ventus aestatis

As someone who generally eschews technology, I have been surprised by how much I appreciate video chat. I prefer my newspapers in physical form, I stubbornly whip cream by hand, and I am writing this with a pen.* But being able to not only converse but also to see the myriad shading of expressions -- the familiar mapping and choreography of facial features -- is wonderfully connective.

*Ok, I did get a new phone, and a functioning phone number.  Limited time offer, call me now!  This is my third phone in 16 years.

The lake levels are historically high so I walked the Suburban where the river meets the bay.

I've also been connecting with wind and water, cycling the coastal roads, paddling parallel to the shore, walking alongside orchards and vineyards when I think no one will see me trespassing, and checking out the far north of the UP with mom and dad.  My little tent and rainfly did great in a thunderstorm, and though we later retreated to a hotel, we swam in Lake Superior and ate pasties and foraged for firewood like you should.

rock islands near Copper Harbor

The driftwood didn't burn so well but there was plenty in the woods.

Houghton is surprisingly similar in style to the towns around Pittsburgh.  -Joanna, I thought of you and your "sisu" shirt here in Finn country.

Grand Junc Railroad

Like my high school senior class motto, I'll say "It seemed like a good idea at the time."  Flying sucks.  Sitting around in airports with a mask on totally sucks.  I like trains, and despite several lackluster Amtrak journeys of yore, I decided to take the (historically) renowned Zephyr from Grand Junction, CO, to Chicago, and then the Blue Water Limited to Kalamazoo.

columbines perched on Crag Crest

Kelly perched on a big rock in the river at the Black Canyon

impossible-to-steer kayak perched on the shore of the Blue Mesa Reservoir

There are lots of canyons in western Colorado, and we were entreated by the conductor to savor the views as track work necessitated our creeping along at 20mph for hours at a stretch.  The rock walls were pretty, and my mind subsided to a depth of abstraction that is only achievable on trains, with their regular motion, white noise, voyeur window views, and simultaneous immersion in and detachment from the environments they pass through.

My coach car wasn't very populated, and the passengers were quiet nearly the entire time.  No one struck up a conversation with the lady that brought her own hard-boiled eggs, steamed broccoli and cabbage and black bean salad, with olives and dates for snacking.  (To be fair, I was also kind of sweaty.)  Perhaps I should have sprung for a sleeper berth.  I was able to pretzel-wedge myself on two seats to sleep most of the night.

And then, after the dissolution of undifferentiated hours of transit, the reconstitution of self and assignation of identity upon arrival.  How lucky am I to get picked up by my brother and whisked to a domestic haven of leafy trees, an excited nephew showing me where the praying mantises hatched, baby niece drinking from the cat's water dish, and sister-in-law picking just-ripe tomatoes.

And then family on steroids, helping my mom (some) with watching my nephew, back at our house.  Now mom is "grama," and fantasy and invention are prized over my pragmatism and matter-of-factness.  For some reason, the usually dormant strict moral stickler in me is awakened by small children, and generates sanctimonious praise of teeth brushing and neatly put away toys.  But we had lots of fun swimming, where the energy you expend in the waves is transferred right back to you.

A Little Bird

I never knew hummingbirds traveled with such a distinct sound.  At least, the variety that populate the high country of Colorado announce their presence throughout the daylight hours with a hybrid avian-insectile trill.  One imagines that if they perhaps slowed their frantic flitting their ceaseless search for calories needn't be so frenzied.  But then they'd have a completely different nature, and would forfeit what makes them so captivating.

I've been trying to be a responsible person, grocery shopping only occasionally, hand sanitizing, going on remote hikes with this guy:

panoramic Yankee Girl Mine ruins

still-icy Columbine Lake

I'm not sure how to classify an afternoon at the clothing-optional hot springs -- I maintained social distance, yet I can't help thinking these sorts of places are closed throughout the rest of the world.  I spent the 4th of July far (very far) from any crowd, and boosted my immunity with several infusions of s'mores.

It just so happens I recently had my lung function and capacity tested (for potential upcoming work).  Decades of choral singing and the last month of hiking above 10,000ft still left me seeing stars and choking on air from this weird little experiment.

Now for a final few days out west, I'll splash around in a big reservoir and play roulette with Antarctica staffing decisions.

Hot and Cold

If you are going to spend some time in the Denver suburbs, try to sandwich it between two sets of stunning alpine lakes.

The Blue Lakes en route to Mt. Sneffels hold their own with Telluride's Alta Lakes from last writing.

And try to go with someone who knows the ins and outs of city traffic, the best Indian food, and friends and family brimming over with hospitality.  Because work-mandated physical exams and the submission of Kafkaesque* bureaucratic paperwork acutely intensifies the soullessness of the 'burbs.

*I haven't yet dropped this one at a cocktail party, Mrs. Shelley-Barnes, but I have deployed it occasionally in writing.

on top of old Baldy

On another note, I have been impressed -- not for the first time -- how delicate is the degree to which shade and wind protect or menace one.  In the blazing sun, my sweaty self rallies under the canopy of trees and gratefully forges on into the wind.  But of course the same moderate breeze and cloud-cover is carelessly lethal and effortlessly consumes human warmth, challenging our internal flame.  Maybe that's why campfires are so satisfying: sitting on the edge of that threatening cold, staring at the ethereal substance of our survival and comfort.  And to look up at the stars, a billion enormous yet tiny pinprick replications of our campfire, burning much too far away to actually warm us, but gratifying as distant indication of such fire.

Goldmine

5/30
If you go the long way, it turns out round trip from Denver to northern Michigan is 4,267 miles.  I am a lucky enough woman to get picked up in a pick-up and driven to visit a handful of far-flung friends -- safely socially distant, of course -- with comfy sleeping quarters to boot.  From mom and dad's in Traverse City, to my brother's family in Kalamazoo, across the endless grass-sea of Iowa and Nebraska, up to Spearfish, SD (hi Dan and Marcie!), over to Missoula (hi Bret!) and lovely Hamilton, MT (hi Greg an Dale!), desert-y Ogden, UT (hi Jake!), and a stop at Avon, CO (hi Eddie!), before coming to rest in western Colorado.

Cheers to this great guy sharing cheese with me in lovely places, like Ironton.

And for lending a sense of scale to my landscape photos.  (Alta Lakes)

Two weeks passed enjoyably, with tailgate coffee and roadside avocados and good company.  Life ain't too shabby in the back of a truck, especially with a solid tarp over the hard-shell topper for rainy nights.  But life is downright fucking luxurious in a 23-ft camper trailer.  There is a toilet that flushes, and not one but TWO gas stoves (indoor and outdoor) upon which to simmer one's Italian sausage tomato sauce.  Kelly has worked out the plumbing and could already back the trailer like a pro; we study the map and are overwhelmed by national forest and canyons to hike.


6/6
A week in and around Ouray has pretty much reconciled me to missing Alaska this summer.  Because not only is there unlimited amazing hiking, there's a gorge, with a canyon, and 14,000-ft peaks dotted with abandoned mines and defunct narrow-gauge railways, and snow and pines and wildflowers -- !  And I still bake...a little.  Blondies and biscuits and granola so far, and pie to come (the 'lil trailer oven is surprisingly good at holding heat).  But really the best part is being with Kelly.

Like the (presumably) wealthy retirees that surround us at the RV park, we prepare coffee and breakfast on miniature appliances and sit on the couch we folded the bed back up and over.  There, though, the similarities end, as we gear up to wander the steep rocky passes of the Uncompahgre, scramble up piles of tailings to disintegrating former mining infrastructure, and marvel at the impossibly hardscrabble mountainsides, and the equally hardscrabble people that sought their fortunes there.  No blondies or flush-toilets for them, though one surprisingly sturdy sort of relic withstands the elements upon the rock face: outhouses.

The end of the line in Silverton.

cactus blooms above Ouray

Are we in Norway?

And That's How I Became a Gas Station Attendant

It's official: I signed my contract to be a fuelie next season!*  When I was little I considered being a musician; I got a little older and wanted to be a law professor; by high school I thought I'd be a political speech writer.  After seven years as a book editor, things really went sideways and I cooked, administrative assistanted, and drove.  With yet another semi-calculated lateral move, I will pump gas.

*footnote/gloss/fine print
1) I will be a Fuels Operator, performing such duties as transferring diesel from storage tanks to buildings around town, driving a big ol' truck to deliver fuel, dispensing jet fuel to airplanes, laying out and checking hoses, and helping offload the annual resupply tanker ship.
2) This is an opportunity for me to advance my, uuhhh, nascent mechanical skills.  I mean, I did take shop class (one trimester) in 7th grade, and I did (eventually) figure out (and subsequently forgot) how to dismantle and reassemble a commercial deli slicer in my (wait for it...) salad days (haha).*
3) Next season will be somewhat/rather/wildly complicated by the coronavirus.  The details are being hashed out, but it's likely the program will scale back projects and personnel.
4) No one really knows when New Zealand is going to allow anyone to enter the country again.  Having only recently escaped, I can verify that they have zero interest in a bunch of germy people transiting through their stringently protected island oasis.

*footnote to the footnote
So I actually learned how to take apart and clean and put back together a deli slicer working at a deli when I was 17.  Among other things, I made salads at this deli.  And then my first season at McMurdo I used Shreddie Vedder, the industrial salad shooter slicer in the so-called Salad Room, which necessitated me drawing (I am terrible at drawing) the five or so components that you screwed it to make the blades work, and describing for myself in my notebook at length what I thought they looked like and how they fit together because just looking at the metal parts in my hands each time it was like I had never seen them before.  Normally I hate terrible puns, but those were ACTUAL salad days. :p 

Last October, I was fixated on photographing a certain image that never quite worked out.  Out at the airfield, maybe six or seven of these sled-trailers with fuel tanks were parked in a line about fifty feet apart.  They had circular holes in the metal braces (which you can barely make out on the lower left of the tank); you could look through one and see the next tank, and then through its hole to see the next tank.  I'm not sure if any camera or depth of field would show more than one, given their distance apart.  But trust me, it looked cool.

It will be an interesting season, no doubt.  I'll be closing valves!  Analyzing samples!  Turning giant wrenches!  Legit working outside, south of the Antarctic Circle!  And the isolation will take on a new tone.  I'm guardedly optimistic for next October -- a rare commodity at present.  And I'm duly optimistic about spending a long chunk of time this summer with a certain guy of noted quality.  That's right, no updates from Alaska this year, but yes reports of hiking and cooking and fun.

Some Things I’ve Eaten While Stranded

10 - homemade scones

9 - cans of tuna

8 - pounds of potatoes

7 - quarts of yogurt

6 - heads of broccoli

5 - pounds of cheese (mostly cheddar, also some brie and feta and havarti)

4 - bottles of Sauvignon Blanc (well, drunk, not eaten)

3 - pounds of butter

2 - pounds of chocolate

1 - can of tom yum soup

This might be my favorite Christchurch graffiti.

I have eaten a variety of other things over the course of New Zealand’s four weeks of (ongoing) lockdown.  But something about these items captures the dilemma of cooking for oneself in an unstocked kitchen only temporarily yours.  I guess it’s easier to just repeat than be inventive during each fraught grocery store visit.  I haven’t bought any spices; how am I consuming such vast amounts of garlic and pumpkin seeds but not moving through the eggs?  I think I’ve got supplies worked out to last the remaining week.  Things are about to get a little bacon-heavy, but there’s plenty of cabbage to balance it out.

It’s fun seeing friends and society in general spending time in the kitchen.  Even if you’re subsisting on ramen and Spaghettios, I think it’s incredibly valuable to *daily* have your hands (er, at least a spatula) on the food you eat.  And to people making anything and everything from scratch (shout out to Tom Pence!), three cheers for your efforts and enjoyment of food.  Maybe instead of waiting for things to get back to normal we’ll find we like doing things differently.

It had been outrageously beautiful fall weather.

NZ buttermilk is super thick.  Combine with their 

wonderful cultured butter and devour delectable scones.