Description of pictures:

1 and 2. The coast north of Lahaina
3. Sunset from one of "our" beaches close to our condo
4. Golf course in Kapalua
5. Some of that "fresh dirt" lava
6. that surreal evening, waiting on the beach while bobby was snorkeling
7. a stop on the road to Hana
8. The road to Hana (you can see the road carved into the cliff in the background)
9. A ranch near Hana
10. The black sand beach near Hana
11. Your blogger, posing with a rainbow eucalyptus, which loses it's bark every year, revealing it's colorful trunk underneath.
11 and 12. The bamboo forest on the hike to Waimoku Falls
13. Waimoku falls
14. The seven sacred pools in Oheo Gulch
15. Looking across the top of the Haleakala Crater (10,023 feet elevation)
16. The Iao needle

Hello to my peoples, from vacationland.

It is day...lets see...number seven, I believe. Day number two on Maui. We are beginning to settle into our routines here. I make Bobby get up early, and he whines, and gets downright grouchy. but it's a good system, because it gets light about five o'clock here, and then we are ready for bed as soon as it gets dark in the evening.

Our first day on the island we mostly concerned ourselves with preparing for the rest of our stay here. After my morning run, we attended a complimentary breakfast hosted by an Expedia Local Expert in the pool courtyard. The Local Expert presented us with a slew of options, a map of Maui as well as suggestions on activities, a few opinions on which would be the smartest booking options. We have been kinda planning on going on a snorkel cruise while we are here, but have not booked one yet. Breakfasted with fresh fruit, we went shopping and bought all the necessities we could not pack. We found a farmer's market and bought onions, green peppers, tomatoes, mangoes, papayas, strawberries, pineapple, and lettuce. Then we went to Wal-mart and bought dry goods like rice, corn chips, and noodles. Then to safeway (I think it's funny that we got a safeway card in Honolulu last year, and have not used it until Maui this year, even though there's a safeway in Frisco) for apples, celery, carrots, avocadoes, bananas and mangoes (I forgot I had already bought some at the farmer's market) as well as other staples like bread, tortillas, fruit juice and booze. We staggered into our condo lugging our plunder, and have been slicing, peeling, and paring ever since, three meals a day. I could live like this for a long time.

By the time we had finished our shopping, it was raining, so we drove a few miles up to Makena, Big Beach, where the trees were dripping, but the rain was not falling, walked down the beach for a while, then kept driving until we passed a large backhoe, behind which the entire stretch of land, until it dropped into the ocean, was dug up, turned over in massive chunks of dirt. We actually puzzled over it, why the need for such massive, deep digging, until I looked closer and realized, this was not a new construction site, this was what a lava flow looked like. We felt a bit silly, but hey. How were we to know? They should not park machinery so close to it, leading people like us to make the wrong associatons when presented with such a foreign landscape. It really did look like a garden, freshly turned with a spading fork, but on a macro scale. last years potaoes in this garden would have been about the size of our rented Pontiac. We parked where the road ended and hiked into the lava field a little way, until it looked like no new scenery was going to present itself, then turned around. For kicks and giggles, we walked down to the Wailea beach, by all the grand resorts, and swam out. We had on our swimming goggles, and as soon as we stuck our heads under the water, found ourselves mesmerised by the world down there, fish we had never seen before. We dived for a while, snorkled without snorkels, coming up for air when we needed to breath (I am the world's worst at holding my breath. I start getting panicky and oxygen deprived after about twenty seconds) before we came to the inevitable conclusion- we needed snorkels. Back to Kahalui we drove, and spent some more time in Wal-mart. Cheap, but not too cheap... we finally settled on some, and brought them home, to be used in the morning.

This morning, I got Bobby up at six o'clock, and brought his breakfast to him in bed. No, this is not because I am such a doting, submissive wife (oh, wait... maybe it does) but rather, because he is too large for me to pull out of bed, and the consequences would be too dire were I to try it, so i must resort to other games. I know that chewing takes enough mental energy to keep one from falling asleep, and once the sugars from his meal hit his bloodstream, he will be much more alert. And although he would rather lie there and sleep than sit up and chew, he must take that first bite because I am standing there doing my best chef routine- as if my entire world hinges on what his impressions of my culinary creation are. So yes, i shamelessly admit that breakfast in bed is one of my weapons I pull out when I want him to get out of bed early, instead of letting him fall back asleep. Sure enough, before long, he came stumbling out of the bedroom, plate supported by a weak, wobbly wrist, halted when he realized that the living room was open to the entire out doors, set down the plate and stumbled back down the hall to find some clothes. He finished breakfast outside on the lanai, and before long, was all excited about snorkeling. yes, I connive. No I do not apologize. I pride myself on being good at only a few things- mostly things involving balance and endurance, such as snowboarding, and there are other things which I strive every day to be better at. Cooking and zen, for two, and for three, nonverbal control of my world. It just makes things easier. Ok, admitting that might come back to haunt me some day.

We stuck our faces under the water at Kamaole III beach, the one we are closest to, and paddled around for a while, delighting ourselves with being marine creatures among marine creatures, then went to Ulua beach, this one with a nice reef around it. This one had such a wonderful array of tropical fish, we stayed out until we were thouroughly waterlogged, came back to the beach to grap our waterproof disposable camera, then headed back out. we snapped some really good pictures, (we think), came back to the beach, only to realize the camera was full of water, inside the case. Only then did we remember dropping it earlier. Sure enough, closer inspecton revealed a cracked case. So much for our pictures. but we still had fun, even though it took a few hours for the red ring encircling our eyes and nose from the goggles go away. We had some time to kill, and wanted to work on the tan, so we let the chlorine water in the pool wash away the salt water, then positioned ourselves on lounge chairs for about thirty minutes. All the factors for a good sunburn lined up just right, because we both have fiery burns. It was a nasty surprise for us. The burns are in patterns to suggest they happened in about a fifteen minute space of time, since that was all the time spent in the position that presented those particular parts of ourselves to the sun. BBD got it worse than i did. He shaved his chest hairs because they are causing his chest to itch, which makes him scratch it, which reminds him that he has a painful burn on it.

He tried to nap after lunch, but I wouldn't let him (oh, i can be relentless), insisting that if he slept now, he would not be able to go to sleep until late tonight, and then he would want to sleep in in the morning, and all my hard work this morning would be shot. So he dragged himself out of bed, and we drove to Lahaina, a historic whaling town. I felt like I was back in breckenridge, except with the pacific as a backdrop, instead of ski slopes. It was cutesie, but i find myself increasingly annoyed with towns of that nature. We drove on to Ka'anapali, with it's big resorts and shopping mall with overpriced surfwear and clothing that could be worn no where but here, and not even here unless you are a tourist, art and jewelry stores, also overpriced, and it was in one of these impractical board and boardwear stores (we were shopping for another pair of swim trunks for BBD- didnt find any) that I looked up and saw, on a bigscreen TV, a shredder, bursting through about three feet of freshies, a frontside board grab, a faceshot of snow, and as wrong as it felt, i wanted to be there. Oh boy. What is happening? Who am I? At that moment, I really wanted to trade my sweaty armpits and frizzy, humidity-destroyed hair for my new plaid snowpants, and a big, fluffy snowdrift under my snowboard with it's woodgrain graphics and the few stickers and decals i have gotten for free over the years and slapped on it. Surfing sucks. You heard that right. It sucks. If man was supposed to surf, we would have been born a little more amphibious. So much work for a few second's ride. But a mountain, a guaranteed ride down after all the work of getting up, marshmallow softness, knife-edge corderoy, ice, corn, bulletproof, bumps, glades, cruisers... ok, so maybe if we had been meant to do that, we'da been born a little more... furry. But it still seems natural to our species.

Don't get me wrong. I am loving it here. It is icy and snowy at home, and I am basking in perfect temeratures, day and night. Plants, trees, green, green, green. Coral reefs, golden sand, cool shade and salty breeze... it's almost heaven. It would be if snow fell here, warm snow. But, somehow, i think the vacation is achieving it's desired purpose. It's making me appreciate my home again.

We stopped at Kapalua and wondered down to the shore, through a portion of the golf course that hosts the Mercedes Benz Championship on the PGA tour. It really is picture perfect. We passed an ancient graveyard, now a protected culteral and historical site, and made our way to the cliffs at the edge of the golf course. I suppose i have to grant, in it's manicured, perfect, every-blade-of-grass-in-place way, it was one of the more beautiful places I have been in. I of course left my shoes in the car, thinking I was just gonna read the black and bronze plate explaining the burial sites, so I made my way along the lave cliffs barefoot. The rocks had all been worn round, so I did not risk cutting my foot on a sharp piece of lave, but I did stub the piggie who had none, this time on the right foot. Even Bobby, walking beside me, heard it pop. At first I was convinced I had broken it, but four hours later, I can wiggle it painfully and though it is swollen, it is still pink, not purple, so perhaps things just got rearranged. I will be very surprised if I am actually buried with all ten of my toes intact.

Back at the condo, dinner made and eaten, we are feeling fairly ready for bed. The effects of the generous splash of coconut run in my fruit smoothie was making me a bit woosy, making the typing a chore, but it has passed, and I now I am steadily getting drowsier. it is sad indeed, since that was not even a shot's worth. And it is cheap rum, less alcohol content. I simply can't hold my booze. i'm a lightweight. And it seems to be getting worse. But then, i have barely sipped a drop of the stuff since I was ten pounds heavier than I am now, so maybe that makes a difference.

Tired. Must sleep. Big day tomorrow (doing what, I don't know yet)

Day ten. Ok, this keeping track of the days has gotten tedious. I have a three day gap here, and I cannot for the life of me tel you what we did on each day. But I can recount the high lights. One of those afternoons (it might have been day eight) we did nothing. We sat in the condo, beside the open lanai door, and watched tv while it rained. I read another novel. The tv remote does not work to decrease the volume, only increase it, so we argued about the TV being too loud, and I kept gettin up to turn it down. We needed that one day of doing absolutely nothing, of being bored. One day, and no more. It helped us realize that we really are vacationing, not a single thing we need to do. That was the day I got up early and went for a run, up the beach to Wailea, and realized i had wasted a lot of energy running the other way, into Kihei. Toward Wailea was much nicer, waterfront walkways where the beach was not runnable. The sand right here is condusive to running, at least along the water. It is very fine and firm as long as it is slightly damp. But if one wants to enjoy it without dodging too many people, especially on the beach-front walkways, one must be up early. I try to hit it at six thirty, and be done by seven thirty, because just before eight, everyone wakes up and the walkways no longer belong to just the runners, but to ambling retirees and motorised carts hauling lawn care equipment, as well as tables, chairs, umbrellas, and food for the outdoor restaurants and resort "ballroom" areas. And after eight, the families hit the beaches, and one may as well just walk no faster than the flow of foot traffic. The run starts at Kam III beach, just outside our door, on a gravel and woodchip path through a protected native bird nesting area, goes across the Kihei boat ramp, teeming with departing fishing, scuba, and snorkel expeditions at six-thirty, across the grass of the first of the Wailea resorts, then hits the beach for a half-mile or more. It is a broad, flat beach, studded with lava outcroppings, a wide area of sand smoothed by the waves breaking on it. After that, it climbs onto a foot bridge, which turns into the beach walk that separates all the uppity Wailea resorts from the beaches, and finally turns into a paved walkway along the cliffs that winds through several ancient culteral sites, and is well signed, making it a culteral and botanical tour. It ends at the last resort before the beaches are claimed by lava, and here, one must return either the way one came, or by the road. By the time one turns around, the sun is well up, and the sweat has begin dripping, even where there are no clothes to encourage it. It is a good way to start the morning. I have begun doing it every morning. By the time I get back, BBD is up, and may have even found his way to the beach. On that morning, I met him in the park that separates our condo from the beach, and followed him down to the water, where i stripped off shoes and socks and dived into water that felt like pure heaven, while he wandered around and snapped pictures. We returned to the condo, I grabbed an apple, and we scratched off to Wailea beach to snorkel. The water was less than pristinely clear there, so we had to go out a long way to find clear water, and by that time, we had to dive down a long way to see the fish and coral. I don't know why my ears are so sensitive. I used to dive to the bottom of the ten-foot deep Leoti pool, and sure, my ears hurt a little, but nothing like they do now, under five or six feet of water. But I almost want to scream from the pain, so diving is not something i do, unless hot on the tail of some really bizarre or beautiful fish, and then, not for long. And after that, I sat down, and realized my constant activity of the morning was catching up, and we proceeded to do nothing for the rest of the afternoon. At dark, we finally got achy enough to want to do something, so we went back to Ulua beach, and he swam out, in spite of the fact that it was overcast and threatening rain, and the beach was deserted. He saw a turtle, which made him even happier, while I sat and drew pictures in the sand, and took pictures. There were two other people in the water, standing on surfboards, paddling them around on the calm water. They gave the scene a very surreal feel, with the water the same gray shade as the sky, two grayer figures suspended between the water and the sky.

Day nine, I did not get in the water, not even once. It is possible for me, if not for BBD. He really is happiest in the water. Some of the best times we've had together have been in or on the water, and i think it is because there, he finally really forgets to worry about things. Maybe there is a phychological explanation, having to do with being weightless and washing your cares away, I don't know, but for him, water works. Instead, after my run, we threw some food in the car, stopped at a gas station to fill up with $4.29 gas, and hit the Hana Highway. Hana is not, as suggested by the name, the destination of the Hana Highway. The road itself is the destination. There are 61 one-lane bridges on this road, and six hundred curves. The road to Hana is included in many poeple's must-do list for Maui, and it was, indeed, beautiful. We stopped at several waterfalls, several viewpoints, and had a picnic lunch in Hana, at the famous black-sand beach, flanked by lava tubes and blowholes. Hana is tiny, one inn, one restaurant, both rediculously overpriced, a place where everyone would love to live in theory, but is just too isolated to be realistic as a home. It does have a unique sub-culture though, so isolated that it is much easier to support local growers than pay delivery trucks to bring groceries over that road. Farms and fruitstands abound, and the people there are proud of their sustainability.

At the end of the road is an entrance to the far end of Haleakala National Park, and a hike we had already decided to take. It is a trail that winds up Ohea Gulch, through a surreal forest of bamboo, banyan, and guava trees, two miles and five hundred vertical feet, until it ends under the several hundred foot Waimoku falls. We lounged in the damp shade, water droplets falling around us for a half-hour, then made the two mile return trip in good time. At the point where the stream from the falls meets the ocean, is a series of seven pools, cascading one to the next, each one deep and inviting. These are called the Seven Sacred Pools, a name the locals find irritating because there is nothing sacred about them. The name was a shameless marketing ploy, along with the carefully planted rumor that in ancient lore, the seven pools represented seven something-or-others. Emotions, or beliefs, or something like that. I'm a little fuzzy on my fake history, and can't remember where I picked up that fun fact to varify it. Bobby swam in the lower pools, while I climbed to a few higher ones. Swimming is discouraged in them, because in the event of a flash flood, the only way out is out to sea, but it does not seem to deter the three hundred (or six hundred- another unvarifyable fact) visitors that drive the road to Hana in a given day.

And now, day ten, the day not yet over. I forwent the run in favor of a bit of snuggling, a leisurely breakfast, and an early departure. Everyone says we should watch the sunrise, or at least the sunset, from the Haleakala crater. Haleakala is the ten thousand foot volcanic sentinel of Maui. We deviated, because we are deviants. Well, actually we are lazy. One must roust at about 2:30 am in order to make sunrise, and we could not be sure of the clear view at sunset that we knew we would have mid-morning. The volcano on the Big Island has been sending vog (I still do not want to believe that's a real word) over here, obscuring the crater ever since we got here. This morning was the first time we were able to see it. We drove to the top, watching the landscape morph from tropical to sub-alpine, to a moonscape. As we were preparing to leave, Sky, a bouncy, blue-eyed brunette with a natural history degree, arrived and shouted to all who would hear that she would be giving a natural history degree. We stayed, to learn about tectonic plate movements and volcanic hot-spots, eruptions and erosion. Then we wondered around the visitor's center just long enough to learn nothing new, except for the identinty of the unusually large spider perched on the wall of the observation deck at the summit, and breath dep breaths of wonderfully thin air, not realizing until that moment how much the air at sea level makes you feel like you are breathing soup.

Just down from the summit, we swung over and picked up Chelsea, a hitchhiker in a big, floppy hat, dirty linen pants, and an overnight pack. She had spent the night in the crater, and the rest of her party was hiking all the way down the back side, to Hana, but she had to be to work tomorrow, so she hiked back out the way she had come. She is doing an apprentice-ship on an organic farm in Hana, three days a week growing coffee, papaya, every imaginable fruit and vegetable. The farm is completely sustainable, the employees living almost exclusively on what it yields. It sounded, when she talked about it, pretty much like eden. The manager lives in a banyan tree, in a treehouse complete with stained-glass windows. Occasionally, meals are provided by local health-food restaurants, cooking with consideration to any diet- raw foodism, veganism, you name it. A place for nuts like me, with urges in the direction of an all-natural lifestyle, to live it out to their heart's content. It could only work so well here, in a place where one has only to drop a seed into the ground to watch it grow. But before you say it, be sure that B already has. He is a city boy, he tells me before I even have time to sigh a wistful sigh, and if i want that sort of lifestyle, I'll have to do it without him. And that is where my passion for it breaks apart, because as healthy and good as natural sustainability is, what good is it if mixed with loneliness?

After dropping Chelsea off, we grabbed lunch and did a bit of shopping, then drove to the Iao (pronounced ee-oh) Valley, the scene of one of the bloodiest battles over land ever fought between the local people. In the heart of the valley is a needle-like cone, flat on the top, used as a lookout during war times, and, as Oahu soldiers closed in, as a retreat for the local Mauians. By the time it was over, the stream in the bottom of the valley ren red, and was dammed by their bodies. How completely pointless, all the wars faught over land, when in the end, even the victors will lose it to an even bigger rival. All it took in this case was a union of greedy American plantation owners, a few strategic lies, and a queen who loved her people so much she chose abdication over more bloodshed.

And now we are back at the condo, letting the day wear on at it's own pace, the lanai shaded behind the palms. Maybe, if I am lucky, I will be able to get online long enough to post this, maybe even add some pictures.

Got to Maui. It's 9:15 pm local time, but it's 1:15 home time. So tired... BBD is out hunting for food. At this point, i am happy waiting til morning to eat. Our two hour wait at the Phoenix Airport turned into a four hour wait, then a five and a half hour flight. Maybe I can actually blog about the last two days, not that it's so exciting, in the morning. Actually, I can just recap it now. A hasty camp pick-up, a drive to Phoenix from Sedona, (BBD saw those big saguaro cactuses for the first time) a swim in a tepid swimming pool, a bit of a sunburn on our white tummies, a walk through a mall, another sub sandwich. Next morning, a transfer and condensing of all our luggage as we packed for Hawaii, a trip to Wal Mart for a bigger suitcase, lunch of fast food chicken, a small tiff as we parked and found the airport shuttle, a wait at the boarding gate, an announcement that the plane was in the shop, more waiting, more announcements, dinner of a veggie burrito in the airport, and finally, a flight during which I read an entire novel. One I have been waiting for in paperback for a really long time, paid good money for in Borders, and now it's done. Gone in one flight. Another brief tiff getting off the plane after I discovered I had left my jacket with my ID on the plane, and had to wait for the staff to bring it out to me (as is our m.o. when we come to HI, I am already trying to lose my ID.) Another few sharp words over trying to find the condo in the dark, and here we are. Maybe now we can be sweet to each other.

More when I have more to report... if I am lucky enough to keep this tentative internet report.

Note- I really can't control where the pictures end up within this post. I would love to make them correspond with the subject they illustrate, but my formatting is limited with a free blog. The lists each day will help you identify the pictures, even though they are in random places.

Day 1- Angel's Landing.

Well, actually, today is technically day two of the Vacation, since we left last night. But it is our bonus day, because we were supposed to wait till this morning to leave. By leaving after work last night, we got a good three hundred miles behind us by bedtime, slept in a cheap, stinky motel in Green River, Utah, and hit the road by seven o'clock this morning after a breakfast of apples and mangoes from our lunchbox. At noon, we rolled into Springdale, the gateway town to Zion National Park, located a campsite and paid for it, and found our way into the park.

Last year, while soaking in a motel hot tub in Moab, we struck up a conversation with two hikers who had just come from here, who highly recommended Angel's landing as a worthwhile day hike. now, I don't know how many of my faithful few blog-readers have hiked in Zion, specifically Angel's Landing, but all i can say is, it is by far the coolest hike I have ever done. I can only hope the pictures I will post to this blog will pretend to do it justice. The first two miles are fairly easy, a steady climb, but on a wide, paved trail winding into a canyon, then climbing it's wall. But then, oh, yes. Then. the paved trail ends in a flat, sandy area, wide enough to accomodate about a dozen milling hikers, before it picks back up, this time in singletrack, a chain leading the way over the rocks. It is not for the faint of heart, nor the flat of foot. It dips, winds, and climbs, all the while edging closer to the edges of the massive slickrock fin it sits on, either side dropping a thousand feet to the valley floor. Ominous signs warn that hikers can and have died on this trail, or rather by slipping off of it, so to not leave the trail, stay away from the edges, and use the chain provided as a handhold. We went up, we went down, we climbed and clambered over rocks with hand and footholds chisled out of them, until we stood fifteen hundred feet over nothing but rocks and air, the wind tugging at us, daring us to peer over the edge. The view was amazing, as I hope the pictures can show those of you who will never be able to make the hike, but the star of the day was the trail itself. Jelly knees quivered a time or two, but the whole day was pure fun, climbing on top of the world, sun and lizards and chipmunks, sunbaked earth, damp canyon bottoms, cactus flowers and toe-blisters. Ok, so the toe blisters not so much, but it's all part of the game I suppose. I was rather beside myself with happiness over the challenge, although BBD's only concession to the query about his feeling about it all was, If you're happy, I'm happy. Better enjoy it, cause we aint doin it again. But he did quite well.

We dined at the Pizza and Pasta Co. in Springdale, and found our way back to the campground. BBD got a back rub, since he was so game all day, we both had eight-minute showers (all our tokens would allow us) and now, as I type, the tent is up, the bedding is down, and all around me, the campground is settling in. As is the norm around our great country's national parks, conversations in German, Russian, or Polish or Czech (at least, those seem to be the main ones, when one bothers to ask) are being held loudly in neighboring tent sites. It is good to be tenting again, the first time since the Scott Park last fall. We have our routine down, and with the bedding we have, the awesomely soft roll-up backbacking bed pads, we are quite comfortable in our green and purple Coleman tent that Uncle Leroy and Aunt Mary gave me when I was 14. Hardly any gift could keep giving as that Coleman tent has. (So if you read this, L and M, thanks again. It has blown across a pasture, gotten wrapped up in a barbed wire fence, taken us honeymooning, weekends at the lake, been an extra bedroom when the house was too full, kept off the rain, withstood the wind, had bird droppings and insects of unusual size, and even a person or two rolled up in it, and it is far from done. It will see many more of the best times of our lives before it is ready to be retired.)
(Pictures- 1. the last half-mile of the Angel's landing trail. The trail goes straight up the spine of the rock wall in the left half of the picture.
2. BBD taking a break on the trail. That's an eight-hundred foot drop, by the way, just below him.
3. A typical portion of the trail. Thank goodness for the chain!
4. Me at the top. The view is so worth the hike. Hey, just the hike is worth the hike!
5. The view I am facing in the previous pic.

Day 2- Weeping rock, Emerald pools, Lake Powell

(Pictures for this day- 1. Zion Lodge, in the heart of the park
2. the waterfall between Middle and Lower Emerald Pools
3.the path to the Emerald pools)

Ok, so word to the wise. If you plan to camp at Zion National Park, get there early. Like six o'clock am, so you can be the first through the gates. it's a good idea to get inside the gates early if you want to park you car at the visiters center, eliminating the need to ride the shuttle from springdale. The park has the capacity to park about a fifth (I'm guessing) of the visiters through it's gates. And those who park there will not be moving anytime soon- they are probably out hiking, making use of the shuttle that leaves every seven minutes. It is actually a really good thing to have the shuttle. It keeps the park quiet, the only activity being foot activity. It is readily accessible, stopping at every point of interest, coming and going, and if you are lucky, the driver will actually enjoy his/her job enough to give his/her passengers moer than the names of the stops, but will include fascinating bits of human and geological history. It did interest me how readily one could pick up on the religious beliefs of the individual drivers, since there were some who did not hesitate to rattle off the estimated age of the formations, and others only stated that the park was old- many thousands of years. (Let me just say, in regards to my own beliefs, that while I claim a very literal belief in the Bible, if not all things mainstream Christianity, the Earth's age is one thing about which I believe that God laughs at us, trying to determine from our meager amount of written history. For someone eternal, who was intimately involved in the history of the entire universe, not just this tiny pebble we live on, which is the center of our tiny consciousnesses... our quests for make-or-break facts that will then determine our belief in him just seems a little bit rediculous. I allow myself a belief that there is much about this earth that written history does not begin to cover, and I think that God is ok with that- because why should my awe of Him be limited by what I do not know?) But back to my word to the wise. If you do not get a spot at the quieter in-park campgrounds, there is always the Quality Inn motel, RV Park, and campground in springdale, just a mile or two away. All went well, all stayed warm except the part exposed- our heads. But as soon as a bit of pre-dawn gray began to show, the people next to us began packing up camp. Aparently they had a thing with keeping their car door locked, because every few minutes they hit their keyless entry, beep-beep-beep. Twice, they hit the panic button, and the horn blared for what seemed like minutes before they found the right botton to get it shut off. And finally, they had slammed all the doors, honked oll the horns, pushed all the air out of their air matresses, chattered and argued and packed as much as they could, and then they left, but not before letting their car idle with the headlights pointed right into our tent. I became irrationally convinced that with their total ineptitude, as they left they were gonna accidentally slip the car into drive instead of reverse and manage to actually run over us. I curled up into a ball, realizing how stupid that sounded, but half convinced it would happen, since they were obviously parked nosed up against us. They finally left, and we began to fall back asleep, when suddenly, not eight feet away, the rv parked with it's butt toward us started up, diesel engine rumbling, exhaust fining it's way inside. It idled, while we muttered. After it left, we lay awake, watching the tent walls grow gradually lighter, loath to get up and face the cold until the sun had actually climbed over the canyon walls, which it did about three hours later.


Every time I am in the canyon country, I am constantly looking around me, wanting nothing more than a degree in Geology, wanting to know how the layers got there in the first place. How they were exposed has a simple answer- wind and water. Even the trails but a few years old have begun to sink into the rocks, tiny pieces of sand carried out by millions of hiking boots and tennis shoes. But how they settled in the patterns they did, layers diving haphazardly into layers, angles askew, always merits some neck-cranng moments as one contemplates it all.

We rode all the way to the end of the shuttle route, marveling at the sheer height of Angel's Landing from the bottom, getting out at various stops. Our first hike was not really a hike, just a half- mile ramble up to weeping rock, a juncture where the water that seeped into the top layer 1,200 years ago and began working it's way down meets a much harder, impermeable layer and traveles horizontally, until it pours out of the face of the canyon and falls to it's floor, meeting a much dirtier world than it landed on. Plants grow on the vertical walls, and the mist chills the air, creating a cool, green world just a short hike from the baking valley floor. We got off the shuttle again at the Temple of Sinawava, the end of the shuttle route, and rambled along the river. The narrow slot canyon that contiued on from that point was closed since it is runoff season. I want to go through a slot canyon at some point. Problem is, they are dangerous places in the event of a flash flood, and fragile places, often closed to the public, reserved for guided tours only. Many of them require swimming. On the way back down the canyon, we disembarked at the Zion Lodge, where the trailhead to the emerald pools is located. I expected the Emerald Pools to be a bit more pool, and a bit more emerald, but hey. Who would actually hike to something called the Reddish-Brown Puddles?Three tiers of puddles, spilling over into each other. The bottom two were beatiful, supporting a fragile desert ecosystem between them as the water from the middle pool spilled into the bottom pool, wildflowers growing out of cracks in the walls, the trail hugging the canyon wall behind the thin sheet of falling water. The top one was a short, but hot hike higher, and could almost qualify as a pool. It was there we stopped and dug out the organic nuts and apples i have been carting along with me. I even remembered a bag for the aple cores, now that my backpack is all sticky inside from having to carry apple cores in it down from the top of Angel's landing.

We rode back from the lodge to the parking lot in a shuttle full of tired, crying kids and frazzled parents. Parents who are kids our age, still fit, still active, still not ready to settle for minivans and disney world. Still gonzo at heart, in spite of the fact that they have to do their hiking with a child or two balanced on a hip. Moms who stay home to take care of them, who spent every waking minute providing constant supervision, and dads who, on this vacation, are proving the rare treat of their constant presence. I watched one little tableau in front of me, how the little girl claimed the seat beside Daddy, and the little boy, sitting beside Mommy, began trying to squirm off the seat, out into the aisle, and began screaming when she would not let him. But then Daddy pulls him onto his lap, the screaming stops, and the kid's happy again. Mommy sits completely alone, and looks a little bit betrayed, and daddy reaches forward to rub her shoulder, to let her know he still likes her, even though the kids dont. It's a vacation for him, the kids love him because it's a novelty not having him at work, and for her, it's just an extension of the job she does all day, every day, only more stressful because nobody's in a familiar place and there is no naptime. It led into another "when do we have kids" discussion once we got back to our car. This seems to be a hot-button issue with people who already have or have had kids. When we talk like this to them, we are sublty or not so subtly accused of being selfish, of choosing to miss out on the blessings of parenthood, of being immature and irresponsible. We feel a bit isolated by it all, because while we know that a vacation like we are on now would still be possible with kids, it is certainly easier without them. Just give us a little time, so we can enjoy a few experiences that will be next to impossible for the next 18 to 25 years. From about four months after conception until high-school graduation, every moment will need to be planned around that child (or children), and at least give us credit that we are mature enough to realize that. Of course, we do not even know yet if children are possible for us...

Now that was a tangent. Sorry. We left the crying kids, their nearly in tears moms, and made our way out of the park the long way, following the original highway, through the mile- long tunnel built in the thirties for much smaller vehicles than we drive these days, and as I fell asleep, hit the open road for Lake Powell. It is wonderful being the passenger when Bobby is driving. I do not worry about him falling asleep. he takes each querry about his wakefulness as an insult, so I let my head loll and my eyes close and go ahead and "try to snore", as he tells me afterwards that I do.

We honeymooned at Lake Powell, and this is the first time we have been back. It is interesting to see how our perceptions have changed since then. It is almost our sixth aniversary, after all. We are now far more interested in what the area has to offer. We still can't afford much, but we have gotten good at finding our way around places and doing the things we can do for little or no money. We lounged by the pool, not long enough to burn but long enough to create a tiny tan, to be added to incrementally before we hit the merciless Hawaii beaches in three days. I read an old Dean Koonts paperback, since just lying by the pool is akin to punishment for an activity junkie. I can devour a 500 page paperback in a day. I have a real problem bringing enough material along with me to keep myself entertained while BBD relaxes. What does he think about while he lies there for hours? Do his thoughts run in loops like mine do? Does he notice his skin heating up, every sweat pore opening, until he convinces himself he is miserable? Does he imagine bugs landing on him? Do his warm, wet swim trunks stick to him, making him feel like he peed himself? Is he worried about sunburning the bottoms of his feet? What would one do if one did that? That would be awful. Does he pass the time trying to itinerize the rest of the vacation, only to realize how rediculous that is? Does he start pondering imponderables? Does he get annoying songs stuck in his head? How is all of that relaxing? Maybe I am a strange child, but for me, if my body is relaxed, my mind is anything but. The best way to clear my head, rezero the whole wadded up mess up there, is by getting out where the breeze is cool, the view is nice, and the trails are long. I do my best thinking when I am forced to follow actual trains of thought to block out the pain of physical exercize, and it feels wonderful to let the worked, stretched muscles relax while I write, (can you tell I am being forced to sit at the moment?) read, or listen to music. Oh, dear. My mind and my body being on the same page is about as likely to happen as Bobby and Susan getting their timing right and actually wanting to do the same thing at the same time.

Poor man is out looking for someone to cut his hair. It is cold country hair, cute as can be, thick and about three inches long, sunbleached on the ends. He is ready for summer hair. Can't blame him. He has more hairs per square inch on his head than anyone I know.

So tomorrow, we have no plan. perhaps a rock beach in a canyon cove. Bobby wants so desperately to rent a boat, but we really can't afford it. The water's cold this time of year anyway.

Day 3- Sedona, Arizona

(pictures for this day-
1.View from our hotel toward lake Powell, over the Page Golf Course
2.BBD at glen Canyon Dam
3.The town of Sedona, as seen from the airport
4. Our campground in Oak Creek Canyon
5.Your favorite blogger, reporting on the day's activities
6.Grand Canyon country, after we left Page
This morning, we wondered aimlessly through the visitor's center at the Glen Canyon dam, shared a footlong at Subway (we can eat for $2.50 apiece now, with their now five dollar footlong promotion- we order a turkey sandwich with every veggie the little sandwich-builder can put on it, no cheese, then i pick off he turkey and give it to BBD.) Bobby got a haircut at wal-mart before we left town. I still experience a bit of shock looking at him. His head seems like it shrunk.

And with no further ado, we left town. I was sleeping soon thereafter, and really did not fully awake until we started into the mountains around Flagstaff. I hope I don't pay for that tonight. We streched our legs before heading into Oak Creek canyon, which opens into Sedona. As we wound our way through the snlight dappled by towering, leafy trees (which i wish i could identify for you, and i would try if I had the internet handy, but unfortunately this campground does not even have water, let alone wifi) and pine trees, we passed several campgrounds, and kept driving, thinking that we would surely find something closer to town. When we got to town and inquired, however, we discovered that no campgrounds are allowed within eight miles of town, only day use areas. Not sure why, unless it is to keep the plebian masses well out of sight. By the time we had puttered around the art district, driven to various viewpoints, snapped our pictures, scoured the town for an affordable meal (Quizno's- our second sub sandwich of the day), it was getting late, and the most promising campground had been filled. We drove up-canyon, until we found one perched above a stream, and nabbed a spot, even though the only spot left was one right next to the highway. Our lack of commitment has struck us in the rear again. But other than having cars whizzing by seventy feet away, it really is a beautiful, peaceful evening. We gathered wood from down by the stream (of course, I dropped a sturdy, jagged stick on my toe- the one who had roast beef- and mangled it beautifully, since I was wearing flip-flops at the time) and time will tell if we managed any brushes with the poison ivy growing down there. I am pretty sure i did not, but I am suspicious of BBD, since he never can identify the stuff. Makes me feel downright useful when he calls on my limited knowledge of native flora and fauna. And now, we are slapping at our first mosquitoes of the year. I hear it snowed five inches in Summit County last night. Man, it's good to be outa there.


Now, BBD is whining because he is bored. He's not even sure we want a fire, since we have nothing to roast in it. he's wondering around, pointing the camera at things, occasionally even taking pictures. Poor boy. Perhaps we shall have to just go to bed early, since there is nothing else to do. The line between relaxing and boring can be so thin sometimes.

hello again, my dear ones...

Ahhh, fresh from four days away. Four days out of the county was so strange it seemed a little wrong, and now that we're back, it was not nearly long enough.

We left on Sunday morning and spent two days in Cedaredge with Wendell. Ryan and Ronda were also there, on a little vacation of their own. Wendell's job allows him seven days off in a row every month, a week that they lived for while Michelle was alive. Now, it is the week that their friends come to see Wendell. We all try to head off any time he might have to spend alone, since he already gets far more of it than he wants. We left the house with... lets see... three bikes, two snowmobiles on a trailer, a pair of cross country skis, and a set of golf clubs. And all the clothing to go with all the equipment. We used everything we took with us, living it up, since we actually had time to use them all. On sunday afternoon, Wendell and Bobby and I drove up onto the Mesa, where they dropped me off at the trailhead to the Skyline XC trail system, then drove a mile down the road to the snowmobile drop-off. As they sped across miles of open meadows and frozen lakes, I trudged over icy trails. The trail system was much smaller than I had expected, and I had finished a loop and was back to the trailhead much sooner than expected, so I headed across the space between me and the boys, off trail, so that they would not have to turn the truck and trailer around to come pick me up. I found myself herringbone-ing up steep hills, and flying down the backsides of them, bouncing roughly through frozen snowmobile tracks. As I hit track after track without falling, I began to gain a bit of confidence, and when I least expected it, one came across my path at just enough of an angle that my left ski caught in it, crossed over my right, stopped me abruptly, and sent me face- first through the crusted snow underneath me. I sat up, totally outraged and betrayed, and snatched off my sunglasses, pushed sideways and jammed down on the bump on top of my nose. That was it. Suddenly, I minded the wind that wouldn't stop blowing, I was just ticked off at the clouds that kept hiding the sun and I was cold because it was a windy overcast day and I could not get back to the truck fast enough. I got back to the truck just as my boys were pulling up on their snowmobiles, thirty minutes before our scheduled meeting time. Good thing I was there, because they would have gone to the trailhead looking for me, and I would have been at their trailhead, and our cell phones had no service, and that would have just been a peachy ending to the whole day. As they loaded up, Bobby cradled his three knuckles that he skinned on the end of a faulty spark plug, the reason they were back so early, and I inspected my tender face in the mirror, to discover a long scratch down my cheek, courtesy of the crusted snow I had stuck my face into. We went home to meet Ryan and Ronda, fresh from church, at Sonic for dinner. Oh, what is a veggie to do when the only meat and milk-free food available is doused in grease and overcooked? My chicken wrap filled me up, and reminded me that after three meat-free months, I am much less enamored with the taste of the stuff.

Yes, as a side note, I have not yet come to my senses as was predicted three months ago. In fact, quite the opposite. I did not decide to do the veggie thing because I am a PETA supporting, vegan shoe wearing animal rights activist, even though I am aware of the way that chickens are treated in chicken barns and egg factories, the way cows are slaughtered, the way dairy cows are overused and discarded after only a short and miserable life of milk production. I just do not think that little me not supporting them is going to make a difference, or cause the cogs of production to stutter in the least. I figure it's dead already, so it really doesn't care anymore. Actually it is the stuff they feed the stuff they inhumanely raise, that makes me a bit reluctant to bite off a big chunk of cooked flesh, not knowing where it originated from. Plus, I have realized that calorie control is actually not a dirty word when you can eat enough food that you do not constantly feel like a bottomless pit. Avoiding calorie bombs like meat and cheese makes it easy. I feel a little less despondent about my future health, knowing that I am fully supported by cancer research, my skin is behaving for once, and the energy levels and moods have not suffered in the least, thanks to those wonderful things called carbohydrates that I have been denying myself for so long. Even Mr.B. supports his wife's weird ways, because she suddenly has the body he married. I know, men...

Anyway, as long as we stay away from the fastest of fast food, eating vegan is not as difficult as one might think. Neither is a low-glycemic diet, B is discovering. Poor fellow pulled his pants down over his diminished behind today without unbuttoning them, right in the office, to demonstrate how a sugar-free and caffeine-free diet can cause shrinkage.

But back to our trip, on Monday, Ronda and I stayed in the house the entire day, chasing down kids, and chopping veggies and fruit for dinner, while the boys played nine holes. It amazed me how doing nothing, even napping in the middle of the afternoon, can be so exhausting that one needed to go to bed early. Tuesday, we all prepared to go our separate ways, Ryan and Ronda toward western Kansas, and wendell and us to eastern Utah. We met in grand junction for lunch yet, Famous Dave's barbeque, then made a quick stop for apples, nuts, and sunscreen, and hit the road. As we wound through the desert between I70 and Moab, the trees grew greener, until we dropped into the Colorado River Canyon, where brilliant green contrasted with red rock walls and muddy brown river. I found myself babbling uncontrollably the closer we got. We did not bother with checking into the cabins we had rented, but drove straight up the the Sand Flats recreation area and unloaded ourselves and our bikes at the trailhead to Slickrock bike trail. There is no way to describe it, being back on a bike after a six-month absence. There's ow, there's wow, there's the rush of being back in the saddle, of discovering that you still have it in you, that you can still do this. The now more familiar twists, ascents, descents, ledges and sand pits, the thrill of riding up the hill that you crashed on last time. A warm wind, and actual sweat, something we have not experienced for such a long time, we had almost forgotten what it was like.

Wendell took a seemingly nonthreatening foray off-trail, ended up on a sidehill, caught his pedal and crashed on the hairy edge of a drop-off. Caused us a brief stomache-plunging vision of having to phone home... Michelle would have done some chewing, had she been there to witness it. We have never missed her yelling at him to be careful more. That country terrified her as much as she loved it. She was so afraid of him falling off and killing himself, and if she lost him, she often said, she'd never survive it. We never actually thought that they wouldn't be able to grow old together. The dynamic has shifted in our group. We are no longer two couples. Now it is me and my boys. It is true that we push harder, since we do not need to protect her. She hated slowing us down, so we took any opportunity to take it easy. It was hard for her to take that she could not hike as fast uphill, or snowboard as fast downhill, or be a natural at sports the rest of us have been practicing for years. But I hate every drop of sweat, every burning muscle, because it means she is not along. We would trade anything to be able to see that blonde head coming into view over the petrified sand dunes on Slickrock. I turn down food I do not need, because we do not have each other to encourage each other to go for ice cream, a second piece of pizza, another bowl of soup. There's no need to go for a long ramble after dinner now, because there is no need to walk off all the food we just ate. Wendell just looks so completely lost and alone most of the time. He has his job, and he has golf, the two things he does with his time, and he says he is not always unhappy, but he cannot be happy either, because he just misses her so much.

Wednesday we had a big decision to make- whether to drive to Fruita for more biking, or hike in Moab. After a lot of discussion, we decided a hike in moab would be more comfortable for all, Wendell's back still a bit tender from his crash, say nothing of our bruised behinds not really wanting to sit on bikes seats, as much as we wanted them to. We hiked Negro Bill's Canyon instead, two and a half miles back to an arch over the shaded end of a canyon, water rushing down from above just under the rocks, not visible, but audible. It is a beautiful hike, I highly recommend it if you are ever in the area. Just do not do it in midday, because it is a very narrow canyon and it can become an oven if the sun is shining straight down into it.

We drove back to grand Junction for dinner, then back to wendell's place, where we stashed the snowmobiles in his garage for the winter, then headed back up the Mesa and toward home. Pictures, you say? oh, yeah, bobby forgot the camera in the snowmobile that first day, so nary a picture got taken. Sorry.

Hello again so soon. There is no new news (not that this is such a newsy blog in the first place) but I have finally got our new camera to transfer pictures to my computer, so I can post them. I am trying to add a slide show of all my photos to the bottom of this page, but I can't seem to be able to limit the sideshow to only my pictures, it adds everything from Flickr that bears the same keywords. I don't need other people's kids and sunsets decorating my blog.

Anyway, today I would like to introduce you to Frau. She is named after Frau Farbisina, the ageless bag in the Austin Powers movies. The one with the voice like nails on a chalkboard, who must interject comments when least appreciated. If you are acquainted with Frau, and then you met our Frau, you would make the connection, and then you might appreciate our humor. But that is just her official name. Her nickname, the name we call her, is much more descriptive and unique- we call her Cat.

Frau Cat spent the summer on the porch of one of our houses, begging attention from anyone who came to do weekly security checks and maintenance. When two college girls rented the house for a few months, they fed her and let her inside, and when they moved out, she resumed her watch on the front porch. She seemed well fed, with a shiny coat, but she also seemed completely unaware that she did not belong on the front porch of Piney Acres Upper. As the first snowstorm whipped up drifts, she kept to her post, and as a major remodel job began in the house, she invited herself inside, napping on a dining room chair, asking ever so politely to be excused when she had business to attend to outside. The night that the first real blizzard blew into the county, we took her home with us, asking the landlord if he would allow a cat in the garage of our no-pets rental. She has since assumed that while the garage if fine for overnight, a fine location for her litterbox and catfood, her real domain is in the house, which we allow, but are rather nervous about, with our entire deposit on the line. But she sniffs at our concerns, and keeps on a running commentary while we exist in her space, with a voice that sounds a bit like she is suffering from laryngitis. When she finally manages to squeeze sound past her larynx, it is a strained, rusty howl that causes people who do not know her to do a double-take.

Frau is a cat with coping skills. As long as she has her box. Yes, she is coping in the picture somewhere on this page. When she is miffed, when she is offended, when the dog bites, when the bee stings... she runs, muttering and complaining in her rusty windmill voice, and makes a flying leap into her box. Once inside, she gains control of her frazzled nerves, and watches the world pass around her. Outside the box, she has an entire family to gain control of, but inside the box, her world is controlled and orderly. The box is a bit small for her not-slim behind, but apparently she thinks it hugs her curves. Of course, a ten pound cat landing in a small box is hard on the box. It slides across the floor if she lands in it with enough momentum. I do not know what will happen when it finally falls apart. The cat's life will have lost it's center of stability. But for now, the cat's in her box, all's well with the world.

Finally, a look at all the snow in our backyard. Most years, the kids up here hunt for easter eggs in the grass, which is barely beginning to show itself between the last few stubborn drifts remaining in the shady areas. This year, even though easter came early, we are already past when easter would come most years and there is no ground visible yet. You are looking over at least four feet of snow covering what, in the summer, is a jungle of willows reaching far above my head. And most of the state's ski resorts are closing tomorrow, shutting down the lifts on as much as a ninety-five inch base. It is not up to them to decide to stay open till the snow leaves, since they are bound to a pre-arranged contract with the forest service that determines when they close.

Tomorrow I am going skiing one last time with our church's "Chix on Stix" program. We laugh when we say "program" because there are usually so few of us that we end up not sticking to a program at all. My telephone call concerning it this afternoon went something like this- "Hey Susan it's Mel. (meaningless conversation about Mel's day of backcountry skiing) So, we're doing chix on stix tomorrow, you gonna come? (I say I think I will be able to) Ok, well bring all your stuff, so if a slow one comes along you can ski, and if it's just you and me, we can ride the trees, hmm?" We both know there is a good chance that no one except me will show up, in which case we will not be skiing or riding chix on stix terrain, but rather tearing up bumps and dodging trees. My life has been greatly enriched by the finding of a friend who is as full-throttle and as competitive as I am. Luckily, we have similar, but just different enough interests that we never need to actually compete. I snowboard, she skis. I mountain bike, she kayaks. I long-distance run, she golfs. We accept that no one can be Good at everything, so at our own sport, we kick butt, and at the other's sport, we submit to getting our butt kicked.

ok, I have rambled enough. BBD has gone to bed, i believe. Perhaps i should investigate. My parents left home about 7:15 their time, they should be dragging themselves through the front door in the wee hours. They will be helping us deep clean a few of our units the next two days, getting them ready for either summer rentals, or to be returned to their owners.

Hello again. Two days until the ski resorts close, the wind is whipping up a blizzard that would make the most beastly January day cower in humiliation. March came in like a lion, went out like a lion, and April has pretty much beat the snot out of the lion and imposed it's own bi-polar personality on us.

So I bought skis the other day. Quite proud of my frugality, I was, as I bought the whole set-up. Skis, boots, poles, bindings, for mere fractions of full price. Well, the bindings were free, thanks to a friend. But for now, I must babble on about my new toyage leaning in all their shiny-sharp, gloriously waxed, unscratched glory against the garage wall. Just my size(that would be rather smallish), blue and white, for a fifth of their original price. A shiny black pair of boots, just my size, for a forth of their original price. A ten dollar pair of poles, next to last in stock. And a used-hard, put away wet pair of bindings.

The last day I was out was a powder day, so I loaded up my snowboard and my new skis. There are a few non-negotiable rules for a ski resort on a powder day. Ditch your riding/skiing partner if your wait at the bottom is more than five minutes. Forgive your skiing/riding partner for ditching you, leaving you wondering if they are lost, maimed, or otherwise dead in the trees as you shiver just outside the rope maze and they dismount at the top. Forgive them for choosing powder over other things more or less necessary or fun, like food, sleep or sex. Accept that you are still desirable to your significant other, just not as much so as billions of tiny ice crystals are at the moment. Never ride in someone else's line. Haste makes angry fellow skiers/riders. And finally, stick to what you know best. There will be many days of crud, wherein you can perfect your style and learn a new sport, but today, this powder day, do what you love. So I rode the day away, carving through bottomless pits between scooped-out bumps, ducking tree branches, having the ones I failed to duck dump their loads of snow down my neck and back. Lunch was an orange and a cold can of lentil soup, gulped while standing beside the trash can. Rind and tin can thrown away, spoon tucked into my pocket, I hit the powder again, and finally, at three-thirty, when the back side closed, and the last of the powder was shredded and piled up, I dragged my jello-knees back to the jeep, exchanged board for the skiis I had been looking forward to all day, clomped clumsily back to the lift, and mentally prepared myself for an evening of night-skiing. One run of razor-sharp turns on brand-new edges, poles the right size for once (the rental shop never could give me poles that weren't too long), I slid to a dramatic hocky stop in front of the lift line... and looked around me with the same confusion several other skiiers were expressing. Roped off maze, doors to the gondola shed shut, stationary chairs and gondola cabins, lights off... they were closed. At four in the afternoon. Come to find out, my information that it would be the last night for night skiing was faulty. The last night had already come and gone. I trudged my self and my shiny new boots back to the jeep.

Bobby D. wasnt joking when he told me to enjoy that day, because it would be my last. I have been too busy since then to even take my gear along with me when I leave in the mornings. There were two days in the last week, late in the afternoon, that I was able to sneak away for a whole two hours with my cross-country skis. I think recent shoulder aches are coming from the fact that I do not own cross-country ski poles so I have to use regular ski poles. But by the time I got to buying poles, even spending twenty more dollars seemed outrageous, in spite of all the deals I had been getting on gear. I dug a pair of long (but not long enough) poles out of lost and found to complete the set-up. XC poles should be about shoulder height, to allow you to plant them and pull yourself forward efficiently, with adjustable wrist straps, because by looping the straps around your wrist, then through your palm, and holding them along with the pole handle, you can save your hands from having to squeeze the handles with every step. But in spite of being improperly poled, I have watched miles of trail slide under my 178cm yellow and black skinny skis, have sprawled four ways from Sunday while experimenting with skating (a whole new ballgame when one's heels are free), have gotten a few light, satisfying sunburns, wrapped myself around small trees while discovering that a skinny, straight ski does not turn anything like a short, shaped ski, and sat down and "dragged anchor" to stop when the trails were too narrow to allow me to snowplow. It has been a month of learning new things. Alpine skiing, XC skiing, and one can always stand to improve skills in juggling- work, play, wifely duties, and friendly engagements.

Much later... Curtains hemmed for a friend, bread baked, vegetarian chili cooked and consumed. Next time you make chili, try this. Fresh tomatoes, fresh red and yellow peppers, fresh garlic, a whole onion, a big slosh of butternut squash soup, cocoa powder, chili powder, cumin, oregano, pepper sauce, and picante sauce... water it all down, cook it til the onions start to get clear, add a palmful of flour to thicken it up, let it simmer while you mash the sweet potatoes that you have had boiling while you cut all those veggies, slap a big spoonful of mashed sweet potato into your bowl, and slop a ladle-full of chili over that, and eat it in the living room. Chili is living room food. After all, how much of a formal production can one make of a one-dish meal?

It is day number eight for Mr. B without Mountain Dew. In fact, day number eight without sugar or caffeine at all. His mild hypoglycemia finally asserted itself enough to make his daily life miserable and exercise next to impossible, so he has decided to sacrifice his only vice in the hopes that this summer will be an energetic one for him. In a week, maybe he will be past the withdrawals enough to be able to tell us if he feels like a new man.

Hello from the land of the occasional blue sky. With March over half gone, the sun peeks out a bit more these days. Mornings are still plenty crispy, slush frozen into whichever shape it was last spun into, hands stiff and frozen on the steering wheel until the heater has kicked in and begun blowing warm air on them. One gets good at driving with just a finger, a bump to the wheel now and then, hands pulled into coat sleeves.

We have begun marveling at our back yard lately. We think there is a good four feet of snow back there. Once, we had to step down about eighteen inches from the deck to the lawn. Now, we would have to climb about three feet up from the deck, just to get on the surface. Of the tangle of willows in the open space behind our house, only a few pitiful branches still poke out.

This is reported to be the eighth snowiest winter in recorded history, the fourth snowiest in the last fifty years. Gone are friendly porch-to-porch neighborly chats, since we no longer see when our neighbors emerge from their houses. Everyone is snug and private behind piles of snow taller than we are. And it is not hard to believe this was a winter for the record books- it has been a dark, snowy, windy winter. Even the diehards have hibernated a bit more than usual this year.

In anticipation of sunny days ahead, and a long shoulder season between ski resort closures and trail openings, I found myself in our local sports consignment store the other day. I have been threatening to purchase something that will allow winter trail access, and would you know it, a lady just my size had just dropped off her barely-used cross country skis and boots. The price was right, the size was right, and they were sitting there, winking at me, still so new yet... so i bought 'em. pretty much finished my chances of buying alpine skis yet this year, but I don't suppose I could have bought them for $80 anyway. I went home, a skinny-ski virgin, put them on, and began climbing the trail behind our house. After a mile or so, I began to get the hang of it, and four miles later, I found myself blazing a trail through untracked snow, perhaps fifteen hundred vertical feet higher. Then I had to turn around, and learn how to downhill. I had never freeheeled in my life, nor had I skied anything but those new short, shapey skis. They took me for quite a ride, as I careened through aspen stands, rock outcroppings, over fallen logs and frozen streams, completely unable to control speed and direction. Occasionally, the sun focused it's rays through an opening in the trees, and turned the soft, untracked snow to slush. Abruptly stopping on a slushy patch without having one's heels attached to anything can be damaging to a lot of one's parts, particularly one's ego, as one knows how comical she must look, face plant after face plant. It was a warm day, so as I climbed, layer after layer was shed until bare skin was exposed, soaking up a winter's worth of missed vitamin D.

It is a sport I am not finished with. I can't wait to get out again and apply what i have learned, just as soon as new skin grows under the scrapes on the forearms, that got stuck through the snow's crust countless times. In the meantime, my friend Mel has purchased all new equipment, so her heavily used old gear is available for borrowing. We are going skiing tomorrow night, she is determined that I shall use textbook form while learning, so I do not have to unlearn bad habits later on. It will be my forth time on a pair of skis.

Happy St. Paddy's day (even though it's almost over). I got pinched today, even though I wore green underwear.