Global Wandering

They canceled my MS Charity Ride due to a lack of participants. So much for the camaraderie of raising money with fellow bikers. There apparently are no fellow bikers.

I called the regional MS office to make sure they will be refunding all the money that donors pledged. Apparently, the MS staff is on retreat so I didn't get an official answer that they will refund the pledges. I will know on Monday. It does seem like the ethical thing for them to do. Afterall, while the National MS Society is a not-for-proft and I'm sure all my ride supporters believe it is a good cause, I also believe they donated the amounts they did knowing I would be suffering for 62 miles on a bike.

Stay tuned.

Posted by jd at 2:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Bike Rack - Amsterdam

Next Saturday I am riding in the local MS Society Charity Ride. I have never participated in a large group ride. I prefer to ride alone. A couple of years ago I went out with our local bike club and kept up the 22 mile per hour pace for the entire two hours. Afterwards, I was exhausted and I realized how much I dislike others setting my pace. I’ve not ridden with the club since. I would rather ride slow or speed up when I want and get lost in my thoughts while listening to some music or an audio book.

I’m not much for long distances either. My next-door neighbor and I got the hair brain idea a few years back to ride from our little Idaho town down into the Teton Valley, over the pass into the Swan Valley and back west again to our homes. I trained for weeks and completed the 130 miles in about 8 or 9 hours, although I didn’t enjoy it. I don’t like self-inflicted pain.

So given my preference for riding alone for reasonable pain-free distances, I’m not sure why I signed up for the ride. Curiosity I suspect. I see so few bikers around here that it would be interesting to see 100 or so gathered in one place. Plus the Saturday route is notorious for its brisk tailwind, and it is mostly down hill. The Sunday route retraces the Saturday route, hence brisk headwind and mostly uphill. I’ll only be riding on Saturday.

The routes aren’t even the standard MS Charity Ride distance of 75 miles per day. They offer a 45 or a 62 mile option. We like to make things easy here in Idaho. In fact, rumor has it that they are putting spinner bikes on the back of flat-bed trucks for those that would like to finish the route in less than an hour.

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One of my favorite hills for biking.

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The house was unoccupied and still being built. Time to start over.

I think pheasants are one of the most beautiful birds in the world.

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Sentinels and photo by Camden

The local paper carried an editorial from a retired forest service worker who felt the frenzy over global warming was a snow job. He wrote that we shouldn't try to solve global warming until we know "for sure" that it's a problem.

I wrote the following letter to the editor in response:

Jim Gerber's editorial (Is global warming a snow job?) makes me wonder if while working for the Forest Service he actually had to see flames before being convinced there was a forest fire. Everyone should weigh the global warming evidence for themselves by reading The Intergovernmental Panel On Climate Change's (IPCC) latest report where they state "most of the observed increase in globally averaged temperatures since the mid-20th century is very likely due to the observed increase in anthropogenic [i.e. human caused] greenhouse gas concentrations."

The IPCC is not some left wing environmentalist group, but a well respected global panel established in 1988 to provide a "comprehensive, objective, open and transparent" review of the latest in climate research.

It will be impossible to know with absolute certainty that global warming is human induced, but we make decisions every day without absolute certainty including believing in God and/or the existence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. Gerber states we shouldn’t seek to correct the global warming problem until we know “for sure”.

What statistical level of certainty does “for sure” represent? If it is at the 100% confidence level then we will be waiting for a very long time. As for me, "very likely" is sufficient enough evidence to act.

Snowman with more things to worry about than global warming by Bret

Posted by jd at 3:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

LaPriel is in Santa Barbara so the kids and I had the weekend to ourselves. Today we took a drive into the mountains just south of Yellowstone to admire the fall colors. The aspens were beautiful, shimmering in the wind.

by Camden

We hiked several miles down to Sheep Falls along the Warm River. After playing near the water, Camden and Bret decided to head back to the van.

Sheep Falls by Camden

Breanna and I lagged for a bit, and then started up the hill when we realized first, my sunglasses were missing, and second so were the car keys. We searched in vain, and spent the next forty-five minutes as we hiked alternating between praying and conjecturing how long we would have to walk before flagging down a car. We also told ourselves there weren't any bears.



Our one hope was that Camden had grabbed the keys from my bag. I felt stupid for allowing the boys to go ahead of us and not being more conscientious in grizzly country.

by Camden

We reached the van and saw no one. Either the boys were inside or they hadn't made it at all.

Thankfully, they were relaxing in the van as if nothing had happened. And from their perspective nothing had. Strange how the two of them could be at perfect peace a mile ahead of us, while Breanna and I were frantic, pushing aside thoughts of fighting to survive in the cold and darkeness.

by Camden

Oh, and the boys found my sunglasses-broken, apparently stepped on by a horse that passed us earlier. I guess that means its time to get lasik surgery on my eyes.

Posted by jd at 7:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

This part of Idaho is a land of rolling farm fields, sage, sand dunes, pine and aspen covered slopes and the jutted peaks of the Tetons. Mighty streams like the Henry’s Fork, the Teton, Fall, and Warm Rivers tumble through this varied terrain. Much of the area is national and state owned forests. Camping spots are abundant. There is no need to own recreational property here, yet LaPriel and I can’t seem to shake the desire to buy some land to call our own.

You see, our valley has been discovered. The building and speculation that used to stay on the Wyoming side of the Tetons in Jackson Hole is spilling over to Idaho. There are 72 subdivisions under development in Idaho’s Teton County alone. The county’s land use planning is a disaster. Comparatively speaking, property is still affordable, yet it is no longer cheap and the prices are climbing. We’ve told ourselves it’s stupid to buy land. It’s just one more thing to worry about. We don’t want or need it for investment purposes, because investing is my profession and there are far easier and less risky ways to make money. I have tried to analyze what it is I seek when I contemplate owning acreage along a creek, or overlooking the Tetons, or along the edge of a forest. I can experience all that nature without paying a dime.

It comes down to permanence and intimacy. If I buy my own land perhaps the rest of the valley will be gobbled up in a patchwork of subdivisions but my acreage will remain untouched by development. The goal would not be to subdivide for profit, but to conserve the land for native grasses, flowers and trees. The Teton Regional Land Trust has led the conservation efforts in these parts.

But it isn’t just permanence I seek. I can find permanence in the national forest. I crave intimacy. I want to return year after year to the same spot and marvel at newly formed lupine buds, study how the moss has crept another half inch along a rock’s northern face, and see the countless ways light plays against an aspen’s shimmering leaves. Intimacy and permanence. Perhaps they are quixotic ideas money can’t buy. Still, LaPriel and I had fun looking the past few days. We drove over a hundred miles up canyons, around mountains, and through streams. We added new scratches to our Subaru's side panels and came across a young hawk by the roadside that hadn’t yet learned to fear man. All and all a wonderful weekend.

Posted by jd at 11:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

$10 bucks via paypal to the first person that can name the three objects in this picture taken from my porch the other day (jd's kiddies excluded since you already know the answer).

While you are pondering that, I had to laugh at the Google Ad at the top of the page where I was reviewing my Gmail Spam. It was for this delightful recipe for Savory Spam Crescents. Can't wait to make that. Yuck.

Posted by jd at 8:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Tetons from Fish Creek Road

Today I grabbed my road bike and headed for the mountains. I have always loved to climb hills because the world passes slow enough to admire the flowers, listen to the birds and smell the woods. Today's ride was doubly good because I had never been on this road so each turn brought its own surprises.

Indian Paintbrush

The road was also empty. You can tell a mountain road is seldom traveled because wild grasses flourish in the pavement cracks without being trampled and downed pine trees extend into the roadway.

And what do I think about on thirty mile rides into the mountains?

Scarlet Gilia

Bears. Is there one hiding behind that bush? Is it grizzlies that can climb trees or black bears? Is that bear scat in the road that the butterflies are munching on? How fast can bears run again?

When I tire of fretting about bears, I worry about mountain lions, but not too much because if a mountain lion wants me there is no escape. No need to waste time worrying about certain death.

Wood Rose

I did see a few humans on my journey up the mountain. I came upon a man holding his cell phone above his head in the middle of the road. I thought he was taking a picture of himself in front of the distant Tetons. A few minutes later I saw a few others walking along the road. I waved as I passed. A half mile farther I came upon the broken down Jeep. Then I figured it out. The man had been trying to get cell phone service to call for help.

Scarlet Gilia

By the time I turned around and found the stranded party, they had managed to place a call. So I continued down the mountain, going fast enough to outrun the bears (at least in my mind) so instead I worried about blowing out a tire at 40 miles an hour.

Mountain rides are beautiful, but I find riding in the foothills among the dry farms less stressful.

Skyrocket Gilia

Anyway, the wildflowers were so beautful, LaPriel and I returned later in the afternoon to take pictures.

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Posted by jd at 7:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

source: iStockPhoto.com

In the news last week was word of a 12-year boy who had died riding Disney’s Rock-N-Roller Coaster. No word yet on the cause of death. My heart goes out to the boy’s family. This incident struck a chord with me, because only a few weeks ago my son Bret and I subjected ourselves to roller coaster hell (okay it was nirvana for Bret). We rode seven different roller coasters in a ninety-minute time span at Kings Island Amusement Park.

I am not sure what possessed me to do this. I don’t like roller coasters. I suppose it was because I love my son and I didn’t want him to ride alone. Besides, I had something to prove. A few months ago after visiting an amusement park in Northern Idaho, Bret made the following remark to his mom about my roller coaster riding demeanor.

“You know that bored look Dad gets. Well he has that look when he rides roller coasters.”

I can safely report I no longer look bored when riding coasters.

Our second ride of the day was something called the Flight of Fear. It is modeled after the infamous Disney coaster that led to the boy’s death. The entrance to the ride is disconcerting because it’s indoors, it’s dimly lit and when we entered there wasn’t anyone around. We wandered alone through a maze of buildings until we finally came upon a half dozen individuals waiting to get on the ride. It was strangely quiet. Not the usual hoopla of anticipation you hear at the end of a roller coaster line.

The cars rolled up and Bret and I took our places toward the rear. An announcement warned us to keep our heads pressed against the back of our seats. Before I had a chance to adjust myself into the recommended position, the string of cars shot forward and up into the darkness with such force that I thought my lungs would collapse. The coaster roared as if it was in a wind tunnel. I prayed. I mean I really prayed. Prayed that I wouldn’t pass out as this car twisted and lunged and looped with such abandon that I swear it wasn’t even on a track. And it might not have been. I couldn’t tell because it was pitch black. Dark enough that Bret couldn’t see that my bored roller coaster scowl had been replaced by a look of sheer terror.

The bored look was also displaced on the several wooden coasters we rode. In this case not with terror, but with pain. There is a reason why they stopped making roller coasters out of wood. They shake. Hard. So hard that the metal restraining bar kept smashing against my waist as if I was being beaten with a rod. For the life of me, I don’t remember why I used to like wooden coasters. Or any coasters for that matter.

But kids love them, and I did too as a kid. I just don’t remember them causing me the pain they do now.

My son Camden wants to go to Ohio later this summer to ride coasters. I love him too, but he is going to have to ride alone.

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Posted by jd at 11:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (1)

Henry's Fork

I have lived in the flyfishing mecca for five years now. People come from around the globe to fish the rivers and streams just a stone's throw from my house. I have bought a box of flies in Jackson, taken a casting class with my son, purchased books on the best fishing spots along the Henry's Fork, consulted local guides and fishermen and both watched and read A River Runs Through It.

But I haven't caught a fish because I've never gone flyfishing.

I am what they call a theoretical fisherman. I like to dream about standing in the river and watching the rise of the midge hatch and the trout jump. I can see the osprey soar overhead, hear the distant call of the sandhill crane and feel the tug of a rainbow trout on my line. It is a perfect picture. One I don't want to spoil by actually fishing and finding out the water is frigid even with waders on, that my feet tire after thirty minutes of balancing on river rock with twenty miles per hour winds blowing. That I won't catch a trout, because I am in fact the world's worst fisherman, having proven that many times over, especially during the week I spent in Canada in lakes where the pike hadn't seen a fisherman in decades and were hopping into my friends' canoes, sometimes even dispensing with the whole get captured on the lure enterprise. Yet they ignored my line. Real pike and trout can sense amateurs and avoid the shame of being caught by one.

So I tell myself I will fish when I am sixty and I'll buy a pretty red boat like the one above. I'll let it float along, and I'll lean back and watch the osprey soar. Sometimes I might even cast my line just so I can say I've gone fishing.

Posted by jd at 8:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

LaPriel, the kids, my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and their children all went to the Dairy for ice cream last night. Out back, a line of future ice cream makers were aligned in their stalls. We were amazed by these calves' tongue dexterity. Later, LaPriel pointed out to her city boy husband that the calves were begging for milk. The question is which one of us did the calves think was the mama cow.

Posted by jd at 7:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Sticky Geranium

Today it rained and rained, as if this were Ohio, not Idaho. Only here the wildflowers are prettier. This is a selection from our hill out back.

Douglas' Wild Hyacinth

Balsam Root

Silvery Lupine

Posted by jd at 6:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Everyone should occasionally get in a car and take a long drive alone. After ten delightful days touring Montana and Northern Idaho with my family, we parted ways and LaPriel and the kids headed back to our little Idaho town while I rented a car and drove from Coeur D’Alene, Idaho to Walla Walla, Washington.

I took what I thought was the scenic route, and the first part of the journey from Coeur D’Alene to Moscow was beautiful. Rolling hills, mountains, pine forests. In fact, I suspect the politicians who decided which confiscated Native American lands should be set aside for the Coeur D’Alene reservation had never been to Northern Idaho. Usually reservations are located on the ugliest, least productive scraps of land. The Coeur D’Alene reservation takes up prime real estate, which is why it is such a delight to drive through. It has been spared much of the strip development and billboard fest so common along U.S. highways.

The only manmade structure of any significance in the area is the Coeur D'Alene Casino. What is amazing about it is like many Native American casinos it’s in the middle of nowhere. You round a curve and suddenly there’s this huge building and parking lot full of cars staring at you. It’s like being on nature hike, turning the corner and stumbling across a moose or elk in your path. Okay, perhaps my analogy is a stretch, but then again casinos on reservations are so commonplace they almost seem like they were there before man.

If you have ever spoken to someone who grew up in the Mountain West and moved to the Eastern United States invariably they will tell you they love how green the East is with its leafy hardwoods, grasses and flowers, but it drives them crazy that they can’t see far into the distance because of all the trees. Westerners need vistas to calm their souls while Easterners are at peace with small, intimate views. Then there is the road from Lewiston, Idaho to Walla Walla, Washington, which I can only describe as a passage through a 200 mile long gulley. I believe a drive through there via US12 would frustrate most Easterners and Westerners. The hills close in on both sides of the highway, there are few trees, and I found myself constantly craning my neck trying to see over the crests. I knew there were mountains out there somewhere because of the timber trucks hauling three foot diameter logs. It was like driving down a chute. Apparently Lewis and Clark traveled this way on their way back home. It’s called the Forgotten Trail. I can see why. In speaking with some Walla Wallites this morning, they explained this gulley was formed when a large glacier dam broke up stream. They likened it to the plot of Ice Age 2. This area is a geologist's dream but for those seeking a scenic route, I would take a different course.

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Posted by jd at 8:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

We are two days into our vacation without an intinerary. The wildlife is abundant. We spotted the mountain blue birds at Gilmore, an abandoned mining town south of Salmon, Idaho. The mountain goats were on the cliffs along the Salmon River inside the Frank Church Wilderness of No Return. This is where we also found the petroglyphs.

I once convinced a friend that here in Idaho in the spirit of Napoleon Dynamite we use llamas as pack animals to carry our gear, ride them like horses and when we tire of them we serve up llama steaks. None of that is true (at least I don't think it is), but there are a surprising number of domesticated llamas in the state, including the two that a woman was walking through the streets of Salmon.

Llama greets Breanna

Our only mishap was the small boulder that tumbled down a cliff nearly missing our Odyssey.

Posted by jd at 7:22 PM | Permalink

LaPriel and the kids want pet chickens. I have tried to no avail to explain the phrase pet chicken is an oxymoron. Chickens don’t cuddle, they don’t do tricks, you can’t take them for walks. They just cluck and lay eggs. Besides they are illegal in our little Idaho town. LaPriel and the kids point out that if you raise chickens for 4H club purposes the city won’t prosecute you.

At the park last Friday, we met a woman who had brought her long-haired Chihuahua and grandchild to play. Breanna tried to pet the dog, but it ran off. The woman called her dog a chicken; which is how we got to conversing with her about our family considering an investment in poultry. I was ready for the woman to give us the “you can’t be serious” look and slowly ease her grandchild to other side of the playground.

Instead, she reminisced about the pet chickens she owned in San Francisco. How she would carry them around and pet them, how excellent they were at fertilizing the lawn, and the delightful eggs they produced. I was the only one that noticed this woman actually looked like a chicken when she said this. Her chest was puffed out and she placed her hands on her waist and stuck out her elbows as if forming wings. They say if you keep a pet long enough you will begin to look like it.

The chicken lady provided some sage advice, which I warmly pass onto those of you considering purchasing a pet chicken this Easter eve.

Always buy adult hens because if you buy them as chicks you can’t distinguish baby hens from baby roosters. And unlike chickens, roosters make lousy pets.

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Posted by jd at 9:30 PM | Permalink

The kids and I took our last ski trip of the season today. We skiied at Grand Targhee which lies near the base of the Tetons. Interesting trivia is Gene Palmer, one of the founders of Grand Targhee, learned to ski on the hill behind our house. The pole photographed below was part of the pulley system they built to haul them up the hill.

My son Camden definitely passed me this year in his skiing abilities. He'll shoot down inclines and fly off jumps I won't go near. I'd rather submit myself to his taunts then fall, something I did way too much of this year. I remember the strange mix of pride and embarrassment I felt when I was finally able to beat my dad at something. I wondered if he felt bad as if he'd been forced to face his own mortality because he lost to his son at ping pong. Now that I am in the same boat, I doubt he felt bad at all. He was probably relieved he could stop losing on purpose every once in awhile just so I didn't get too discouraged. I'm sure he knew as I know now that watching your children learn, progress and reach new heights, even heights that I will never attain, is the most rewarding thing in the world.

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Posted by jd at 9:32 PM | Permalink

My daughter Breanna and I toured the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum near Tucson this morning. It's so refreshing to take a walk in the warm sunshine after three months of Idaho's snowy cold. While our flower shots aren't as splendid as the Tucson series Simmons B. Buntin has been posting on his blog, we had fun trying.

Breanna saw her first hummingbird ever and managed to capture it in action. She loves to take pictures. She shot over two hundred photos at the desert park, most of them of the rocks and minerals inside the cave. She has far more patience than I have at museums as she meticulously documents nearly every exhibit with her camera.

Afterwards we ate at my favorite Tucson restaurant, Terra Cotta. I convinced Breanna to order off the adult menu instead of the kids'. This is one of my pet peeves as a parent. All that wonderful selection on the adult menu, and for kids they offer a choice of chicken strips, hamburgers, or grilled cheese.

We spent the afternoon hanging out at the pool, taking a long walk to the grocery to buy fruit for snacks, and shopping for earrings for Breanna's newly pierced ears.

What's Breanna's favorite part of the trip so far? Riding around in a convertible. I told her we were renting one, but I don't think she had the concept down. She seemed to think the car would just be outfitted with an oversized sunroof. When we dropped the top and started down the street, she just kept giggling. This was the ultimate indulgance for an eight year old who loves to have the car window down, even in twenty degree weather.

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Posted by jd at 7:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

The temperature was suppose to hit thirty-five degrees today, which means in the high country it would break thirty; a perfect day for cross country skiing. I bundled up, threw my skis in the Subaru and headed north to Harriman State Park along the Henry Fork of the Snake River.

The best part about skiing, other than the beautiful terrain, is the sound of the skis gliding on the snow. I kept my Ipod off just so I could hear that mesmerizing swish pierce the silence. When I first moved to Idaho, I found the silence amazing. I was so used to the drone of traffic. There are times here when the winds are still that you can go into the mountains and listen and hear absolutely nothing. I don’t do that very often. Mountain lions also thrive on the stillness, and I’m afraid of being pounced. Now when I return to a city, everything seems to be screaming at me.

As I ski through the woods, I know there are creatures lurking, but they usually remain hidden. Once while skiing at Harriman I heard wolves howling in the distance. I kept a hurried pace that morning. Today, though, in two hours of skiing I saw only one grouse. At least I think it was a grouse. I’m not good at identifying wildlife unless I have a guidebook with me. I did see lots of footprints and scat on the trail. I couldn’t identify what animals they belong to even with a guidebook. I think some of the droppings were from a moose, and as I skied I imagined what I would do if I startled the beast and it charged me. I decided I wouldn’t have a chance. Fortunately, moose don’t make a habit of charging skiers.

I am basically a neophyte when it comes to surviving in the wild. My first line of defense is my cell phone. My second line of defense is to never go anywhere where I wouldn’t be found in a few hours if I fell and broke a leg (or got attacked by a moose). I don’t have a third line of defense.

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Posted by jd at 6:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I spent yesterday driving a white Cadillac from Walla Walla to Tacoma in search of the perfect shot of Mt. Rainier. I drove a white Cadillac because I had requested a rental car with an XM radio in order to have lively tunes while pursuing my photographic quest. Apparently in Pasco, satellite radios are only installed in white Cadillacs.

I took a southerly route, stopping in Yakima for lunch where I ate the worst mole I had ever tasted. Granted, in addition to the exotic spices and chiles, one of the key ingredients in mole is chocolate. But only a pinch. This mole tasted like Hershey’s syrup. Chocolate covered chicken and broccoli is not good.

After lunch, I learned the southerly route along U.S. 12 offers no views of Mt. Rainier.
The road cuts through a river canyon and is sheltered on both sides by cliffs thick with Douglas Fir. It wasn’t until I headed north along State Route 7, five hours into my journey, I caught my first view of the mountain, its shimmering glaciers reaching into the heavens.

I continued up the twisted road into the park. The higher I climbed, the deeper the snow drifts became until they reached ten feet on each side of the car. I arrived at Paradise Inn at the base of the mountain and readied my camera. I saw nothing. Mt. Rainier, open and inviting from a distance, was more guarded up close, covering itself in a blanket of mist. Only as the sun fell away did the mountain reveal itself in glimpses through the deepening fog.

Posted by jd at 10:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

The kids and I packed the SUV and headed for Big Sky, Montana to ski this weekend. Snow conditions are perfect, a good four inches of powder on top of a groomed base. We saw the critter above just north of West Yellowstone. I'm not sure what has a smaller brain, a bison or a koala. They both look a little out of it.

I'm blogging by the hotel pool, watching my kids and a pair of 70 year old men zip down the waterslide head first. I hope I have that much bravado when I'm 70.

Posted by jd at 7:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My office above the garage looks out on a steep hill. At times it is a winter wonderland as in the picture above. The pole and pulley were used to hoist skiers up the incline many years ago. Some days I stare too long out the window, and I begin to see things.

Does anyone else see the profile of a brooding man in the snow? Perhaps a closer shot would help.

While skiers no longer plummet down our hill. It makes for a great sled run. Especially for the uninitiated. This afternoon while I pondered what the man in the snow was telling me, two girls showed up with their sleds and climbed to the summit. I grabbed our new camera, and prepared to call the ambulance after practicing my action shots. Even my kids don't dare sled from the top of the hill.

The initial adrenaline rush

The screams of panic

Closure

Fortunately, the girls were saved by the sagebrush.

Posted by jd at 1:36 PM | Permalink

The season’s first snow fell in the Upper Valley yesterday. Puffy flakes blanketed the twigs and grass, turning dry prairies into fields of cotton. My kids bundled up and tossed their first snowballs. The wet packing snows of November will soon give way to the fairy dust that makes skiing so great and snowmen scarce.

Having grown up back East, I love Westerners attitude toward snow. They delight in it. Welcome it. Snow is not something to fear and curse like it is in Ohio. No armada of salt trucks is sent to attack the covered streets, turning the white hush into slop. Here, the snowplow drivers relax by the fire until at least four inches have fallen. Then they plow, piling up drifts on the roadside while leaving enough snow on the street to keep drivers happy. Idahoans have grown up skiing and snow mobiling so they welcome the car’s glide around a snowy corner. When they sense a tire slipping, they don’t, like Ohioans, pump the breaks and crank the steering wheel with bug-eyed looks of desperation as if their vehicle had suddenly been possessed.

The weathermen in Idaho don’t speak in grave tones when forecasting a snowstorm. Nor do they exhale with relief, “whew, it missed us this time,” when the forecast is wrong. Instead, with snow on the horizon, their eyes glisten with excitement and they suppress a belly laugh, knowing they’ll call in sick tomorrow so they can hit the slopes.

Idahoans pray for snow. Four years of drought have emptied the reservoirs and strained farmers’ nerves. I asked an old sheep rancher whether this winter would bring the deep snows. He shook his head, unknowing, and recounted what a Native American tribe used to say. “Lots of snow this year. White man cut and stack lots of wood.”

Posted by jd at 9:34 PM | Permalink

Within a two month time span in early 2004, I visited three fascinating trees. Unfortunately the only camera I had was my cell phone.

I first drove up to Kings Canyon National Park after a presentation in Fresno.
General Grant Tree
While spring had arrived in the valley, the park itself was still covered in snow. Only Grant Grove near the entrance was open. The trees were massive. It’s difficult to judge their true size from the picture, but if you look close you can see me at the bottom right side of the trunk wearing my snowman suit.
General Grant Tree

A few weeks later I was in Tucson speaking at a conference. I spent a few hours hiking through a desert park among the saguaros.
Saguaro in Tucson Mountain Park

It was my first time to see a saguaro close up. I was surprised how pock marked it was, but the holes provide nesting spaces for birds and other critters. The only other time I had seen a saguaro was when I was twenty, looking out the window of a bus traveling along the border of Northern Mexico. At the time, having grown up in the midwest, I assumed all deserts had saguaros. Now that I live in arid Idaho, I realize how many types of deserts there are.

I guess technically a saguaro is not a tree, but it’s certainly the tallest thing in the southwestern desert. In April of this year, I was again in Tucson, presenting to the Sonoran Desert Museum. The saguaros were in bloom. Beautiful yellow flowers capped the cacti like easter bonnets.

Cherry Tree in the National "ArboretumThe next month I was driving from Washington D.C. to Baltimore and happened upon the National Arboretum. I took a quick tour and found pink blankets of cherry blossoms draped over the daffodils.

Posted by jd at 8:50 PM | Permalink