Three Days Of Sleep Later

We're home! OK, summer home, Shafer. It's been nearly 2 years, and we've been greeted by an amazingly clean house... and a Minnesota-style jungle. Still, we took the time to recover from the trip with three days of a lot of sleep. It was easy: just quit the coffee.

Paul has been making jellies from the stuff planted in the yard decades ago now. Jars of various kinds are laid out over the dining room table, ready for distribution. My job, of course. He assures me more frozen fruit is filling the two basement freezers. I gather from that information that he doesn't intend to be overly ambitious about picking fruit this summer. Which is just as well. Because the other thing that hasn't been happening is pruning.

The birch are overpowering the driveway. Two large ridges show where tree roots are pushing up beneath it. Hearty trees, there, those river birch. The paper birch aren't doing quite so well on the other side, but both clumps have one thing in common. No matter how high we trim branches back, they spread out, hang down, and in a month or so will be scraping car tops. Mind you, both cars are compacts, and the trees have been pruned up to a spot along their trunks where I can no longer reach. They'll be quite a job.

The front yard's two cherry trees have always been pruned where one is fairly short and reachable, the other requiring a ladder for fruit picking. Other front yard short bushes have sprung up high, lacking the pruning needed to keep them compact. Euonymus - aka burning bush - stand out - literally, covering the front windows rather than bushing up about 4 feet. The ones on the side yard have either died and been replaced by some other growth, or just died back and have lots of bushy new growth on the bottom. I haven't investigated yet. They're on a hill sloping from the raised driveway down to the neighbor's yard, making interesting footing. It's been filled with double-blossom orange daylilies, brought in from the St. Paul duplex my folks sold about the same time this house was built, guaranteed to fill in as groundcover eliminating any need to mow. Nobody said anything about the "small" trees springing up in that patch under the birch. I cleared it two years ago but....

The north side of the house has been taken over by large ferns, along with the few young weed trees even they couldn't choke out. Some are likely amur maples, a wonderful idea for fall color until we discovered that nobody warned us about the million seeds each of the two we planted would produce each year. Those parents are gone, along with their robin nests; their great grandchildren an ever-renewing problem.

The huge sugar maple in the SE corner is still that, but getting near the trunk will be a chore. It's surrounded by 6 foot bushes. Perhaps the lilacs behind it on the property line, or the wild rose, or offspring of the tree itself have filled it in. Other likely culprits are gooseberries or box elders or ash seeds spread on wind or by birds. Underneath are supposed to be many varieties of daylilies, crocus and daffodils, with a lining of hostas. Everything but the tree needs attention in that spot.

Out the dining window I can see two far high bush cranberries blooming, and closer in along the same fence enclosing the back yard are lots of dead twigs, undergrowth starting. Another week's project. Before moving south I have pictures of cardinals, robins, and cedar waxwings coming in and gobbling all the fruits up that we ignored. Pink blooming honeysuckle are doing their thing... 20 feet up. Another major chop job.

I have started work in the back yard. I had to. Heather Too had to be able to get down the ramp to get into the yard. And I had to cut back the chokecherry bushes growing over and through the ramp, precluding access by either of us. That was my first night's chop, followed by sweeping out accumulated leaves making the ramp slick, and piling branches near the woodpile ready to dry out for summer bonfires - or homes for the chipmunks which have finally discovered the hazelnut hedge and two acorn-producing swamp white oak along the back fence. The wood pile lay in a line between the original chokecherry trees, helping keep some of the weed brush down there. Before you can get to them to add branches - the kindling pile - you have to dodge the grape arbor - in predictable condition - two huge dense apple trees, essentially unharvestable, and several red currant bushes. Since the currents are along the fence behind the apples, I haven't down more than a glance in their direction yet. 

Way back along the back fence, after the hazelnuts and acorns, sits the tool shed. Past it, memory says there is a huge elderberry bush. Memory also says it would repeatedly die out in one spot after a couple years and spring up in another. No telling where that might be now, although the window well put in for basement egress has been blocked by some elderberry offspring for over a decade. Hey, nobody burn the house down, you hear? It'll get taken out, and the stepped retaining blocks will again reveal variegated hostas, tiger lilies (I hope), and humongous cup flowers. Meanwhile, along the back fence, elderberries or no, there are six huge white birch, tallest trees in that part of the neighborhood, a dogwood run amok, and a red maple. Whatever else is there is coming out. By summer's end. Low priority, after all, because, garden.

What, this didn't sound like a garden to you? Well, there is a formal fenced garden. The middle of it is where all the grass clippings get dumped, year after year, letting nature turn them into compost. On the south side, a few mammoth raspberries were planted 30 years ago. Right now it's a tree farm. Again, years of no pruning. Since this year will be little harvesting, I've gotten Paul to agree to my taking everything back down to the ground. We'll  kill the trees, let the new raspberry canes come back up for next year's harvest. The bird boxes on metal posts will be evaluated for suitability for either tree swallows or bluebirds, their former occupants, well, as well as wrens and tree frogs, and possibly replaced. Along the back side of that same garden raspberries have invaded, so some will be harvested for eating this summer. I think in fall we can cut everything to the ground there as well and for the same reasons. Thistles run rampant there, and we're talking those nasty Canadian ones, not just the sow thistles I can pluck by bare hand. More (careful) spraying.

In front of that raspberry garden is part of the remains of my fish ponds from years past. As a hobby, Paul and I kept and bred tropical and cold water fish, expanding with koi and goldfish out into yard ponds. These two smaller ones - one dropping into the other - first held lotus and tadpoles. We supplied just the lotus. After a couple years we let the lotus die and replaced them with hardy-enough water lilies. More ecosystem-friendly natives appeared, including yellow iris, a true weed except for the couple weeks they bloomed. Their fate is to be determined. A larger pond next to the house, under the picture window, held the bigger fish and more water lilies. We tried papyrus one season, water hyacinth several others when we were breeding fish. It has now gotten holed, drained, and filled in with grass clippings and whatever else needs to be buried somewhere. (Not the pets. They still get the middle of the raspberry patch.) Think rocks, chunks of concrete, etc.

Between the large pond and the picture window are red blooming wigelia, and everblooming short gold daylilies. I know the  bushes remain, needing remedial pruning, but no clue if any of the daylilies have survived the fern incursion. Spraying those never worked, and some time during the lst 30 years we quit trying. I think I saw box elder though.

Finishing the fence line up to the house, the yard fence, not the raspberry fence, are whatever remains of another experiment, something like juneberries but not exactly. Another low priority job. Between those chokecherries along the ramp I first mentioned and the corner of the fence are the remains of a couple vines I planted so long ago I forget their names too, natives with fall red leaves and blue berries, plus a couple bushes of something variegated, also with name recognition issues. Anyway, the ferns have invaded that space, and since they don't require mowing, no biggie there. 

In various patches in the yard different cherry bushes have been planted. Some bush variety went in a patch where apricots survived but made lousy fruit: yank! Nankings survived for many years, but I suspect they are gone. Paul put in a different kind where those were, and two years ago I chopped out a bunch of invading box elders. Those are back, due for chopping and stump poisoning. 

This leaves the front flower garden. It's in an "L" shape, along the driveway and house front. Lily of the valley has been taking over, and I regret that we arrived just after the blooms dried up leaving no fragrance behind. We'll have to see what's left of bearded iris, a bulb clump iris (name issues again - dutch maybe?), Alaskan white daisies, shasta daisies, liatris, butterfly bush, milkweed, coneflowers, brown eyed susans, and balloon flower plants. I can see red columbine flowering in a couple spots, and parts of the hosta border along the driveway, with lots of grass, baby maples and box elders competing with the lily of the valley to choke out everything. 

Paul assured me that the earliest of the spring bloomers are still doing well here. This means snowflowers, crocus in 4 colors, scilla, daffodils though not in all the 50 varieties once here, and tulips.The lawn is blue with scilla as soon as snow is gone, and later purple with violets. Some of those still cover the ground where he didn't get a chance to mow before we arrived. Dandelions will be filling in any day. Neighbors complain, but....

The final stretch along the house, the south side, is/was a blueberry patch. I know better than to expect the roses to have survived untended. Pretty doubtful about the blueberries too, but I haven't had the heart to go check yet. There's just so much to keep me busy already. I just have to convince both my shoulders to ignore their rotator cuff issues. I need some exercise. The yard needs some hope again. I need something resembling a legacy out there.

Coffee anyone?

Respectfully Declining Grace

Those of you who've followed this know I'm an agnostic. I'm not willing to say there is a God. I'm also not willing to say if there were such a thing that we humans would be close to able to understand such a being. There are many mysteries yet in this universe - or however many universes they've theorized lately that there are. Humans are pretty good at finding ways to fill in the blanks, for all kinds of purposes. It's been said that even if there were no God, humans would have invented one. Humans have invented thousands.

I'm still waiting to find out. I have a hunch that something is out there. But I might be wrong. Where I do have firm opinions, concerning religions, is that I fully respect those who try to live by the highest principles of the religion they believe in. Most religions teach good behavior to their followers, respecting or loving their fellows. They teach that selfishness in bad, stealing is bad, murder is really bad, and sacrifice to help others is good. I have great respect for people who live their religion that way. If God is a part of the package, that is not mine to choose for them. Nor take from them, even though the rest of the package does not require a belief in a God as the basis for living a good life.

I also have firm opinions, and not good ones, about those who use religion to use others for their own selfish purpose, who claim religion teaches selfishness, or cruelty, or whatever they need to claim in order to gain power over others. I hate hypocrisy, people who do evil in the alleged name of good. Of a God.

Earlier this week I had the pleasure of getting to better know a woman who lives her religion and does it with love and sacrifice both. I enjoy talking with her, listening to her, working next to her in small ways. Our lives are very different and yet very similar. I knew that Grace was said around the supper table, and gave the family the respect of bowing my head during the process, as I do anywhere. My personal beliefs never came up for discussion. It was never the place or time to do so.

The last night I was asked if I wished to say the Grace. As I paused, she offered to me the grace of being able to decline to say it, which I respectfully did. I grew up in a family which said it on irregular occasions, so I know the rite. But I wasn't comfortable being what I considered my self as being if I said it: a hypocrite. A prayer should be earnest if it is to be offered with respect, and I find just saying whatever formula of words used as a Grace, without belief, to be a travesty, a disrespect of what it means to those who do believe and are sincere in that belief. 

It wasn't the time to explain all that. The duty got passed to another, and the meal and conversations went on. Other stuff happened, discussions traveled down different roads, and it never became the time - or necessary - to give that explanation. It may never be that time. Or that place.

Or both may be here. And now.

Everything's The Same. It's All Different.

For me, the feeling of home starts with that hard left turn north on 35 out of Des Moines heading for Minnesota. There are still hours of driving left, but I've driven this path before many times.  It's pretty much the same fields, lakes, trees, and sky. Names on signs bring back awareness of places not thought of in years but instantly recognized.

Funny about that, though. There was this one town name that popped into my mind upon waking a couple months back. I'd been dreaming about work again, needing to get to a place called Waseca. Of course I know the name. But my dreaming brain couldn't come up with a location, a route to get there. I discovered my waking brain couldn't either. I puzzled it over several times before the trip, never quite reaching the level of importance resulting in a quick Google search.

I found it today. I don't mean driving through it. The name was on a sign, saying Rochester was east, Waseca west at the exits for Hwy. 14. Of course! This meant we were nearing Owatonna, and Waseca was between it and Mankato. Very familiar stopping and passing-through territory, Mankato. Waseca, not so much. Think I actually set wheels in the place twice in my life. But the puzzle of "where" was solved. Of course, the puzzle of why my brain popped that name in my head remains.

Other place names appeared and were recognized, my sense of the greater map and the order laid out reemerged, settled in. The old world returned. Arizona can now sneak back into the recesses of don't-need-it-land for a few months.

The nearer to the Twin Cities we got, the more familiar the landmarks, the more filled in the brain map, the more awareness of differences settled in. It might be as simple as noting that pavement here was fresher than two years ago, yet over on this other stretch those two years had corroded the surface into more potholes, more road noise than last time I drove them. New buildings filled old spaces, old buildings got new colors. Traffic was routed differently, signs for detours made no sense. Why was 35E the detour for 35W? As I'd turned onto E at the Burnsville split, W was still very available and in heavy use, so it made no sense.

Some of it was memory gaps, like wondering whether I needed only one specific lane to stay in up ahead, or did I need to move over a lane now before it got congested? Did merging lanes come in from the right or left at certain places? I remember they changed it, but how? When was an extra lane added in another spot?

Closer to home it became jarring. Sure, lakes were in the same places, roads turned where they used to, fast food survived. Then details emerged. This used to be a different business, a video rental turned used car sales. OK, nobody rents videos these days. A bank had turned into a - uh, I drove by too fast to read the sign. A new housing development was going in where there had never been open space for one. Wait! They took out the old elementary school? For a development? Where the heck did they put the school? Here's a new roundabout in a badly needed spot where people regularly got killed trying to get onto the main highway. We fought for a light there for years but MNDOT always said no. Hooray!

Approaching home turf, there was suddenly a set of storage buildings here, a highway adjacent junkyard there, where the city had vehemently denied either of them a location before, doing our best to keep appearances inviting to new businesses with an actual tax base and possibility of employment of our residents. We had a planning commission with an actual plan and a council with gumption to set their collective foot down for looking forward. What had happened?

And how much did I need to care, turning into the same old driveway with the same trees lining it on both sides, still drooping enough to turn it into a tunnel. I see I had a job ahead pruning the new branches back like every other year so they don't scratch the cars as they go in and out. More kindling for the fire pit in the back, starter for the bonfires we so enjoy on warm summer nights, family gathered around, brats or marshmallows on roasting sticks, laughter, stories, hugs.  It's all different. Everything's the same. 

We're home.

Bunny Ears

There is a special place in my heart inside Rocky Mountain National Park. It's where I photographed - first saw, actually - a steller's jay. The rocks have been a goal for me for years, trying to get shots of them that actually show their depth and colors, and above all, shoot them  without people climbing all over them! That has been almost impossible, until last weekend. Sure, there were people, but not gaggles of children (of any age) climbing all over them non-stop just because they can and must, regardless of how steeply down the other side of the rock formation is. Besides, everybody posing on top of them gets so backlit by the sky when shot at that upward angle, how on earth can they have gotten more than a silhouette of the people photographed? It's not like fill flash works from that distance.

While there, a couple was trying to take their couple-selfie showing the scenery beyond, a different angle, the valley between a pair of mountains behind them, an even taller snow capped one rising yet higher  behind. A second couple walked up and offered to take a shot for them instead - better framed, slightly farther away, just better everything. Once the shot was taken, the first couple simply walked away. So Steve walked up to the second couple and asked if they would like him to take a shot of them. A favor for strangers who'd done other strangers a favor, unthanked. They enthusiastically agreed.

Seeing their posing was just a little stiff, I walked over to Steve while he was shooting and made bunny ears behind his head. That broke the couple up and he got some nice relaxed shots of them. I explained in jest that most people simply got the concept of bunny ears wrong. It's not the posers who should get them, it's the photographer. The surprise of the change-up is what gets your shot.

In return, the couple took several pictures of us. In the process, the man walked behind his partner and made his own bunny ears, relaxing us as well, getting some nice shots of genuine humor. I commented to them after that they'd likely never think of bunny ears the same way again.

After we parted, I got my rocks shots in before another group of people started climbing them. They turned out pretty good this time. But I noticed something during the editing process last night. There in the several shots of Steve and myself together, one somehow slipped in with Steve making - you guessed it - bunny ears behind my head. No wonder out photographers were having so much fun!

Mesa Arch, Canyonlands

I hadn't realized when planning this trip that this would become a major goal for me, and a major accomplishment. It wasn't until I had the official park map in hand that I realized it even existed, much less what I'd do to accomplish my goal.

Now that the trip is mostly over, photo wise, I can look back on this and say definitely that this was the most hard fought photo(s) taken - 'cause I never do just one, right? - and one of the very top favorites from the trip.

We'd tried to get there the day before. Somebody forgot to mention that this spot fills up early in the day, to the point where even the illegal parking spots are overcrowded. You can only travel very slowly, hopefully, through the parking lot in the chance somebody, somewhere, will be pulling out just ahead of your car, before somebody else can grab it. But no go.

At the motel that evening, I told Steve I wanted to head out really early and give it a go. By then I knew enough to not fight for space with the sunrise photographers. It should be just as crowded then as the afternoon before. I aimed for leaving the motel at sunrise, knowing the drive would kill enough time to drive them away because "the light was over." 

Laugh's on them. It was far from over. That renowned glow in the underside of the arch was still very much there. So were vacant parking spaces. 

Steve and I had agreed that he would sleep in, I'd go by myself, and he'd pack up enough of our stuff sprawled all over the room after four nights that upon my return I could pack up what remained and load the car before our 11:00 AM checkout time. I figured I'd also have time to swing by Arches one last time and get his National Parks Passport stamped, proof he'd been there. By the time we were there when somebody was there to stamp it on previous visits, he was in enough pain that a passport was the last thing on his mind, languishing in the glove box, so I offered. Plans made, off I went.

I'd settled on this hike because it was one of the shortest in the park, "only" a half mile round trip. I do double that in the pool in an hour. I'm not arguing with their distances. I simply set out naive enough to think it might be flat, paved, maybe even equipped with handrails on occasion. Not so. Parts of it were flat, like the first 45 feet. Then it rose, marked by occasional squared timbers designating "steps." The rest was slanted, rocks with uneven surfaces bordered on both sides by chunks of dead junipers suggesting the path ahead. Between and even over those rocks was a consistent scattering of silt, full of the footprints of everybody else's hiking boot treads. 

Oh! Hiking boots! How was it I forgot to pack those? Oh yeah, no room left in the car with everything else. At least I had pretty decent Nikes... 3 years old. Or was it 5?

The tread patterns were usually helpful in showing the path most traveled, except for all those times we humans picked out our own paths in 7 different directions from the last step. I knew the general direction, of course, and there were enough people coming back from their mesa view that I figured I couldn't actually get lost. But the safest trip there? Hmmmm......

I stood at one such spot for over a minute, debating just the single next step. Which was the safest? Just one step. Please, a clue somebody. Down is somehow always the hardest. Here I am with no walking stick and my old bones and imperfect balance, just wanting to get there, see it and shoot it and get back to Steve safely. Luckily a friendly couple in their 30s paused nearby, and he offered me his hand if I wanted it. Boy, did I want it! I gratefully accepted, and the steady lead did the trick. Twice on the downhill leg. I thanked them gratefully, made it to the spots I picked for my pictures, and turned around for the trek back.

Uh... path? I know it was sorta this way. Did I really come over that? Oh wait, they put rock cairns in a twisting pattern at the bottom of the hike, and they pointed the way. Uphill. To somewhere. Somehow the trek back was easier in terms of footing. Maybe it was confidence, maybe just not so far visually to the landing spot should I fall.

On the other hand, it was uphill. At altitude I wasn't used to. A quarter mile back. Now those dead juniper trunks started becoming more than photogenic decorations and path hints. Evey hundred yards or so were trunks of width, height, and strength enough that they became convenient benches to rest on, catching my breath. I spend some of the time joking with passers-by that I was doing a strength test. Holding them in place from the (nonexistent) wind. Doing dead tree counts. Sometimes it was just loving what t-shirts said. Sharing a smile. Offering a smile and encouragement that the view was worth it.

As I finally descended the last bit, parking lot in view and still with empty spots, I met a young woman waiting for an elderly (relative?) making her snail-slow pace uphill with two walking sticks. Oh-oh, I certainly hope they could make it. Did they have no clue what lay ahead?  Was this a bucket list event? Bucket included? I chose instead of sowing doubt to point uphill a short ways where the silt between rocks was full of tiny, very clear animal tracks. If nothing else,  it would be something nobody else seemed to notice, as well as a reason to pause again.

After a water and gorp break back at the car, I headed back to the motel, surprised at how long I'd been gone. I would have called Steve to let him know I was fine and on my way back, but the phone was... oh yeah, in the motel. Almost never a chance to use it on the trip so far, so left forgotten, uncharged, ready to pack. Reaching Arches, I was surprised at the long lines to check in. Another 20 minutes gone in the morning. Then the stop at the visitor center for the passport stamp (masks still required for another day in National Parks), and finally back tot he motel. 

We managed to pack up and check out at ... 11:02. No complaints at the extra 2 minutes forthcoming.

Whew! Mission accomplished.

Holy Shi...!

 Every time I travel it, it grabs me. Not for the hair raising turns and steep drop-offs, though they have a decided effect. No, it’s for the multicolored rock cliffs, the rushing stream, all the history that is Big Thompson Canyon between Loveland and Estes Park, Colorado. It makes me wish for that magic roof-mounted video camera, able to catch every second of the journey the way my mind’s eye does, a little different every time I drive it.

Because I drive it. Every time. Only the corners of my eyes and mind lift themselves off the wily pavement to catch glimpses of what surrounds me. Never a camera in hand. Just memories piling on memories replacing last minute’s memories until it becomes a blur of wonderment, never quite recaptured.

It’s way more than a route to Rocky Mountain National Park. More than a picturesque spot lined with cabins and pull-offs dotted with fishermen. It’s the course of a deadly flood when a natural wall broke up in the park back in ’82, suddenly releasing the lake which had pushed a against it for centuries. It’s the hopes of all who rebuilt along its edges. It’s the monument commemorating the spot where two law officers failed to outrace the waters with sirens going with their warnings, instead caught up in the flood themselves.

It’s pure beauty. Pure wildness. Pure awe.

At its base is a long time tradition called “The Dam Store”, aka “The best store by a dam site.” We try to stop there every time we visit, occasionally buying something, sometimes stopped by road construction repairs upstream after the most recent flood, store still open and proprietors happy to chat. We stopped there yesterday.

While I was in the parking lot walking the dog, a pair of women bicyclists had stopped, chatting  near the port-a -potties, waiting for their third to reach them. They’d just ridden down. She came riding in, flying emotionally if not literally. “HOLY SHIT!” That canyon was just…” Then she spied me, caught herself short, and apologized for her language before joining her compatriots and sharing their experiences.

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t offended. I heard that expression before. I use it myself on occasion. No apology was necessary. But anything I could say would just have intruded on their moment, one well earned and deserving of holding for themselves. I just smiled to myself and walked on. I’d already had enough of their attention. And I completely agree.

HOLY SHIT! THAT CANYON IS AMAZING!

Moab Jett

I may risk sounding like a tourist brochure here. That's where I learned about this, the official Moab, Utah tourist mail-out brochure for potential visitors. Moab itself had become a goal for two reasons. Steve and I had both been turned on to the area by a series of Rich Curtin novels featuring Manny Rivera, plus we'd grown the goal of visiting as many national parks as possible for this trip as we could reasonably cram in. That brochure mentioned activities other than driving around and hiking. We hit on an outfit maned Moab Jett, deciding on their scenic tours up the Colorado River. They also offer more adventurous tours, but our goal was scenery and keeping our cameras dry. (FYI: the company does offer ziploc bags for cameras, free.)

 We made a morning reservation for a three-hour tour, $99. each. They even offered dog-sitting services when I called to inquire, just $20. Considering the alternatives, it was a bargain, and worked out very well.

We arrived early. Of course. Timing is my thing, particularly after 29 years where time was an essential part of every job. I still tend to arrive early anywhere, but more so when going the first time to an unknown address in an unfamiliar town with half the lanes blocked for construction. We were warned that they would not wait for late arrivals, and no refunds for that kind of stupidity. (They said it nicer of course.) While sitting in the car waiting for the office to open I noted their large van for toting customers to the put in / pull out spots in the river. The first step was over two feet high.

Who the heck did they think their customers were? 

Apparently I underestimated them. When loading they furnished a stool, the van had another step up, and there were handles on the door and back of the front seat for aid. We can't have been their only load all seniors. For more help, there was always somebody or two somebodies to give whatever assist was needed to get a body where it needed to be. If they could get Steve and me where we needed to be, and comfortably, without embarrassment, I believe they can deal with anybody.

Once loaded, Grant, our driver took us downriver to the launch spot. We headed just north of Moab on the main drag, hwy. 191 to 279, turning left past the old uranium mine which has been a superfund site for about 15 years now, according to our driver/guide. As we passed cliff walls on the side, he pulled off at a site with petroglyphs so we could disembark if we chose to see them. It took a minute to locate the first batch, but once we knew what we were looking for there were several patches of them. They were way over our heads, but Grant explained the river was much higher then, so presumably cliff climbing wasn't required.

Required or not, just a few yards away, several cars were parked while their occupants were honing their climbing skills. I agree with Steve's opinion that those people were some level of crazy.

Our transfer to the launch site occurred at a steeply sloping concrete parking pad with our jett boat tied up to rocks past the end. Grant parked sideways on it so I had to climb uphill to exit the van! For convenience there is an outhouse for those needing one, with a few minutes given both starting and ending the ride. If I thought getting in the van was a challenge, this looked impossible. We were to go from ground level to the top front of the boat, (yes, I'm sure there is a proper word for that) then maneuver across to the beverage cooler/step in the middle of the front seat, then down onto the front seat, climbing over each layer back to the seat we got for the ride. At least the last part was mitigated by giving us both the front seat, separated by the beverage cooler from our boat driver, Jeremy. (They provide water, lemonade, even Steve's favorite ice tea.)

Both men together got each of us on. Steve thought, since the boat rocked side to side on its keel while people moved around, that he'd feel safer crawling across the front on his knees. They rapidly switched him to sitting and scooching backwards on his hips to the spot where he could be turned around one leg at a time to where he could stand on the cooler, then down to the seat, then the floor in front of the seat so he could finally sit. With two strong men helping it worked. Safely. I had my own version of what would work for me, relying on those two men myself. Our fellow travelers managed more easily, still relying on two sets of arms keeping them steady on the rocking boat, but keeping on their feet the whole way.

Now the real fun began. Grant left to return the van for its next set of tours, the shorter adventure tours  on a different part of the Colorado offering whitewater. He'd be back in time for us. Jeremy rocked the boat to get off the rocks it had beached on, then proceeded to wind a course at both slow and fast speeds from side to side along the water. Levels were low so sandbars and piles of driftwood were hazards. At one spot he stopped to show us the ripples on the surface and explained how the edges of the sandbars disrupted the flow. He knew how to read those accurately "nearly all the time" and proved this was one of them. 

Our tour guide pointed out features along the way, named particular features, paused occasionally for a bit of history, then kicked back into a high powered zigzag down the river. We saw great blue herons standing immobile , imitating driftwood in hopes that passing fish would let their guard down and become their next meal. A pair of helicopters flew their meandering path down the channel, likely taking pictures of us while we took pictures of them. A later stop pointed out petrified logs up on the canyon wall, one sticking out like a post, the other lying horizontal. Further down a cliff face showed a white line of what we were informed was petrified Beech trees.

For a while I was fascinated by the colors in the reflections of the water. With the sun mostly behind us, red rocks and green foliage decorated the water. Since mostly during this part of the tour we were zigzagging, I braced the camera on the boat in front of me and hit the video button. Over the several segments, I figure I have a ten minute movie - when I figure out how to use that software.

Jeremy stopped and tied up to trees along shore for a trek inland to see a petrified pine tree and another set of petroglyphs. Steve and I declined the climb and hike, instead cuddling in the tight seat, getting pictures of unfamiliar foliage and flowers, listening to a flock of Canadian gees squabbling upriver as peace returned.

Once everybody returned, we continued downriver past Dead Horse Point to a spot carved out by the river into a natural amphitheater called "the Grotto." There was a shallow bank where boats tied up, people headed up to hear concerts put on yearly in September. Jeremy informed us he'd even made a few trips there with a grand piano on a jet boat. While capacity is large, it still is limited, paid ticket admission only. The piano gave him free entry.

This was our final point on our journey, so we returned to our launch point fairly quickly, no more stops.  With the different camera angle, there were excellent views of red cliffs setting off cloud formations heralding a front moving in, white dendritic explosions of cirrus offsetting red rock and deep blue sky.

 Disembarking was so much easier than loading. As promised, Grant was there waiting with the van. On our trip back he again stopped, this time to point out the only arch visible on the trip, a thin vertical line called "jug handle arch" with its own conveniently placed pullout on the side of the road. Both Grant and Jerermy well earned their tips before the trip was over.

As we were getting off the van in Moab Jett's parking lot, I said something to Steve. Heather Too heard me from inside the office and started barking her unique bark, ready for me to hurry up and come give her some more love. As always, to give is to receive.

Mistakes Were Made

Perhaps you were wondering how my quest for getting galaxy photos was going. If you're looking for the short version, knowing me, read the title.

If you're ready for the story, keep going.

I started a while back. It involved getting the only camera which could possibly do the job "out of moth balls." So to speak, as no mothballs were ever encountered. I didn't dust off the cobwebs either - same reason. What I did do was recharge long dormant batteries. Then bought new ones. I researched online how to do the job technically. Finally, trial runs at home, sans night skies. After all, when Phoenix night skies show maybe 14 stars on a good night....

Since the fancy camera had been used very little, and only in point-and-shoot modes, I was badly in need of a quick education in my camera functions. After my online research I had written down in the camera manual in the manual settings section what my settings needed to be for optimum results. But how to translate words to settings? Back up: how to translate words period? Back to "parts of your camera."

I ordered a time release cable. From China, it turned out. Digital, it turned out. With size 3 font instructions, so helpful for geezer eyes. Battery free, of course. After inserting batteries and trying to make out how to set this dang thing for timed shutter releases, I made a conscious decision to leave it home. Then changed my mind ; maybe on the trip there'd be some dead time to study up more? Then I changed my mind again. In fact, I dithered about bringing it for so long I honestly can't tell you whether it's been packed or left home. My old Pentax K-1000 had a push-n-hold release cable, just my kind of technology. My plan is to hit a camera store and see if there's one for my fancy camera there. Meanwhile I'll rely on the by-the-book instructions for how long to set the camera for an open shutter.

Having finally thought I had the camera set for night shots only, set on manual, preset timing, shutter opening, focus for distance/infinity, and spanking new battery installed, I packed the case to go in the car. If you read that sentence carefully, you may pick out my first mistake already. It took me until after my first night's shoot.

Steve and I got up at 3:00 AM, piled in the car after those morning necessary chores, and hit the middle of Arches at the time my instructions said we needed to be there, about 2 hours ahead of sunrise. I'm glad it was too dark to see beyond the range of the car's lights, since later I found out that the initial climb up had a couple nice drop offs along the side of the road. We checked out several pullouts to try to figure out what might be a decent foreground with a little help from a friendly flashlight. After a bit we realized my quest was pointless since we had no idea what anything beyond headlight range was besides totally invisible, and we'd been too tired to check out the park the afternoon before. Save that wish for my "experienced night photographer" phase - should it ever happen. Any pullout would suffice. Later research revealed my fantasy shot was impossible without a long hike and a lot of advance prep. If at all!

So, park, shut off engine and kill car lights, step out and look up. O! M! G! We truly had never seen a sky like this! Our previous best dark skies showed light bands of Milky Way stretching across a part of the sky, just enough diffuse glow to know what we were looking at. Here it stretched from horizon to horizon, and was almost as if we could see individual stars in it, bands of almost braided section separated from the main, and gazillions of closer stars everywhere else. The Big Dipper was the first to shout its presence at us, easily recognizable to one for whom it was the first and dependably recognizable constellation since my memory of stars began.

The necessary tripod was an issue. We could have fitted the camera on it before leaving the motel, or better, the night before. Tiredness won. So out where visibility is a shade above zero with the help of a flashlight,  a miss on fitting the ends together so the threads  match straight on is practically mandated, and a mis-step means the camera goes crashing to the pavement, we're working to attach the pair. Once that was completed without dropping anything essential, it was all about aiming and having it hold still once set. In theory. I realized after shooting for the night that while I'd remembered to take the lens cap off, I'd neglected to take off the UV lens protecting the camera. I figured every iota of light mattered. Oops, try them again. My display still kept insisting it was too dark. I was hopeful enough to try to dismiss that as the camera not recognizing I'd kept the shutter open a long time to make up for it. 

Or had I? Paranoia struck, and I imagined myself rotating the dial back from wide angle to normal, and changing the focus from infinity to right here. One is clockwise, the other counter. I hadn't bothered to check what their positions were before I considered myself content with the shoot. Meanwhile the sky was lightening, and it was no longer worthwhile to make corrections that night. Fortunately, there were two nights in a row with forecast clear skies. Time to go back to the motel, download, and check.

Remember that mistake I made back at the beginning before packing the camera? Did you guess that I'd taken out the SD card to see what might have been left on it years ago, and not replaced it? Oops.

Night number two.

Steve had been too short of sleep and asked if I was realy truly OK with heading up before 4 AM on my own this time while he slept in. Since I'd had one go at it and was well acquainted with the park after we two had headed back in after daylight so we could actually see it and take our many many shots, I felt fine. If there was a niggling doubt as to being taken advantage of as an old senior female, I was pretty unrecognizable as such under Steve's Navy bill cap, my dark navy windbreaker, and jeans. No way was I prepared to insist on destroying his sleep or lose my second chance at getting star shots.

Before heading up, I reviewed my procedures, spent time with Steve showing me how to set which twisty thing on the tripod to get what result, plus going up with camera already attached and legs short enough to fit in the car seat, it was a go. The training worked, and unlike the night before I didn't have to both use the tripod and hold the camera in place while on it. I thought I'd done a decent job of it, but who could tell to complain?

But there's always something different to screw up, right? This time I tucked the flashlight under one arm and carried the tripod and worked the levers and twisty knobs at the same time, mostly - well, occasionally - with light aimed in a useful direction. Until it dropped. And rolled under the car. Black flashlight, black pavement, black night. Now I had to start the car, turn on the headlights, and finish setting up for the shoot. I still couldn't see the flashlight, so I told myself to remember I needed to back up before taking off and hope it wasn't behind one of my wheels.

Turns out it wasn't behind a wheel, my memory worked, and it is again in the back of the car where it was originally packed. Only now it tinkles. And doesn't light up. My guess is a broken bulb. I did apologize to Steve when I got back to the motel.

This time  I was again in a hurry to see what my results were, having corrected all those previous mistakes. I even decided to reprogram my shutter for an extra 5 seconds, the longest I could get with no cable, even though one of my resources online indicated that I had stepped into the area where one could start to see trails from motion in the stars while the world turned below. It was a gamble, but I felt good about it.

I have pictures this time. Most are completely black. A few show the big dipper, except for the pointer star that aims at Polaris. Another shows 3 stars in no recognizable pattern.

Back to the drawing board! Do I get a manual cable now? There is still time on this vacation, depending on clear skies or no, though the best - aka new - moon has had its run for this cycle. Do I perhaps need one of those expensive wider angle lenses, taking in more sky and thus more light? Might I try to shop in Salt Lake City? Wait till Minnesota and my well known camera store? Or just go work on the latest thousand pictures I've gotten these last 4 days? Can I find more mistakes to make on this quest?

Stay tuned.

Wilson Arch

It was our first arch. We hadn't reached Moab yet, working our way north from Monument Valley which we'd only seen via highway drive-by. I'd made lots of mental notes of places I'd really like to come back and shoot some time when we weren't trying to make it all in a single day. I finally realized that my typical night-before-a-trip non-sleep was not standing me in good stead. Steve and I were working - reluctantly for me - on deciding to scratch any plans for the rest of the day other than getting to our motel and settling in.

Just that. Just settling in. It was a challenge. There was way too much to carry in and it fell on me to do most of it. Plus walk the dog. Our ignorance had led us to believe we could dump stuff in the room and turn around , head to Arches, scout for the spot to set up at 4AM for my fantasy galaxy shot, come back and hit the sack.

Heather Too had finally settled in to car travel in her kennel. It had taken her almost no time to start whining once the car moved, and she continued it for about three hours. At first Steve whistled his latest ear worm to her, and she'd quiet down for a minute. Then whine. We agreed ear plugs should have been on the packing list, but with so much stuff in the car I wasn't sure we'd even be able to find them if they had been packed. Eventually she settled down, though we discovered she'd pushed her pillow up and over the kennel door. Typical of our other dogs, she refused food, even treats, and wouldn't drink at our stops. She almost made up for it at the motel, but by that time I was well beyond caring. Food and water were there, do what you will, girl. Let's charge everything and go to bed. By then I couldn't think straight and was physically twitchy. No way was that stars shot on the agenda. Plus a quick weather check suggested the light rain he'd driven though after Wilson Arch would be lasting.

Fortunately, Wilson Arch came before that drop-dead point. We were given plenty of warning of its location with highway signs, and a huge pull off space easily capable of handling the two semis and half dozen cars stopped there. From there, it was all up. 

Steve did it with his eyeballs. I walked a bit. He had such a headache by then that he didn't even carry out his announced plan of rolling down his window to take a shot. I saw the picture I had to take, and it involved a bit of a climb. My climb was nothing like what was needed by the young people who insisted that they reward themselves for their efforts by standing inside the arch, making a clear shot of it impossible. I only climbed about 12 vertical feet, though it was on such a diagonal that it took several minutes. 

No, I didn't take the dog with me. By now she didn't even wake up when the car started, so why mess with that? The real challenge was all the loose silty sand covering most of the rocky way. In a word, slippery. Just what a geezer needs. But the picture demanded the effort. Along that way lay the real prize, a dead gnarly tree. I was hoping to capture it inside the arch, but the angle just wouldn't work. The closest I finally chose to approach gave me a shot of it just under the arch. Of the seven shots I took along that trek, the final one was worth it. It did involve bending way down with the camera angled back up, doing that on unsteady ground, with unsteady legs, while wondering how on earth I was going to get back down without an unfortunate face plant - or worse.

Even if that had happened, the shot would have been worth it. Steve and I both love gnarly old dead trees, the kind where all the little branches have dropped away, and the twists in the grain of the remaining wood speak of a long struggle for survival. This was the epitome of those trees, ageless yet still clinging there, its very presence turning a ho-hum arch into an epic tale of time.

As it turned out, coming down wasn't the ordeal I'd feared. I had to turn sideways and stair-step my way, feeling the sand give with each motion, but suddenly a stranger popped up and asked me if I wanted help getting back down. She looked to be in her forties, an unmasked smiling face, and offered her arm to steady myself by. No way was I going to be too proud to accept that offer, and we made it down incident free. As I settled back in the car, she was already all the way up at the tree, stopped for her own picture, shooting between the branches rather than including them.

Pity. She deserved something more special.

As a final note, I dropped right off to sleep while Steve tried to catch a favorite TV show. Finally waking up to lots of stomping and door slamming from the room above us, Steve noted my alertness and informed me it was 10:45. I was so out of it I had to ask morning or night? Night. Of course I couldn't get back to sleep, so this post is the result. A quick peek out the door and confirmation online informed me the skies have cleared, so we're still planning to get up at 3 AM. Now I just have to get my foot to wake up enough -no comfy way to sit on the bed to type - so I can put the laptop away and try for another nap. The upstairs neighbors have finally quieted down.

Signs Of The Times

HOMELESS
  BRAIN
 TRAUMA 

This was the sign greeting me at a major intersection. There is always somebody panhandling there. Sometimes it seems like designated people have somehow claimed the spot. Sometimes somebody different begs there, holding what looks suspiciously like the previous person's sign. They stand on the center median, hoping the long wait for the light to change letting traffic move from street to highway will give drivers enough time to decide to reach into their wallets. About one time in four while I sit there I see somebody do so. 

It can be a man or woman panhandler. The signs change periodically. Somebody is homeless. Getting divorced, needs a lawyer. Lost a job. Has kids to support, though that's rare in this retirement community. Today's sign caught my eye, my imagination. Not my pocketbook.

I've always noticed bad signs where missing or poor punctuation allows completely different readings than what was likely intended. My only thought when I read this one was to agree that if it were my brain that was homeless, I'd feel some trauma too. I drove away musing just where a homeless brain would be if not in its usual bony cranium, whether that new location would not be its home now so it couldn't actually call itself homeless, and if it were indeed not there, then who's left alive holding the sign?

Anybody believe in zombies?

*    *     *     *

It's been over a hundred days of Biden. More vaccinations are available than are getting used, mostly for the stupidest of reasons. " They kill people." Seriously? Covid doesn't? Research now shows we likely have over 905,000 deaths here in the good ol' USA to date. A couple people died from blood clots due to  the J & J version, although now we know which blood thinners not to use to treat them.  

"Bill Gates is injecting microchips in our brains." So, with several doses in the same vial, how does he control how many go in each shot? Have they really made them small enough to go through that tiny needle? Mine was so fine I hardly felt it. Plus our blood-brain barrier manages to keep lots of tiny molecules from getting in to our brains, so with the injection in our arms how would they get in there? And just how are they supposed to control us? Anyway, right now he has a divorce to deal with, so I bet we come in at a very low priority.

"Vaccine is contagious. Don't get so close, you might breathe it over me, or it'll ooze out your pores when you touch me." OMG, how can you not understand something so basic? Don't you think if it were contagious, nobody would need shots after the first few because the immunity is what would be spreading and not the virus? 

"I don't need to." Well, maybe you don't, but anybody around you doesn't need to get sick just because you're too scared/lazy/selfish/stupid/what-have-you to get a simple shot. Remember polio? Of course not. Everybody had to get their shots and it went away. Back when I was a kid we all knew about iron lungs and deaths and shriveled legs, knew why that kid in our class wore a metal leg brace or two, and parents were terrified for their kids every time another summer came along. I know somebody today who still mostly needs a wheelchair to get around after childhood polio. Or think of it this way: when you drive and it's starting to get dark, rainy, or foggy, we all turn our lights on. OK, sober, responsible, non-texting drivers do. It's not because you can't see the road well enough to get where you are going. You're not doing it for yourself. You're doing it so that other drivers can see you and not hit your car. Or at least can stay out of your damn way, fool.

We 325+ million Americans are not the rugged individuals of frontier fantasy. It can't work that way. We're too crowded. Only a very few can go off on their own and survive without meeting and needing other humans. We. Are. A. Society. We have to function as a society or it's broken, and if it's broken, we're broken. We have to do many things for the greater good. We treat each other with respect. We obey laws. We allow others to worship as they choose. We even let them say pretty much anything they want, though there are limits to speech like yelling "Fire!" in a crowded theater when there is no fire. Or telling certain kinds of lies to make money. Or persuading somebody else to hurt or kill another person. If we start doing those kinds of things, the ones beyond recognized societal limits, we find ourselves in a different kind of society, enclosed behind bars. 

GO GET YOUR DAMN SHOTS! That's the real way to freedom. Without that, it's just FREEDUMB.

*     *     *     *     *

It used to be that things in stores were cheaper than ones you had to order to be delivered to your house. In many ways that's still true. But I needed newer camera batteries for this trip. The ones I/we had (our cameras are identical) were using batteries bought years ago, giving them fairly short use spans between charges.  An even older camera had batteries that never register as fully charged, though I didn't find that out till yesterday. I found new batteries for our matching cameras online, less than $10 each, a couple bucks for shipping and very prompt delivery. I decided I needed one more in case we have a day packed with photos demanding to be taken, so hunted for one locally. I finally found one - yes, they had just one - in a local camera store. $39 !!!! Plus tax. At least we now have three each, chargeable either in the car, or the motel at night. Anyway, I'm bringing the old ones along with as much charge as they still hold as well. I'm an optimist.

With the short time left before leaving to get the other camera's battery replacement, I did double duty. Local suppliers charged $40 to $50 plus tax. The online supplier I'd previously used had two for just over $20. Splitting the difference, needing both speed and cost effectiveness, I bit the bullet and bought one locally - different store and again only 1 in store - and online ordered two to be delivered to our second stop where we'll be staying with family. I even paid extra for speedy shipping and still came out way ahead.

Errands, More Errands, And... Vandalism?

There's still a lot to do to get ready for a road trip even after you think you've got all the stuff done already. 

Heather Too needed her nails clipped back, and that's always a trip to the groomer. She hates it. She hates her new super comfy harness, webbing and padding, all pink. Because. The process predictably elicits a yelp as if she's being tortured. Maybe it influenced her previous owners. I just start over and keep going. A bonus to this trip was getting rid of one of those extra pieces of plastic in my billfold, the result of a return for store credit. I paid both for the nail trim and found a bag of treats to finish it off. On the negative side, with temperatures circling 100, I had to carry her in and out of the store to avoid  burning her feet. Twice. I'd just stepped foot in the store when I realized I'd forgotten my mask.

Steve headed for his doctor to renew his meds before heading north, since his insurance only covers Arizona and emergencies. His good news is he's down three pounds. That may not seem too important but he was awful close to the weight limit for the jet boat ride up the Colorado from Moab that we've both been looking forward to. Now we don't have to worry about that.

His next errand was the jeweler. His watch face had quit glowing, so he needed a battery replacement. While there, they found a way to tighten his wristband without removing a link, aka without an extra charge.

My late afternoon errand was hitting Jiffy Lube. My last oil change has maybe a thousand miles on it, but the car will be spending three weeks in the mountains in places where any kind of servicing would be hard to get. Call it preventative care. Plus, the wiper blades needed replacing. I wouldn't have known if I hadn't needed to use the washer to remove dust. It's not like we get rain down here or something. Then I let them talk me into replacing the cabin air filter. They've been trying to talk me into replacing it for about 4 years now. I just laugh, take the filter and whack it upside down over their wastebasket, and show them how little dirt is on it now. Who needs a new filter?

One advantage of sitting in the car while they do all the work (they let you do it now, because covid) is finding out how to locate that thing. You open the glove box, squeeze the sides together so it falls all the way down, reach up behind it and remove a plastic cover so you can pull the old filter out. The new one isn't quite $50 which is why I've been putting it off. The windows are all washed now, including the brand new windshield I finally called the insurance company about. Lucky for my budget, I'm still using the same insurance company I was three years ago when the first (!) crack ran across it.

A bonus to this trip was getting rid of yet another piece of plastic cluttering up my pocketbook. This time it was a coupon card that Steve got from the Boy Scouts in exchange for supporting them. One of the offers was $10 off Jiffy Lube's oil change. If I get rid of enough of those one-use cards, maybe I'll have room in there for some actual money.

Oh wait, I quit using the stuff. Nevermind.

In the middle of all this out-and-about with the car was a stay-at-home errand: calling the county sheriff to report some vandalism. Luckily she showed up fairly promptly so I could still get to the dog groomer in time. 

We have two new holes in our front siding. It's vinyl, which would never have been my choice in this Arizona sun. Heck, even in Minnesota we put steel siding on the house. The first one happened last March when Rich was putting on garage sales. Late into one of those, I noticed the hole under the big picture window, where a few pieces were still clinging in place and hiding what Rich later discovered later was a lug nut! We had passed it off as a fluke. Perhaps somebody carelessly bumped into the wall? I entertained for a while just removing the front siding and letting the white painted brick show again.

I was disabused of that notion yesterday when I found the second hole. This was a much bigger hole, and some kind of blue foam glued to the brick showed through it. This time I actually heard the hole happen. It was a fairly loud pop. It was simultaneous with some vehicle loudly revving its engine as it left from in front of the house. Whoever it was had  been sitting there quietly, since it was loud enough to note it hadn't been approaching and then leaving, doppler effect and all. Just after the first vehicle left a large truck went by and the contrast, hearing it both come and go, quietly and at reasonable legal speed, 25 mph on this street, reinforced my impression of the first vehicle's activities. Where I sit, Steve's lift chair blocks my view out the window except for small pieces, so I didn't see either vehicle.

I went out to check. This hole was not only larger than the first, it was much closer to the picture window, and also had a lug not in it! I asked Rich to pick it out, since he had access to the tools and knew in all his chaos where the right one would be. He commented that there had been a lug nut in the first hole as well, something I hadn't known until then. I figure one can be a fluke, but two is deliberate vandalism. We filed a report on it, and should they ever catch the person responsible, yes, we would testify in court. Please note that I'm not holding my breath about them finding the person responsible unless it's part of a large pattern and somebody happens to see them in the act. 

At least with this report, we can have a chat with the insurance company about replacing what turned out to be three pieces of siding. I know after the deductible, they'll pay for the three, which of course will never match what's there in color or pattern. Besides, likely the replacement will break more pieces. It's pretty brittle, despite being on the north side under an overhang where it doesn't even get the sun!

Don't anybody bump the rest of the house anywhere, eh?

Right now all my running around is inside the house. I have to go and charge all the camera batteries. We only (!) have 5 chargers going at once, and each battery needs a different amount of time, so off I go around the house to check which chargers in which outlets are now showing green, announcing time to swap out the next battery. I have a system to tell which are the charged and which not, so I better keep doing it before I forget what the system is! I started this morning, and I'm almost through them for the matching cameras. Tonight there's one charger and three batteries for the old camera I'm taking for star/ galaxy shots. Following all that, there's repacking them with their cameras, sorting new from old batteries, bagging against water exposure....

Good thing I used a red marker to date the new batteries from this spring. This was way too much system. The oldest batteries, freshly charged, will be packed separately, only coming out in emergency situations. It's about all they're good for after all these years, but they're still good for short times.

Meanwhile tomorrow there are more errands on the list. Both of us have pharmacy stops at different stores. I'm meeting a friend for dinner. I'm leaving the dog home from those of course. She's finally forgiven me for this afternoon's nail trim, and I'd like to leave it that way until we have to put her back in the harness for traveling.

In The Middle

Not my choice of places to be. Not looking to be placed there by somebody else. In this case, I'm firmly on one side, by a long series of choices by both of us, by personal beliefs and experiences, by loyalty.

I've written about one particular friend before, one I've known for many years now. Hers is another name you won't find here. I keep her privacy hers, though I blog about situations she is in on occasion. Today - well, yesterday actually - her husband was trying to put me in the middle of a situation.

My friend is struggling, really struggling. Many of the touchstones in her world are crumbling around her, and she hasn't the resources to cope any more. Not physically. Not emotionally. I've long been somebody she can call who'll listen to her, ask questions she may or may not be already asking herself, acknowledge her feelings and her struggle, and who doesn't find any need to place blame on her shoulders: she's got that covered.

Many of you would. One of her struggles, a much too chronic one, is substance abuse. I understand where she has come from, and I keep her secrets well. I understand the struggles she's faced, know when she's trying to cope and when she's just trying to escape. I even suspect sometimes she's looking for that permanent escape, though she won't admit it. Not out loud. Not yet.

She is a caring, creative, and trapped human being. Much of her pain is still unfaceable, some is incurable, most is destroying her. I rarely hang up the phone without wondering how long I'm going to keep hearing from her. But I keep answering that phone. She needs someone to hear her, someone to offer hope, someone to become honest with, someone to be a friend. She's had  more than enough people in her life since she was a toddler to point out her shortcomings, real or imaginary. She needs somebody to help her find what is good about who she is. I'm lucky enough to be there most times when she reaches out, available to listen when she needs it, strong enough to bear up under her worst.

I'm sure the worst hasn't arrived yet. It's getting close. Her body is failing in increasing ways, and so are some of the people around her. That's not just by their choice. In the same day, she learned one friend succumbed to stage 4 melanoma while a sister just got diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. A special needs child is facing possible jail time while the therapist is desperately working to find a group home placement instead where there is some chance of literal survival, which would be much less likely in jail with age 18 being just weeks away. Her world is growing narrower, more limited, just when her support people are being lost.

And yet, we plan to get out together when possible once I'm back up in the neighborhood. She assures me her wheelchair is easily manageable, and we can get out to see sights she is no longer able to get herself to and family doesn't see the need to bother with. Doctor appointments, sure, that's duty. But we two could watch the river roll by, see a garden, find a whole sky full of clouds at sunset. I wonder if that will happen, but don't share those fears with her. She's aware, but clings to hope of better moments. Possibly even better hours.

So why - how - am I in the middle? She and I talked several times yesterday. Her calls are often short, the next crisis or her stamina or a responsibility frequently interrupting. Usually she doesn't call back, but yesterday was particularly hard. And she was coping by drinking. I could tell it by her slurred speech at times, the trailing off and losing what she was about to say. When I do the latter, which I do less and less these days, it's blamed on anoxia during the worst of my cardiac issues. But I'm attuned to the symptom, and she's usually much sharper than that. Drinking was a definite possibility. I didn't challenge her on it. She had other things she needed to talk about.

Around suppertime, her husband called me. I usually try to dodge his calls. When he called a second time within a few minutes, I decided to answer, thinking he might have really bad news, a call she could no longer make. But that wasn't it at all.

First, he informed me he had been drinking himself - total turnoff there for me, folks - but wanted me to be sure to know that she had been drinking also, all day. Furthermore, he immediately told me - not asked, told - that I needed to call her up and "settle it". In subsequent conversation, it turned out that he thought I had control over what she did, and some power getting her to stop. It was my job. He couldn't do it because she was officially a vulnerable adult, and anything he could do would only get him in trouble.

What the hell is in his list of possible solutions?

Since he'd informed me she'd gone to bed for the day, I asked what he wanted me to do. Steve and I were getting ready to head out to the pool, and I wasn't really anxious to spend time trying to wake her and "settle it" or whatever. Not that I said that to her husband, other than to mention we were getting ready to go out. He allowed as how I could/should call her in the morning and somehow fix things.

Me? Designated supreme being? Golly! 

When he started whining that "everybody" blamed him for what was going on, I stopped him. I asked him point blank whether he understood he wasn't making it any easier on her to stop when he drank in front of her? I didn't add the part where he tended to insist she keep him company in that behavior, or in doing drugs, and that I was aware of a long history of that behavior. I also asked had he considered resuming couple's therapy with her, something done once before and being talked about again recently. He instantly disavowed any and all responsibility in her behavior, and started listing her faults and failings. That in contrast to his heroism, his struggles in dealing with her. This wasn't the first time I've wondered how addicted he himself is, though he's totally in denial that he has any problems. She's  got the problems.

I wasn't about to listen to that. I've heard it before. I know her failings. I also know that recovering alcoholics/addicts have a much more difficult time when tempting situations are thrown in their faces, much less made a point of with joining in as equating to love and togetherness. He doesn't get it, not addiction, not recovery, not anything except, apparently, his own desires and total lack of responsibility for her behavior.

Yes, I know he doesn't force whatever on her, literally. But he regularly does the opposite of helping, and does it repeated and flagrantly. This is why he's not my favorite person. The phone call ended quickly with his "instructions" to me to call his wife in the morning and ... what exactly?  His putting me in the middle had earlier impeded my ability to listen to him. I'd already gotten his gist.

My hour in the pool was a great cooling off period, literally and emotionally. I'd though I needed to vent, to seek advice as if I actually could be a fixer of some sort. Exercise and conversation with another new person about places to go and see now that she's a new snowbird were enough for my wellbeing. In the event, the next morning went somewhat differently than any expectations I might have developed.

She called me, not yet 5:00 AM our time, two hours earlier than her time. I happened to be both up and next to the phone. It was brief. She asked what he'd said to me and I summed it up in about 20 seconds. She apologized to me for drinking and I told her I'd suspected it, not feeling it was my position to scold her. She was already telling herself the same things. I added that he just didn't get it, did he? It's not even the third time we'd had that discussion, so there's a kind of shorthand in there where we know what the other is referring to. She thanked me for the information and hung up.

It's been a quiet day since.