and found that it's warmer out than it appears. Balmy even.  So I wiggled my boots on (over the refusing-to-ever heal sawed-off ankle spur and her splintered tendon) and squished through the soggy leaves on a quest. I know there are tiny resplendent wildflowers if I just look. So here is the next installment of Five Minutes on the Farm taken on that quest, the first capturing some of the woodland music -  the owl's mating calls and the woodpecker's mad racket evaded recording and the wind against the mic is definitely not as romantic and scary as it sounds rushing through the forest, but it's a taste.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LQnJZ2jYM4Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="LQnJZ2jYM4Q"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>I'm going to start posting contributions from a new project my son David suggested. An SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) for the Farm for the year 2100 AD as that is what I am preparing for. Two black walnuts arriving along with some more blueberry bushes and a weeping cherry tree in the next couple weeks. They are all part of the plan. To be continued... Meanwhile, enjoy Spring!<br /><div><br /></div></div>

Five Minutes on the Farm

  My phone just sent me this photo taken of the Fuchs House just outside Vienna, Austria a few years ago, along with this one, that my niece...

Five Minutes on the Farm #30 Winter in Quarantine

<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So the question is: where is #29?<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Found it!<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On my youtube channel. It's only a minute and a half showing the destruction of my kindling pile, gnawed to bits under the tarp by chipmunks who truly created an architectural wonder for their cozy winter home. I really should supplement the video with the many imaginative burrows I have found - in the bonfire piles (I have two... just waiting... I was waiting for people to join me, but as COVID drags on, I will probably just wait for my foot to heal enough that I am comfortable that I can run fast enough to the spigot where my hose will be hooked. Sometimes winds whip up here in the mountains with no warning and that can be scary when you've got a huge roaring fire) and in the thickets. I've decided to take cuttings from my rhododendron, azaleas and lilacs and plant them all about to allow for more safe small mammal and bird habitats. The shadows of the hawks soaring overhead can seem ominous. And a beautiful red tail often sits on one of my fenceposts watching. An owl nest is nearby and of course there are fox and bear. The ground hogs have several deep and safe burrows already - a couple I am not pleased with... and it's not like I want them in my garden. Or the rabbits... but still, homo sapiens have slaughtered too many species to extinction and more nearly so. Biodiversity is my mantra for this Spring's plantings.</div></blockquote></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oeBIdnXxDwY/YEDyocu6QxI/AAAAAAAAZ7o/kQDjuwDzsBA2hUrkt1JCGW6nqDlA8_DkACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4591.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="328" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oeBIdnXxDwY/YEDyocu6QxI/AAAAAAAAZ7o/kQDjuwDzsBA2hUrkt1JCGW6nqDlA8_DkACLcBGAsYHQ/w524-h328/IMG_4591.jpg" width="524" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/67-2cXwZtbI" width="320" youtube-src-id="67-2cXwZtbI"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>

Five Minutes on the Farm

Five Minutes on the Farm #30 Winter in Quarantine

So the question is: where is #29?     Found it!     On my youtube channel. It's only a minute and a half showing the destruction of my k...

A Wee Nip

<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgls6pXMGkA/X_HecNsbPAI/AAAAAAAAZ2w/fxyDUGIjI-0YM2ED-Ir0B_DlbdF8D5h0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_6980.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgls6pXMGkA/X_HecNsbPAI/AAAAAAAAZ2w/fxyDUGIjI-0YM2ED-Ir0B_DlbdF8D5h0ACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_6980.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">How does one choose where to go? A world so diverse, each territory a unique jewel, glistening among handfuls and handfuls? Wherever you land, you will find adventure! The trick is to quickly toss down your luggage, pull on clean traveling clothes, load up your light knapsack with provisions for the next five hours or so, and venture out. You are now ready to soak up every moment of our compressed novel of days for all it is worth. Don't bother planning. Just follow your feet. Wonders will appear.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An example. Roaming the streets of old Edinburgh, I paused to rad a poster in a shop window, lured by the alliteration of whiskey and waterfalls. I thought a moment. Why would I <i>not </i>take advantage of learning about scotch whiskeys from master distillers? </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Surely the warm peaty liquid would flow silkily down a parched traveler's throat. And just as surely the cobalt sky would begin to bleed its blue into itself, blending my dreams into the very afternoon. I pushed open the door and spotted the sixty euros for the bus trip.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I heard grumblings over dry waterfalls in the waiting room, but didn't give a wooden nickel. Naturally the tour operator was going to hold onto that name, no matter the drama or dearth of falls on any given day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Besides, I'd never seen the legendary bonny hills of heather. I'd never seen the damp, grey castles worth their heavy chained drawbridges over moats. Those sights alone would be worth an afternoon traveling through the countryside.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And doubtless, the inevitable quirky narrative of the tour bus driver would yield an inescapable sideshow. In the case of our driver, what began as an animated presentation of mildly amusing facts about castles quickly escalated to an intense diatribe against the government of Great Britain, leaving no doubt that our driver would be voting for secession in the net few days. We all had front seats to the legendary volatile Scotch temper. Judging from the grimaces, a few of my fellow passengers also found it unsettling that his tone revealed little sympathy for the bloodied victims of the gruesome rebellions. He displayed an especially ghoulish relish for the more macabre and diabolical coups. You could see his mind working over the details. By the time we arrived at the first distillery, I was more than ready for a wee dram.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Filled with admirations for the distillers, the process, the craftsmanship of the barrels and staves, we returned to a war, fragrant showroom and sampled whiskeys, listening carefully to the nuances of discerning flavors. The salesmen were generous with samples and we all made it worth their while with our purchases which could be nipped en route to the next distillery.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We stopped at a waterfall which was indeed a mere trickle. But as I mentioned, I had no expectations of rushing or cascading waterfalls. It hardly mattered. I knew myself well enough to know that after a couple of tastings, I would simply laugh if the waterfalls were merely a faltering splash here and there. Haha! Wasn't that life? And that's exactly what happened.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It wasn't like I was going to undress, and flex around like a beautiful goddess, letting the water flow over me... while the group stood there eying me suspiciously lest I failed to return to the bus in our allotted eight minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I seldom choose to go on tours, but I didn't have a car. I do not at all regret taking this tour. I had a darn good time. The only other tour I booked on that four-month excursion was a ride on the Glacier Express, though that may not qualify as a tour as there was no tour guide. Nor when I think back, did anyone announce anything other than railway stops. Or it's possible that I just didn't notice announcements while under the spell of the Alps: the breathtaking splendor of dark green firs, shimmering rivers and crystalline snowy peaks. My train car was mostly glass, its windows arching deep down each side from a glass ceiling. Perhaps it was that the destination was limited, blocked as it was on the south by even more formidable alps or maybe its billing as a scenic route, the architecture of the route transforming a mere excursion into a mystical trip that made it feel like a designed tour. My train wound around steep cliffs, slid into the darkness of mountain tunnels and skimmed the edges of gorges before crossing high above rushing rivers, passing tiny hamlet after hamlet, smoke curling from chimneys of fairy-tale homes, chalet roofs hanging over to almost touch the ground. Springtime flowers bloomed from baskets hung outside Tyrolian-paned windows.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or maybe I was left with the impression of having been on a tour because I was stuck in a confined space over many hours with the same people. A few of them quite annoying, which is precisely why I avoid tours. Options for escaping are generally limited and in this case would have required trudging up and down steep snowy slopes where homes are scattered kilometers apart to seek shelter in a tiny dorf, where I was likely to find residents wearing Robin Hood hats and suspenders, or dirndls and braids, and speaking in a language only barely resembling German. It never fails to amaze when I travel to find that people truly are as they are in storybooks. Rural Austrians actually do don their finest lederhosen and suspenders for a trip into Vienna!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But back to the bus tour in Scotland.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Large white clouds hung low across the dochs we passed. A periwinkle sky backlit dales of purple heather and violet thistle, and the many deep pools we passed reflected clouds rippling in shimmering pastels. The lochs appeared a perfect home for monsters, with lines of shiny hedges bordering trails from the lakes to nearby moss-blanketed caves.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Was the landscape so pristine because no one dared approach?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Truthfully, the countryside we drove through was unblemished by man's debris, making it most pleasing to the eye. Edinburgh as a city is quite sincere in implementing Scotland's zero waste program, collecting plastics, cans and paper for recycling, food waste for renewable electricity and fertilizer, garden waste for compost, glass for recycling into containers and fiberglass, textiles for reuse in developing nations. Materials are recovered from batteries and small electricals, and non-recyclable waste is processed into electricity rather than being landfilled. They may not show a propensity to respect their leaders, but the citizenry here does embrace stewardship of the earth. And if not provoked, they come off as a pleasant and cheery folk. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the few weeks I was there, I heard more superlatives: Quit lovely! Brilliant! Perfect! Cheerio chap! and more Sorrys and Thank Yous than in my life cumulatively. And it welcome contrast to the more stoic German populations, I was met with smiles on the streets more often than not. I went about smiling myself, an especially large grin spreading wide when I tallied a "Viking spotting," my assessment when among the wiry dark crowd of midling stature, rose a much larger fellow with fiery hair.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On my whiskey tour, I learned that the Famous Grouse, Scotland's most popular whiskey for the past thirty years is actually a bend of one hundred whiskeys, a bit about malting barley and distilling whiskey and consequently, a bit about the differences among Scotch whiskeys. I tried Dalwhinnie, Macallan, the Famous Grouse, Naked Grouse, Laphroaig and Highland Park. The barley of the Highland Park, which I continued to alternately sip and swig on the bus ride is dried by smoking peat (versus hot air dryers) and aged in sherry oak casks fro Spain (versus bourbon oak casks from America) for twelve years, differentiating it from the others. The colors of the wildflowers literally waving from the fields, of the ancient lichens stretching across stone walls, and the hues dancing across the glimmering surfaces of the lochs all grew more vibrant on the way home. The glens were sunnier, the billowing white clouds moved closer and more intensely dominated the landscape, and the water that did spill down the falls sparkled with an ethereal beauty. My ability to discriminate among the scotches I had procured however was decidedly less. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Each was even better than the last.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>

Oliver's Travels

A Wee Nip

How does one choose where to go? A world so diverse, each territory a unique jewel, glistening among handfuls and handfuls? Wherever you lan...