Mazes & Ruby Slippers

What is it about Portland that throws my semi-working sense of direction into total and complete chaos? It started about 10 years ago, staying at a friend's house with my husband and son (then about 18 months.) It was 7pm and I really, really wanted to go to what I'd heard was an amazing new/used bookstore (Powell's) before it closed. Nobody else wanted to go. So I dragged my son out in his PJs and set off in our borrowed (father-in-law's) motorhome on an adventure into downtown.

Crossing the river, I was instantly assaulted by one-way streets (my first problem.) Eventually, I passed Powell's (Burnside and 11th.) Nowhere to park. It was dark. So I traveled down alternate streets, looking to turn around, to find 11th again. I needed to stop for directions, but my son had crashed out in his car seat. Couldn't wake him (he was NOT a good sleeper.) My persistence paid off, and I passed Powell's again. Again. And again. I was clammy. Stressed. Lost. Just wanted to click my ruby slippers together three times. Finally, after hours of "Powell-drive-bys," I made it back across the river and found my way home, swearing never to drive into Portland again.

So it's 1o years later, and I've got a few hours to kill. I'm dying to experience an infamous Portland farmer's market. I get directions. No problem. I can do this. I can go back into the maze (call 911 if I'm not back in 3 hours.)

From Vancouver, I cross the bridge into Oregon. Go toward City Center onto Broadway. A fork in the road. Humm...the Robert Frost poem comes to mind (you know the one.) Which way is N. Broadway? I take the path definitely more traveled. Go left. Straight into downtown. Restaurants. Traffic. Pedestrians. Pedestrians. Pedestrians. I wait at red light after red light. My remaining 30 minutes (before I pick up my husband at the airport) dwindles. Ah! What's this? I'm on SW Broadway? Ah! I get back to the bridge, cross over. Back to the freeway? No I can do this! I can fight the maze.

I'm not stressed, just challenged. Back to Broadway. Turn around. Cross the bridge. Go right. Turns into Lovejoy Rd. Not Broadway. Back across the bridge (see a theme here?) I'm passing intersections. Ask a woman at a red light. 240 N. Broadway? "I don't know." Then I think I see the street. Three U-turns. 305 N. Broadway. 210 N. Broadway. Reverse. An anonymous brick building: address 2_0 N. Broadway. Middle number missing. I'm laughing now. Time almost up. I'm in a maze again. Downtown Portland maze.

I don't find berries. Tomatoes. Or spinach. But I do find a tiny Starbucks on the corner of one of my repeated intersections. Ah, chai latte. That's what I need. Pull in and order. The barista doesn't know where the market is either. She's an ex-Californian, totally nice, and takes public transit everywhere. OK, I don't feel so bad.

My chai is perfect. Cinnamon tickles my nose. Soothing warmth on my throat. Ahh, now that's peace! A beautiful mural is painted on the wall of the building next door. "Hope is Vital: It takes a planet to save a village." A Portland-Zimbabwe connection. And I suddenly realize that it's all about hope and possibility. Whether lost in another continent or in the maze of a cool, big city, full of one-way, non-existent streets. I long for adventure, and there's something so right about being lost. Out of our comfort zone. It brings a sense of calmness and excitement to me all at once. I am not defeated, but invigorated.

I get lost going to the airport (surprise, surprise.) But I do find a "Pita Pit" for lunch and I'm reminded of the little place that I found at midnight after walking for hours in Madrid last year. I order up my favorite falafel, and I'm happy.

The hope. The challenge. The open doors. It's in each of us.

Finally heading the right way, I notice once again the tiny, fuzzy white seed pods that have been raining down on us since we arrived in Oregon. I think of each one as a dandelion wish--blowing across the sky. Over trees. Across rivers. And down into the city. Just like us.

A sky full of wishes. A maze full of wishes. Round each turn, and take a peek.

I cross the bridge for the last time. I don't need to click my ruby slippers.

I am already here.

PS: Later, after re-checking Google maps, I realized the building with the number missing was the address I looking for! LOL

Powell's website:

(http://www.powells.com/info/places/burnsideinfo.html?header=Sub:%20City%20of%20Books%20on%20Burnside.) So

Transformation

Peter's Canyon: spring through summer

With my love of high-elevations, I'm judgmental about Orange County hikes. I love it when I'm proven wrong.

We started hiking again in Peter's Canyon Regional Park, just off Jamboree and Chapman here in Orange.  The 2.5 mile loop is perfect for the kids and dogs. The entire park itself is 354 acres of coastal scrub, freshwater marsh, and grassland. You'll find lots of migrating waterfowl amongst the willow, sycamore, and black cottonwoods (and eucalyptus along the Lower Trail) the grow along the creek and reservoir. 

Wildlife includes: mule deer, bobcats, coyotes, opossums, raccoons, and maybe a mountain lion (if you're lucky! Gulp.) Amphibians and reptiles (saw our first rattler stalking a cottontail a few years back,) and birds galore: cactus wrens, gnatcatchers, sparrows, Cooper's, redtail, and red-shouldered hawks. 

The kids enjoy counting the small mammals, reptiles and birds. Lots of lizards, chipmunks, and cottontails. Swallows, hawks, and the gift of a roadrunner at the end of the trail! Reminds me of my favorite childhood poem, the one I've remembered by heart (after I read a book called SECRET OF THE SEVEN CROWS by Wylly Folk St. John in 4th grade!)   

A Gathering of Crows

One crow for sorrow,
Two crows for joy,
Three crows for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five crows for silver,
Six crows for gold,

Seven crows for a secret never to be told.

Except there's no sorrow out in Peter's Canyon. Every animal we see equals joy, silver & gold. Counting animals out here connects us to this place. Makes us see how wild things truly do share our urban space. Makes us want to protect it all. 

In spring, the reservoir is full, glossy gray and blue. The hills are velvety green, and the kids run through clover fields. The striking contrast of the sunny, yellow flowers with the lime-colored clover leaves is heavenly. It seems as if we can pick 1000 flowers and make no dent. It is a field of dreams. Of happiness. 

Summer approaches, and the clovers disappear. Transformation of color.  Texture. Feeling. Green to beige, rusty brown. The water in reservoir decreases, and it greens up to a shiny emerald. Along the trail, cactus flowers burst open, taking the sunshiny place of the clover flower. Purple, prickly thistles. Welcoming sunflowers. Paper-thin, delicate poppies.

We share the trail with horses, and a mountain biker or two. But people are pleasant. Orange County can be a happy place. And along the trail, I am happy to transform as well.

Adventure in your own backyard. 

http://www.ocparks.com/peterscanyon/

Seeing an Old Friend Again

A Mother's Day gift. Yosemite Valley. It's taken me about 15 years to get back to the Valley in spring. And when I return it's like seeing an old friend again. Which means even more when you're there with a true old friend. So we drive ALL night and get to Wawona about 5:00am. Ugh. We're a bit delirious--fun conversation, lots of laughs, and sleeping children. Good conditions, other than the total lack of sleep. We snooze for a bit in our sleeping bags in the car. Camp 4 (only first come first serve camp in the Valley) opens at 8:30, but there's usually a line. We get there about 8:00 and wait. And wait and wait. We get our campsite, just pass the famous "Ron Kauk" rock. After hours of hauling our stuff in from the car, we've got our camp set up. Whew.       We cruise up to Bridalveil Falls. It's crowded on Mother's Day.  But the the water cleanses me. We drive through the Valley, and I admire Half Dome and El Cap. Perfect granite sculptures that have been away from me too long. The falls are huge. Upper and lower rush forth, and the excitement and nostalgia of being back here fills me with joy.

Caterpillars, Meadows, and Blossoms

Springtime Ahhhh. The valley is alive and in vivid color. Dogwood flowers open wide. Perfect white hands scatter over the branches. Highlight against the deep green of the Jefferies, Ponderosas, and Firs. Rusty red of the living bark. 

The meadows are light and fluffy green, brilliant like the soft moss on a moist boulder.

Swallowtails flutter, and fuzzy caterpillars cross the road. We stop to look. To touch. To smell. (And our allergies go crazy. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.) But it's worth it. Worth it to be alive in the valley. To be a part of something so old. So grand.  And so perfect. 

Waterfalls, Puddles, and Horse Poop

The Mist Trail and Nevada Falls Challenge









Okay. So we want to take the kids up on Mist Trail. We bundle them up. Pack snacks and extra dry clothes to put on after the falls. Eat a good breakfast. They can do 3.5 miles, we think. No problem. 

Turns out they think differently the first mile of the trail. Hiking up hill without many distractions (other than the beautiful and delicate Illilloutte Falls off in the distance,) is not motivating by any means to three 5-year-olds. We stop. Drink water. Eat apples. But nothing works. Things aren't looking good until we discover a smashed millipede (yes, as flat as a tortilla) on the trail. We look at the hundreds of legs, and very, very flat body. It's a perk, and just interesting enough to make them forget about the pain of hiking up hill. We arrive at the bridge, and the Merced roars beneath us. 

The start of the Mist Trail. Yes, we might actually make it to the top of Vernal. And then maybe, Nevada. Yeah, they can do it (we're very idealistic at this moment, who knows why.) It's fun. Wet. Splashy stairs. I sacrifice my waterproof shirt and hat, and Nova stays dry. Step by step, those kids trudge up the Mist Trail. The waterfall is huge. The mist is a gentle, yet unyielding force. It soaks us clean through. We round each set of stairs, and in front of me I see constant rainbows with each blink. I can't think of anything more beautiful.

 We move up, up, up and with the water and weight of life pulling on our bones, we grace the top. Welcomed by a full and beautiful arc of color. Light and life separating out into the spectrum. I think about each color and wonder if each hue really represents a part of life. Introspective purple. Serenity blue. The yellow of excitement. The fiery heart of red. Orange when I laugh. And green when I come home. Together, those colors are my life. And I find it so odd and so perfect that unless bent, those colors disappear, and become the whole that makes me, me. Maybe I'm delirious. Too many steps. Too many 5-year-old complaints. 

Or maybe I'm just at peace. 

Lunch at the top brings joy. Relaxation. A sense of accomplishment for us all. We decide the kids can definitely do Nevada. It's not THAT much farther, and much easier than Vernal. So we think...

Turns out the trek up to Nevada is steep. Did I say steep? Well, I meant STEEP. The big bursting fall powers off to our right but it's out of reach, and brings no wet, muddy puddles to stomp through. The kids are tired, and with each rocky step, the weight of our decision weighs on us. Can they make it? Do we need to turn back? We make up stories. Take turns introducing characters like pandas lost in mysteries trees in the forest. It's enough to get us almost to the top of Nevada. Juice boxes. Chewing gum. Dried cranberries. Anything to motivate them. Nevada is gorgeous. The granite streaks frame the falls, and I never tire of the view. 

The top is a nice respite. More juice. Cliff bars. Time to replenish these little guys (and a compost toilet...ya-hoo!) Linda and I are perplexed. It says another 4 miles back down. Wasn't the whole loop about 4 miles? Uh-oh. We've goofed. Must make a choice. Back down the steep, rocky steps, or take an easier trail down that's a mile longer. We choose the longer, yet smoother horse trail, and off we go. And go. And go. Gravity tugs us down. We rush by raining waterfalls, smooshy trails, and bits of snow. I feel the pull of the steep decline on my knees. We sing. We watch for "road apples," (we're on a horse trail after all.) And after miles (X4) of "are we there yet?" we make it back to the main "Mist Trail." The bridge. And more millipedes (living this time) crawl along with us to welcome us back. 

It doesn't register in their 5-year-old brains. But they just hiked 8 miles with 2,000 foot elevation gain. We're so proud. Exhausted. Linda and I are happy and exhilarated from hiking all day in such a magic place, with three feisty, strong kids. We did it together 15 years ago, and now the thought of sharing the experience warms us. Passing the love and accomplishment on to our kids is spectacular. 

Off the shuttle, and a stop at Yosemite Village. Mushroom and olive pizza. Ice cream and drinks. A perfect ending to a perfect day. 

Here's a little we learned about motivating three 5-year-olds to hike 8 miles.

What worked:

1.) smashed (and living) millipedes

2.) waterfalls, puddles, and horse poop

3.) snowballs thrown at mom

4.) bubble gum and stories

What didn't work:

1.) The phrase: "You're almost there!" (I think they caught on to that after mile 2)

Snow Sandwiches & M & Ms

Well, we find out we were pretty tired that next day. We hang out in Yosemite Village. Bookstore. Native American Museum. Picnic on "the rock" in Camp 4, and then off to Glacier Point. It's a beautiful drive. Deep, dark shadows amongst the pine and fir. Bits of snow, patches increasing as we get up. Sentinel Dome hike is misleading at first, but once on the trail, Linda and I are stoked. Happy to be at it again, and happy to be on a less-traveled trail. But the kids, on the other hand, feel differently. They're tired, and "done" with hiking. So we do what parents do best: bribe them. Trail mix is a good motivator, especially when it includes M & Ms! 

We make it up to the viewing point. It's breathtaking, even at mid-day. Off the snow-covered edge, El Cap shines. A snow-covered Mnt. Hoffman stands proud and tall, shooting up through the azure sky.

The kids throw snowballs (at moms again) and make snow sandwiches. We eat crackers, carrots and humus. Full bellies and a full heart. We hike back down and drive to Clark Point. Half Dome, Vernal, and Nevada Falls. An intense, breathtaking view. The kids are all smiles when we show them the vastness of the 8-mile loop they made past Vernal and Nevada. We take group shots (barely.) Kids tired and ready to drive (and sleep...yeah, right.)

Back to Yosemite Village for mushroom & olive pizza to go this time. We eat out in the meadow, and as the sun sets, a slow, comforting breeze eases through us. Alpenglow on Half Dome wishes us well, and thanks us for coming home after all these years. 

Our last hurrah is Lower Falls at dusk. We bundle up and reach the falls. Pure, raw power burst through, raining down upon us. The girls dance, and celebrate the mist with laughter. In the dark night, the electricity fills me, and once again I realize the potential of this place. This high sierra heaven.

The next day we make friends with Jesse (former Search and Rescue guy here in the Valley) and his son Dylan (age 3 and wears a chock bag on his hip!) in Camp 4. They rock climb. Collect acorns. Ride on a bouncy branch. Transformation from the young, rock-climber Camp 4 to the kid-friendly Camp 4. Political discussions with our neighbors. World talks. Climbers and hikers from around the globe. 

The perfect mix. 

True friends. Granite walls. Waterfalls.

Heaven