Why oh, why do I procrastinate so much? I 'm pretty good about most things, but the novel that I'm writing is killing me. After bringing the plot to the ending, and with only one and one half chapters to go, I've come to a crashing halt.
It isn't that I don't know how to end the book -- I do. I have it all outlined and I'm so near the end, I can taste the champagne (almost). My goal to finish INTO THE FURNACE is March 31 which is only a week and a day away. Yet for the last four days I have avoided my computer as if it's keys were coated with Ebola virus. (I'm writing this on my laptop -- obviously a much healthier keyboard).
Maybe it's because the current big scene is a killer - literally. I'm killing off a bad guy in a most spectacular way. I want to kill him off. He's nasty. And the method of demise is brilliant. But...
It's puzzling to me that writers avoid doing what they love the most. I know that once I sit down and start writing, it will be okay. It's just that initial planting of the bottom on the chair cushion that stymies me.
Maybe I should disinfect the keyboard.
Notes from the Middle Ages
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Thrift Store Sally
I have a lot of friends who love to shop in
thrift stores, but I’ve scarcely gone into one in my entire life. I’m taking a
class in The Artist’s Way and one of the activities we are required to do is to
go on an Artist’s Date—doing something different by yourself that encourages
looking at the world in a new creative light.
I thought, “What the hell, I’ll see what this
thrift store thing is all about.”
Growing up, my female role models were my mother
and my Aunt Margie—both women who had been raised during the Depression in
rural Tennessee. In those poor times, women usually made, or remade, their own
clothes or had a relative who could sew. Secondhand stores probably seemed more
like charity than their pride could handle.
By the 50s, they were both living in Nashville,
Tennessee, a city with a thriving downtown shopping area. They would dress in
nice dresses, hats and gloves, take the bus or Aunt Margie’s car, and make a
day of it, usually eating lunch in the restaurant on the top floor of
Cain-Sloan, Nashville’s premier department store.
Shopping was a social event.
I loved to shop with Aunt Margie. She never made
me try anything on and always bought me an outfit that we both loved. Because
she was childless, I was often the recipient of her generosity. We had fun
together. When she ran into someone she knew (and she ALWAYS ran into someone
she knew—Nashville seemed like a small town to me then), she would stand in the
store’s aisle and chat. I would nod at the other person and dash off to play
under the racks, pulling the full skirts of party dresses across my skinny,
little-girl body.
I was a
fashion model, speaking in a posh voice. I was a society woman, smoking my
cigarette and laughing.
Through my daydreams, I’d keep an ear open for Aunt
Margie’s loud, distinctive voice. When her conversation began to flag, I would
dash out from under the dresses and appear beside her once more, innocently
reaching for her hand.
Shopping with my mother was different. She was
more practical and sat in the dressing room with me while I tried on school
clothes. There was no hiding under dress racks with her around.
“No, that one’s too fancy. Okay, that skirt will
go with a couple of blouses that you already have. No, Marsha. Don’t argue with
me. You don’t need a dress like that—you’d never wear it.”
I always ended up sweaty and pouting, anxious to
get to the Woolworth’s counter for a cheeseburger and a cherry coke. Sometimes
we’d go to the Krystal hamburger stand for their little square burgers and
French fries.
During the 50s, girls wore ‘girly’ clothes.
Jeans, or pants of any kind, were scarce. I was allowed to wear pants under my
dresses on cold morning walks to school, but it was mandatory to remove the
pants as soon as you got to the classroom.
I wasn’t particularly careful with my clothes
when I was in elementary school. I would saunter home dragging my ripped sashes
behind me in the dirt, hems bedraggled. I chewed on my lace collar edgings
while I concentrated on a test, leaving them soggy and tattered. My mother
would sigh and sew everything back together, thanking God that there was only
one of me.
In high school, clothes were important. Clothes
determined your niche in teenage society. I’m not condoning this; I’m just
stating the facts as I experienced them. We pitied our Catholic high school
friends their standardized uniforms. Ironically, we in public school dressed
every bit alike as the convent girls. We wore our nearly identical
stitched-down pleated skirts with coordinating sweater, matching knee socks and
a circle pin adorning our round-collar blouses. We girls would meet in the
hall, eyes flicking up and down, mentally comparing styles, adding up costs,
deciding if we were socially compatible. It was incentive to shop the sales
just to keep up. We were little fashionistas in training.
I loved shopping. The big, bright department
stores were exciting, crowded and full of adventure. Clerks catered to your
every whim, even if you weren’t an adult. I fell in love, a little, with the
aura of being in a store. My girlfriends and I would catch the bus downtown and
wander through the stores, oohing and ahhing over the new fashions, flipping
through the record bins, and hanging over the makeup counters, trying on
lipstick that our mothers would wash off as soon as we got home.
It seems like I had always been selling
something—fireworks and Christmas trees in Mississippi, tropical plants in
Memphis, Western boots to French tourists in Wyoming—and the logical
progression led me to corporate retail. I got over the thrill of shopping when
I worked as a sales manager in a large department store in my 30s.
My love of shopping died in Casper, Wyoming.
As a sales manager, I spent seven years
merchandising clothes racks, listening to complaints of customers and employees
alike, coming to work on holidays and weekends and stressing over visits from
the corporate bigwigs. I would hear, “Let me get my manager” and I would steel
myself to smile and listen to justifications galore:
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“My husband says bring it back or sleep in the
garage.”
“My daughter didn’t like it.”
“It didn’t fit the same way it did in the
dressing room.”
“This went on sale the day after I bought it.
Can I have the sale price?”
I just smiled and projected dark, evil thoughts
as I cheerfully refunded their money. When I bought something that wasn’t
perfect, I thought about what a bargain it had been, and lived with it.
Of course, there was absolutely no reason to buy
anything at full price. I would always wait for a sale (and there was ALWAYS a
sale), then get my employee discount on top of the reduced price. Why buy
clothes at a thrift shop when I could get new clothes at nearly the same price.
Yes, I’m digressing. This story is about thrift
stores. Remember? Now that ‘Secondhand Chic’ is in, I thought I’d check it out
and compare it to my department store experiences.
When I got to the Salvation Army Thrift Store
parking lot, I remembered that I didn’t like their political stance on gays, so
I turned around and drove down Main Street to a place called the Re-finery, an
upscale consignment shop.
Inside, the racks were arranged in a boutique-y
way—the most desirable (newer, more fashionable, better brand names) were
placed forward on display. Larger racks of similar items were scattered through
the center and sides of the store. I gravitated to the rounder of sweaters and
knits tops and slid through the hangers in a half-hearted way. They looked so
tired, so used. No bright lights, no glamorous displays with mannequins.
Duh, Marsha. Secondhand store.
Gradually, the merchandiser in me took over and
I spied styles and colors that I liked, and that I knew looked good on me. To
my surprise, I found a Nike jacket to use on morning walks and a Coldwater
Creek pullover with a crocheted v-neck.
Okay. This could be more fun than I expected. I
saw a friend from the high school I used to work at and decided to call it a
social event. More fun. I bought my two items—total cost, about $20. Not bad,
but not great either.
Next, I went to Flathead Industries, a thrift
store that hires and helps developmentally disabled members of our community. I
have donated to this excellent non-profit organization for years, but had never
stepped a foot in the door. It was about time.
In the parking lot, I saw two friends who were
crowing about the wonderful bargains they got inside the store.
Another social event!
The clothes were arranged mostly by type and
color. Much more work was involved in finding something I liked, but the prices
were eye-poppingly cheap. I finally struck gold with an Eddie Bauer v-neck
sweater and a Jones New York pullover—each for only $4.00!
Score!
I came away from my thrift store experience with
some relief, but with an altered point of view. The total feeling was different
from the one I had in a department store, however, so in the future I’ll know
how to judge my shopping mood. Ready for a scavenger hunt? Thrift Store.
Looking for something specific? I’ll go to a more traditional department store.
I might explore more secondhand stores—I hear
that a lot more of them are in the valley. It takes patience and persistence,
but there are great deals in ‘gently used’ clothing. I know I’ll find it easier
to donate my old clothes, knowing that someone else will get satisfaction from
the ‘find’ just as I did.
The best part about my afternoon? I took my
fistful of savings and my novel du jour to a local restaurant and treated
myself to an hour of solitude and a good lunch, far from crowded stores of any
kind.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Fall Colors
Saturday morning's sun struggled to make an appearance through the light cloud cover. I drove across town to Lawrence Park, one of Kalispell's green spaces that wraps around the embankment of Buffalo Hill and stretches along the Stillwater River.
I knew that the neighbors around the park have worked hard to make it accessible to a diverse group of locals--children's playground, covered shelter for gathering, walking trails--but until I googled Lawrence Park, I didn't know that it was also a Disc Golf course. Folf. I'd seen the tall baskets scattered around the park, but had no idea what they were.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=FOLF
When we still had our whippet, Lucy, we would bring her to Lawrence Park for Frisbee catching and ball throwing because it has a wonderful, large area for doggie play. She loved the chance to explore the trails and meet new friends.
I passed a wooden gazebo that was being decorated for a child's party. Women laughed as they tossed rolls of crepe paper up over the exposed rafters, creating a colorful, loopy ceiling above the large picnic tables holding pastries and presents.
Children ran back and forth from the party to the playground with its swings, slides and monkey bars. I walked toward the river, and only then noticed how beautiful the trees were becoming. A small flame tree leapt out at me from the rest and I had to snap a picture with my phone.
From that point on, I was in full autumn mode, finding color everywhere. I stolled along the paved path, shuffling through piles of orange and yellow leaves, remembering the way they smelled when I was a child. My dad would rake a huge pile into the gutter where my brother and I would leap, hiding in the golden depths until the tiny stems and bits of dried leaf winkled down our collars, making us itch like mad.
I thought of my own son, Eli, doing the same thing on raking day and smiled at the coming generations of leaf-pile swimmers among the children back in the playground.
From a distance, I could see the pedestrian/bicycle bridge, erected by the Lawrence Park organizers, that allowed access from the park to Whitefish Stage Road with its traffic and noise. Thankfully, it was too far away to intrude on my thoughts as I lingered there by the water.
I paused on the bridge and spent some time watching the gently flowing river. Upstream, the trees and grasses crowded in toward a curve in the stream, while downstream, the river seemed wilder, somehow, faster and more rocky.
I remembered coming to the park earlier in the spring just at the peak of the thaw, when the river was racing beneath the bridge, foaming and fighting over its banks, pushing logs and debris to a new resting place south of town. The scene was very different today, as if nature was tamping itself down into embers for a long winter's rest.
I had almost forgotten that my reason for coming to the park was a brisk walk. It was difficult to hurry along the trail. I couldn't bear to miss any of the fleeting fall sights.
I climbed up the switchbacks that heralded the end of the Park's trail. Ahead lay the busy street and reality. Turning around to retrace my steps to my car on the other end of the path, I took one final photo. The river, the trees, the green expanse of the golf course peeking out over the embankment. It had been a magical walk that reminded me to slow down and enjoy the days as they progressed to the snows of winter that would come soon enough.
I knew that the neighbors around the park have worked hard to make it accessible to a diverse group of locals--children's playground, covered shelter for gathering, walking trails--but until I googled Lawrence Park, I didn't know that it was also a Disc Golf course. Folf. I'd seen the tall baskets scattered around the park, but had no idea what they were.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=FOLF
When we still had our whippet, Lucy, we would bring her to Lawrence Park for Frisbee catching and ball throwing because it has a wonderful, large area for doggie play. She loved the chance to explore the trails and meet new friends.
I passed a wooden gazebo that was being decorated for a child's party. Women laughed as they tossed rolls of crepe paper up over the exposed rafters, creating a colorful, loopy ceiling above the large picnic tables holding pastries and presents.
Children ran back and forth from the party to the playground with its swings, slides and monkey bars. I walked toward the river, and only then noticed how beautiful the trees were becoming. A small flame tree leapt out at me from the rest and I had to snap a picture with my phone.
From that point on, I was in full autumn mode, finding color everywhere. I stolled along the paved path, shuffling through piles of orange and yellow leaves, remembering the way they smelled when I was a child. My dad would rake a huge pile into the gutter where my brother and I would leap, hiding in the golden depths until the tiny stems and bits of dried leaf winkled down our collars, making us itch like mad.
I thought of my own son, Eli, doing the same thing on raking day and smiled at the coming generations of leaf-pile swimmers among the children back in the playground.
From a distance, I could see the pedestrian/bicycle bridge, erected by the Lawrence Park organizers, that allowed access from the park to Whitefish Stage Road with its traffic and noise. Thankfully, it was too far away to intrude on my thoughts as I lingered there by the water.
I paused on the bridge and spent some time watching the gently flowing river. Upstream, the trees and grasses crowded in toward a curve in the stream, while downstream, the river seemed wilder, somehow, faster and more rocky.
I remembered coming to the park earlier in the spring just at the peak of the thaw, when the river was racing beneath the bridge, foaming and fighting over its banks, pushing logs and debris to a new resting place south of town. The scene was very different today, as if nature was tamping itself down into embers for a long winter's rest.
I had almost forgotten that my reason for coming to the park was a brisk walk. It was difficult to hurry along the trail. I couldn't bear to miss any of the fleeting fall sights.
I climbed up the switchbacks that heralded the end of the Park's trail. Ahead lay the busy street and reality. Turning around to retrace my steps to my car on the other end of the path, I took one final photo. The river, the trees, the green expanse of the golf course peeking out over the embankment. It had been a magical walk that reminded me to slow down and enjoy the days as they progressed to the snows of winter that would come soon enough.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
O Canada!
Last spring, out of the blue, my husband, Lucky, said,
“Let’s go to Medicine Hat!” I had vaguely heard of Medicine Hat and was pretty
sure it was in Canada. “Okay,” I said.
I’ll go anywhere.
As it turned out, Medicine Hat is in southeastern Alberta in
Canada, only a few hundred miles from us, but in a foreign country. True,
Canada doesn’t seem like a foreign country. They speak the same language; they
live in a similar climate to ours in Montana and their food is, for the most
part, like ours (I’ll get to poutine later). In the spring of 2013, however,
southeastern Alberta was experiencing horrendous flooding, so we went to
another part of Canada instead, the Okanagan Valley. It was a wonderful trip.
A few weeks ago we decided to give Medicine Hat another try.
Lucky likes novels by Guy Vanderhaeghe, a Canadian author who writes about the
part of Alberta south of Lethbridge.
“I want to see the Cypress Hills. They sound pretty,” he
said.
That was as good a reason as any. I liked the Vanderhaeghe
novel that I read, The Last Crossing, which takes place between Fort
Benton, MT and the Whoop-up Country near Lethbridge. So, it was decided. We’d go north to Alberta.
Day 1
A partly cloudy, breezy day followed us along Highway 2,
touching the southern boundary of Glacier National Park, closed due to snow,
but more importantly due to the government shutdown that was plaguing our
nation. We drove north from Hwy. 2 through Babb, MT along the eastern side of
GNP. A lesser-traveled border crossing near Waterton National Park (the
northern sister to GNP) was closed, so we drove across the border to Cardston,
Alberta. The Canadian border patrol
officer seemed a little cranky—perhaps due to all the calls from the U.S.
(“Are you open? Can I please get out of this head-up-the-ass
nation for a while?”)
With a sigh of relief, we were successfully admitted to
Canada and went into Cardston where options for lunch were scarce. Finally
settling on a Greek Sandwich shop, we scanned the menu and noticed that the
special was something called ‘donair.’
“What’s donair?” I asked the young waitress.
“Oh, it’s my favorite thing to eat! It’s like, a gyro, kind
of, with tomatoes and pressed meat.”
She was so enthusiastic, we both agreed to order donair. As
we sat there waiting for our mystery meal, we noticed a park across the street
with a Fay Wray memorial fountain, turned off for the winter. A wrought iron
likeness of King Kong loomed over the dry concrete, giving it a menacing, yet
oddly humorous appearance. Who knew that Fay Wray was from Cardston, Alberta?
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihcbIb77QEI
When our donair arrived, we discovered that it was pressed
meat—although what meat exactly was unclear, even after a few bites. Was it
beef? Pork? Lamb? We didn’t have the heart to ask. The meat was wrapped in a
pita and garnished with chunks of unripe tomato and tzatziki sauce (which was
very tasty). The homemade barley beef soup was delicious, though, as were the
fries. I was surprised that Lucky didn’t order poutine—a Canadian specialty of
French fries dressed with gravy and melted cheese.
He said, “I just like saying it … poutine … I don’t really
like to eat it.” I think it sounds a little dirty.
Donair, a new
Canadian dining experience. We can add it to poutine.
We drove west toward Waterton Park. I have lived in
northwestern Montana for 23 years. I’m a regular hiker and fan of Glacier
National Park, but the views of the Waterton peaks blew me away. The craggy
mountains were crowded together in a spectacular, snow-kissed condensation of
GNP. Like Glacier, Waterton is a one-road park but their road remains in the
valley whereas our Going-to-the-Sun Road follows a precipitous route that hangs
by its fingertips to the steep mountainside. The idea of more trails to explore
lingers with me, to be reimagined in another summer.
I had heard marvelous
things about the Prince of Wales Hotel from some of my hiker friends, who raved
about the English High teas that were lovingly presented to visitors as they
enjoyed the view from the conservatory. A ranger had told us that it was closed
for the season, but she encouraged us to drive up for the view.
We approached the hotel along a narrow shadowed lane that
wouldn’t have been out of place a century ago. Finally, the hotel came into
sight.
“Gingerbread cottage
on steroids,” I may have shouted this. Lucky’s used to my outbursts.
I’m convinced that it looks exactly the way that it did when
the eponymous prince, the future Edward VIII, came to visit in 1927. The hotel
was named for him in an attempt to lure him to stay here on a visit from
England, but alas, he preferred to reside at a nearby ranch instead. As
violently as the wind was blowing, I can’t say as I blame him. The hotel is a
little shabby, with rickety, rusty fire exits littering the outside of the
building, giving one pause as to the wisdom of sleeping there. But the view!
The panorama is amazing, allowing you to see for miles down Waterton Lake,
encircled by majestic peaks.
When we finally dragged ourselves away from the view, we
drove to the town of Waterton inside the park to visit the Heritage Center.
It was closed for the season.
The upside of travel in October is smaller crowds. The
downside is that a lot of attractions are closed. Bummer. The charming town made up for it. When I come back to explore the park, I’ll definitely
visit it.
On the way out of the park, I suddenly shouted out, “Bear!”
Lucky screeched to a halt and squinted along my pointing finger to the hillside
above the road. A black bear was digging furiously at the root of a plant (or
for a hapless rodent cowering in his little den). This was the first bear I’d
seen all summer. To think that I had to come to Canada to see him. We sat for a
few minutes watching his labors.
Another upside of traveling in October is that there were no
other cars on the road. If this had been the height of the tourist season, ten
cars spilling out kids, men with tripods and untold legions of camera phones
would have stopped on the road with us. Instead, we, and the bear, enjoyed the
sunny solitude.
We drove north beside the majestic mountains of Waterton and the
Canadian Rockies until we turned east along the railroad tracks and beheld the
vast tabletop wheat fields and plains of Southern Alberta.
It was flat; very flat and buff colored as far as the eye
could see. The only relief from the flatness was an occasional grain elevator
located sporadically beside the railroad in small, utilitarian towns. This was
Highway 3, the Trans-Canada Highway which runs from the Atlantic to the Pacific
across the country. In this part of Canada, it runs like a yard-stick, straight
and narrow on top of the unwavering, level plains.
After what seemed like a hundred miles, I decided that I
wouldn’t miss any amazing views, so I pulled out my knitting and started a new
project for a Christmas present. Two hours and a few inches of knitted material
later, we approached Lethbridge.
Lethbridge appeared flat, at first, but in the center of the
town is a deep, eroded gorge through which flows the Oldman River. Sounds like
a song, doesn’t it? One of the most impressive features of Lethbridge is the
Lethbridge Viaduct, or the High Level Bridge, the highest and longest steel
trestle railroad bridge in the world, finished in 1909.
The countryside around the city is rolling rather than
flat—a great relief from the relentless plains—and is filled with parks and
green areas sprawling along both sides of the river for miles.
We stayed downtown at a huge hotel within walking distance
to shopping areas, but discovered that everything in the area closed at 6:00 on
Wednesdays. Upside/downside again. The hotel had a great bar that served
appetizers, drinkies and dinner, so we amused ourselves there.
Day 2
The next morning we drove down into the gorge to beautiful
green space by the river; crisscrossed by walking and biking trails. It made me
wish I had a dog to walk. We parked at Fort Whoop-up, a re-creation of the
original trading post from the 1870s. There is a Kalispell connection—Charles
Conrad and his brother, who worked for the I.G. Baker Company in Fort Benton,
Montana Territory, supplied trade goods for the fort. These would be swapped
for buffalo robes and other furs brought in by the indigenous Blackfoot tribes.
Eagerly, we stepped up to the impressive log doors to enter
the building.
Winter hours: Noon – 4:00.
It was only 9:55.
We stood desultorily reading the information about the fort,
wondering what else was open that we would be interested in. A young man popped
his head out of the door.
“Are you open?” I asked.
“Not officially, but since I have to be here, I might as
well let you in.” He was much more gracious than his words sounded.
We went in, paid, watched a video about the fur trade in the
area and were allowed to wander around wherever we wanted. The rooms where the
traders lived had been restored, as well as the trading room itself, stacked
high with boxes and bundles of buffalo hides.
“Phew, it really stinks in here.” I hated to be unkind, but
I could imagine all sorts of critters cuddled inside all that hide and hair.
“I wouldn’t want to look under the bottom layer.” Lucky
agreed with me and we rushed out to the fresh air.
Goats and Shetland ponies were in a pen attached to the log
walls of the fort. Bunny rabbits hopped freely inside the stanchions. It was as
idyllic as the fort had probably ever been. We wandered around some more,
thanked the young man who had taken pity on us and left to see what else
Lethbridge had to offer.
Up on the embankment at city level, we found the Galt Museum.
It’s the primary museum of Lethbridge and the largest museum south of Calgary.
Inside, we found a lot of information and displays of the history of Alberta
and the social history of Lethbridge. It was interesting. I finally found out
who built the giant trestle over the Oldman River, and I learned that Mr. Galt
of museum fame owned and operated coal mines around the area, growing very rich
and endowing the Lethbridge hospital (which used to be in the museum building).
On the way out of town, we stopped at a Tim Horton’s. If
you’ve ever been to Canada, you’ll know that there’s a Tim Horton’s on every
corner. They serve coffee, bagels, doughnuts and they are VERY popular. Tim
Horton was a big-deal hockey player back in the day who parleyed his success
into an even more successful chain of doughnut and coffee shops. He sounds like
he was a colorful character who died at age 44, full of vodka and fleeing from
the cops at 160 kilometers per hour. You know there has to be a movie in that.
Once we got into Medicine Hat, we had a heck of a time
finding our motel. The town is built on a river, the South Saskatchewan, which
curves through its gorge carrying the winding streets in its wake. We finally
found our motel, right next to a construction site for an overpass.
Unfortunately, the overpass needed I-beams, and the I-beams needed a
pile-driver. The thump-thump of the machinery echoed up and down the highway
and into our motel. I felt like I was living in a boiler room.
To escape the noise, we drove to a nearby mall where
everything looked the same as every other mall I’ve ever been to. We looked at
each other and left. We found a Chinese buffet that had been recommended by the
desk clerk at the motel. It was okay, but the best part was that when we
finished our meal, night had fallen and the thumping was gone.
Bliss. A peaceful night’s sleep.
Day 3
The big attraction in Medicine Hat (and seemingly the only
one) is the Medalta Potteries and Ceramics Arts Centre in the Historic Clay
District. Apparently, Medicine Hat is located on a huge layer of clay that
rests over an enormous natural gas field. That’s two of three necessities for a
successful pottery operation. Clay to mold, gas to fire the kilns and the
third, a railroad to ship it out to the rest of the world—or the rest of
Canada.
It took a while, but the Clay District finally revealed
itself to us, tucked away between the river and the railroad at the wrong end
of one-way streets. We stumbled into the museum foyer as if we had finally
found Mecca.
Yes, it took that long.
The pottery was much more than I had imagined. In its time
(1920s-1950s), it had been a huge production, manufacturing and firing 3,000
pieces of pottery a day. Most of the pottery was restaurant tableware,
knick-knacks, and crocks of every size and use. The tour of the restored
building and kilns was the most fascinating of the entire trip. We watched as
modern-day potters made items based on molds used decades ago—but on a much
smaller scale. We visited the gift shop, of course, and came away with a few
Christmas presents.
We were anxious to get to the Cypress Hills, the alleged
reason for this trip to Alberta, so we headed south through more flatness, more
wheat ranches, more monotony, and more knitting.
The Cypress Hills are just that—hills that rise from the
plains like an oasis. Most high ground out west is formed by glaciation, so we
were surprised to learn that the Cypress Hills are a plateau capped by an
impervious layer of hard rock that withstood erosion after the shallow sea that
covered Southern Alberta leaked away (or dried up). The hills have a completely
different ecology than the surrounding plains and is a recreation getaway with
lakes, wildlife and bird habitat. It was plain to see why the Hills have been
inhabited for thousands of years by the native tribes that came here to hunt.
The fact that the
hills are very long east to west and narrow north to south meant that we drove
across them quickly. We did stop at the heritage center (OPEN!) and at the
marina for lunch. Too soon, we descended back onto the plains to the south.
More knitting and flatness ensued until, in the distance, we
could see the Sweetgrass Hills of Montana and the border north of Havre. Our
crossing back into the U.S. was facilitated by a cheerful border patrol officer
who welcomed us back with a smile (a rarity and one that we met with
gratitude).
We always enjoy our little adventures in Canada. Next on my
agenda? Vancouver.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Starting to Look Suspiciously like Almost-Spring
We have been getting little bits of snow every night that melt off in the daytime as the temperatures rise above freezing. A couple of days ago, I took the chance that new snow cover would cancel out the ice on the trails at Lone Pine, so I grabbed my ice-walkers (just in case), my poles and hit the trail.
I was right. There was 1 to 2 inches of fresh snow - just enough for my ice-walkers to grip and keep me upright. I helped myself along with poles too, and felt confident enough to try the Cliff Trail - one of the steeper ways up to the top. It was beautiful and the trail had had much less traffic, thus making it snow-packed but not slick. The trail before me was soft and lovely and beckoned me upwards toward the top. Below the snow, where the feet of other hikers had pushed aside the meager covering, I could see hard, black ice everywhere and I knew that once this freshest snow melted, the trails would be treacherous once more. But for now, the walk was quiet and easy - except for that darn uphill part that made me huff and puff with exertion.
I could see that some new foot traffic was beginning to pack the snow, so I turned off onto a side trail and was delighted to see that I was the first hiker of the day. I thought I might see some deer, but they must have been hiding. As I glanced around, I was astonished to see how bare the slopes were. We have had a very dry winter and I despair for the summer when this trail will be thick with dust instead of snow.
Another hiker and his dog finally met me just as I was beginning to see the mountains to the East. It looked to be snowing toward Columbia Mountain and into Glacier Park. At least if we get plenty of snow in the mountains, the fire danger will be less, even if it's dry as dust down here in the valley.
For now, however, I'll just hope that either warm weather comes soon, or the small snows continue to fall on the icy trails to help me out in my quest for exercise and enjoyment of the woods. Each day is an adventure and I can't wait to see what lies in store.
As I write this post, the sun is shining brightly. That's deceptive, however, because fifteen minutes ago, snow and rain were blowing furiously from the west. I think I'll wait until we've had good weather for a solid hour, or I'll wait until tomorrow to see what it brings before I take my chances outdoors.
I was right. There was 1 to 2 inches of fresh snow - just enough for my ice-walkers to grip and keep me upright. I helped myself along with poles too, and felt confident enough to try the Cliff Trail - one of the steeper ways up to the top. It was beautiful and the trail had had much less traffic, thus making it snow-packed but not slick. The trail before me was soft and lovely and beckoned me upwards toward the top. Below the snow, where the feet of other hikers had pushed aside the meager covering, I could see hard, black ice everywhere and I knew that once this freshest snow melted, the trails would be treacherous once more. But for now, the walk was quiet and easy - except for that darn uphill part that made me huff and puff with exertion.
I could see that some new foot traffic was beginning to pack the snow, so I turned off onto a side trail and was delighted to see that I was the first hiker of the day. I thought I might see some deer, but they must have been hiding. As I glanced around, I was astonished to see how bare the slopes were. We have had a very dry winter and I despair for the summer when this trail will be thick with dust instead of snow.
Another hiker and his dog finally met me just as I was beginning to see the mountains to the East. It looked to be snowing toward Columbia Mountain and into Glacier Park. At least if we get plenty of snow in the mountains, the fire danger will be less, even if it's dry as dust down here in the valley.
For now, however, I'll just hope that either warm weather comes soon, or the small snows continue to fall on the icy trails to help me out in my quest for exercise and enjoyment of the woods. Each day is an adventure and I can't wait to see what lies in store.
As I write this post, the sun is shining brightly. That's deceptive, however, because fifteen minutes ago, snow and rain were blowing furiously from the west. I think I'll wait until we've had good weather for a solid hour, or I'll wait until tomorrow to see what it brings before I take my chances outdoors.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Where's the snow? Not in Herron Park.
The middle of February and hardly any snow. Last year at this time Herron Park had a lot of snow to enjoy. We snowshoed quite a bit, people cross-country skied and sledded on the great sledding hill there.
A few hours ago, I went to Herron Park with my son, Eli, hoping that the trail wasn't as icy as the ones on Lone Pine. Reports from Eli and my snowshoeing friend, Marylane, told me that the trails on Lone Pine were quite treacherous, very icy and packed down, making for some beyond-icewalker hiking. No thanks. I have been either going to the gym or walking downtown to get some exercise. Today, however, the sun was shining and the temperature was hovering around freezing, so off we went.
From a distance you could tell that, although there was some snow, there wasn't nearly enough to ski or snowshoe.
There were a lot of bare spots poking through the thin covering of snow and the hills didn't have that wintery look that I hoped it would have. We set off on the icy trail, trying to avoid the parts that resembled skating rinks. We met a walker with two standard poodles who didn't mind that there wasn't much snow. They were just happy to be outside on a walk. That's the way I began to feel, too. The day was bright and lovely, I felt recovered from a bout of back pain from the previous week and my knees felt almost normal. It's hell getting old.
We took the main trail/road up the side of the hill. Eli never did put on his ice-walkers although I did at the parking lot. I also had my poles - just in case I hit a slippery spot. I hadn't done any uphill walking in a few weeks, so I took it easy and went slowly. Eli was ahead of me the whole way, but that's nothing new. He is young and strong and has a longer stride. Ah, youth.
Pretty soon, I got hot and sweaty and stopped for a rest and a photo. The hills around the park were pretty bare, but still a beautiful sight. Just being outside in the fresh, cold air made me feel better than I had in a while.
In the distance, I could just make out the Swan range looking blue and snowy. I found myself saying "Now, if I come up here and do this walk two or three times a week, I'll be in pretty good shape for Lone Pine when the ice is gone." That is a great thought. Maybe I'll actually try it. I don't mind walking alone in Lone Pine - familiarity breeds courage. I think I'd be alright in Herron Park alone, but somehow it seems better to have a companion in a bigger, farther away place. I should just suck it up and stop being a baby. Or beg my son to come with me. Yeah, begging might work.
Anyway, I had a wonderful walk. Peaceful, pretty and a good workout for an hour's work only a few miles from home. There really isn't a good reason why I can't come up here more often. After all, it's only the middle of February. Spring is a long way off.
A few hours ago, I went to Herron Park with my son, Eli, hoping that the trail wasn't as icy as the ones on Lone Pine. Reports from Eli and my snowshoeing friend, Marylane, told me that the trails on Lone Pine were quite treacherous, very icy and packed down, making for some beyond-icewalker hiking. No thanks. I have been either going to the gym or walking downtown to get some exercise. Today, however, the sun was shining and the temperature was hovering around freezing, so off we went.
From a distance you could tell that, although there was some snow, there wasn't nearly enough to ski or snowshoe.
There were a lot of bare spots poking through the thin covering of snow and the hills didn't have that wintery look that I hoped it would have. We set off on the icy trail, trying to avoid the parts that resembled skating rinks. We met a walker with two standard poodles who didn't mind that there wasn't much snow. They were just happy to be outside on a walk. That's the way I began to feel, too. The day was bright and lovely, I felt recovered from a bout of back pain from the previous week and my knees felt almost normal. It's hell getting old.
We took the main trail/road up the side of the hill. Eli never did put on his ice-walkers although I did at the parking lot. I also had my poles - just in case I hit a slippery spot. I hadn't done any uphill walking in a few weeks, so I took it easy and went slowly. Eli was ahead of me the whole way, but that's nothing new. He is young and strong and has a longer stride. Ah, youth.
Pretty soon, I got hot and sweaty and stopped for a rest and a photo. The hills around the park were pretty bare, but still a beautiful sight. Just being outside in the fresh, cold air made me feel better than I had in a while.
In the distance, I could just make out the Swan range looking blue and snowy. I found myself saying "Now, if I come up here and do this walk two or three times a week, I'll be in pretty good shape for Lone Pine when the ice is gone." That is a great thought. Maybe I'll actually try it. I don't mind walking alone in Lone Pine - familiarity breeds courage. I think I'd be alright in Herron Park alone, but somehow it seems better to have a companion in a bigger, farther away place. I should just suck it up and stop being a baby. Or beg my son to come with me. Yeah, begging might work.
Anyway, I had a wonderful walk. Peaceful, pretty and a good workout for an hour's work only a few miles from home. There really isn't a good reason why I can't come up here more often. After all, it's only the middle of February. Spring is a long way off.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Snow, beautiful snow!
We have finally received a few inches of snow and it feels like winter. Of course, it always feels like winter when the temperature hovers around 20 degrees, but at least with snow there is the hope of snowshoeing. I have a little group of friends who snowshoe with me, but to my horror, they were all busy on Snowshoe Monday! My friends couldn't come out to play and I was sad.
However, like the trouper I am, I stayed in my jammies an hour longer until it warmed up to 29 degrees, strapped on my icewalkers and headed to Lone Pine. I know I should have snowshoed anyway, but Lone Pine is closer to my house and, after all, we didn't get THAT much snow. The trail up to the top of Lone Pine was snow-packed and icy, so I was glad to have my trusty YakTrax and my poles to keep me upright.
It was a beautiful day, cold and crisp and the walking warmed me. I climbed up the Cliff Trail and paused when a bunny dashed across the trail in front of me. Bunnies aren't bred for brains, so this one stopped under a big rock, believing himself to be invisible. I fumbled in my pocket for my camera, turned it on and found the bunny - still frozen and 'invisible' to me. Poor bunny. There's a reason that they are incredibly fertile.
He was cute and as soon as I rearranged my camera into my pocket, grabbed my poles and continued on my way up the trail, he hopped away through the snow.
The trail led me up to a vantage point below the overlook, but I am always fascinated with the geology of a place, so I looked up at the rocks looming overhead. At one time in Lone Pine's history, the overlook was used as a dumping-off place for old cars, dead refrigerators and bald tires. There are still a few traces of rusted bits of castoff machinery below the overlook, left there by the Fish, Wildlife and Parks Department because it's too hard to remove. Now we have a lovely trail system where there was once only the novel pastime of seeing how far an old tire could bounce on the rocks far below the drop-off point.
As I looked up at the rocks, I began to feel the cold, so I pushed on up the trail looking forward to being at the upper vantage point. There is a place on the trail where a hiker must climb up and over some sizable rocks. This always means to me that I'm past the steepest part of the trail and the end is in sight. I like climbing on the rocks. Somehow, they seem friendly and not so steep as the switchbacks that lay just behind me. The sun was shining and I thought I'd stop and take another photo.
My next stop was at the overlook itself where I admired my little town, the mountains and the view of Glacier National Park in the clouded dip beside Columbia Mountain. The mountains in winter are beautiful and I longed to be in the park, no matter what the weather. Perhaps a snowshoeing road trip is a good idea. Then my working friends could join us on a weekend.
I always like going downhill much more than going uphill, so I started on the downward path toward the bottom of the hill and my waiting car. I didn't see any deer this time, so my little bunny was my only companion on my hike. I can't wait for more snow so I can snowshoe up the trail.
Today, we woke up to rain. RAIN. It'll be icy on Lone Pine this afternoon, but I might make the attempt anyway and dream of more snow later in the winter.
However, like the trouper I am, I stayed in my jammies an hour longer until it warmed up to 29 degrees, strapped on my icewalkers and headed to Lone Pine. I know I should have snowshoed anyway, but Lone Pine is closer to my house and, after all, we didn't get THAT much snow. The trail up to the top of Lone Pine was snow-packed and icy, so I was glad to have my trusty YakTrax and my poles to keep me upright.
It was a beautiful day, cold and crisp and the walking warmed me. I climbed up the Cliff Trail and paused when a bunny dashed across the trail in front of me. Bunnies aren't bred for brains, so this one stopped under a big rock, believing himself to be invisible. I fumbled in my pocket for my camera, turned it on and found the bunny - still frozen and 'invisible' to me. Poor bunny. There's a reason that they are incredibly fertile.
He was cute and as soon as I rearranged my camera into my pocket, grabbed my poles and continued on my way up the trail, he hopped away through the snow.
The trail led me up to a vantage point below the overlook, but I am always fascinated with the geology of a place, so I looked up at the rocks looming overhead. At one time in Lone Pine's history, the overlook was used as a dumping-off place for old cars, dead refrigerators and bald tires. There are still a few traces of rusted bits of castoff machinery below the overlook, left there by the Fish, Wildlife and Parks Department because it's too hard to remove. Now we have a lovely trail system where there was once only the novel pastime of seeing how far an old tire could bounce on the rocks far below the drop-off point.
As I looked up at the rocks, I began to feel the cold, so I pushed on up the trail looking forward to being at the upper vantage point. There is a place on the trail where a hiker must climb up and over some sizable rocks. This always means to me that I'm past the steepest part of the trail and the end is in sight. I like climbing on the rocks. Somehow, they seem friendly and not so steep as the switchbacks that lay just behind me. The sun was shining and I thought I'd stop and take another photo.
My next stop was at the overlook itself where I admired my little town, the mountains and the view of Glacier National Park in the clouded dip beside Columbia Mountain. The mountains in winter are beautiful and I longed to be in the park, no matter what the weather. Perhaps a snowshoeing road trip is a good idea. Then my working friends could join us on a weekend.
I always like going downhill much more than going uphill, so I started on the downward path toward the bottom of the hill and my waiting car. I didn't see any deer this time, so my little bunny was my only companion on my hike. I can't wait for more snow so I can snowshoe up the trail.
Today, we woke up to rain. RAIN. It'll be icy on Lone Pine this afternoon, but I might make the attempt anyway and dream of more snow later in the winter.
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