The Road to 65, Mile 187: Vancouver, Part 2- Stanley Park

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June 3, 2015, Vancouver-  The western seaside of this fascinating city is, for many, the peak of their Vancouver experience.  So it was for me, over a two-hour walkabout.

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                   The Royal Vancouver Yacht Club borders the eastern approach to Stanley Park.

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                                             As elsewhere in Vancouver, side gardens abound here.

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                                              Even dead trees make their presence known!

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                                                            Pisa has nothing on Stanley Park.

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                                                       People the world over are welcomed.

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                                               Horses work hard in the park, but are treated well.

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                                                     The Pavilion is a premier venue for gatherings.

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                                   One of my favourite aspects of the Northwest is the rain forest.  This is the first time I’ve seen a black squirrel, though.

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                                                 Ferns grow almost to Jurassic levels.

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                            This is the Brockton Oval, home of many rugby matches.

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                                 This lady knows how to prance for the audience!

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                           The Girl in the Wetsuit is a tribute to Vancouver’s relationship with the sea.

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                          The dragon’s head is supposed to protect sea-going vessels.

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                               This cormorant played hide and seek with me, for ten minutes.

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                          Brockton Point Light House has been crucial to maritime safety for over 150 years.

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                            The Memorial Totem Pole, seen above, honours one of the most influential First Nations elders of 20th Century Vancouver.  Squamish people lived for centuries, near what is now Stanley Park.  I will post a complete view of the Memorial Totems of the park, in a few days, when I get to Wrangell, AK.

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“Shore to Shore” commemorates the story of a Portuguese emigre and his Salish wife.

The last corner of Stanley Park I visited was the Cricket Grounds, where two teams were hard at play.

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Finally, an osprey was visible, in the reeds, as I was leaving Stanley Park.

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This was easily well worth the hour’s drive from Blaine, and the refresher course in border crossing.  It seems I have had quite a few refresher courses in life, over the past ten months.

My next few posts will be up, as WiFi connections allow, while on the Inland Passage.

The Road to 65, Mile 187: Northwestward, Day 8: Vancouver, Part 1- Kits Point and Gastown

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June 3, 2015, Vancouver- It’s been about thirty one years since I last crossed the border into Canada.  back then, it was a driver’s license, pop the trunk and howdy-do to get back and forth.  Since 9/11/01, nothing is left to chance.

To be fair, I got in the NEXUS lane by mistake, and was hailed into Customs Hall, while my vehicle was searched.  All officials were polite and determined I was hardly a risk.  I was cautioned, though, to be prepared to offer a list of those with whom I might be visiting, next time I make a border crossing.  That will be useful, as there a few people I would like to visit in BC, later this month- after returning from Alaska.  I will also not go in the NEXUS line.

Driving north, I have encountered a few local traffic quirks.  In Olympia, WA, for example, the turn lane out of the Capitol Campus, to get back on I-5, is the width of a bicycle lane, and not readily visible.  Nonetheless, all the locals are used to it, and there was horn-honking, wailing and gnashing of teeth, when I waited for the left turn signal, whilst occupying what turned out to be the MIDDLE lane.

On BC Hwy. 99, the northward extension of I-5, it is expected that all remain locked in their lanes, and not deviate a hair’s breadth  to the right or left- lest there be horn-honking, wailing and more gnashing of teeth.  Vancouverites tend to honk at each other as often as southern Californians, though not as often as people in Scottsdale, Phoenix or San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I had no problems, though, in getting to the various parking garages that I used, in what turned out to be a nine hour exploration of Canada’s window on the Pacific.  Most of that  time, I was on foot.  Navigating by car is easy.  The Canadian directional signs are small, but well-placed, so as to minimize confusion.  I also very much appreciate the lack of billboards.

My first walk was from South Granville to Kits Point, by way of the pedestrian underpass.

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Flora of Granville Pedestrian Path

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“Where are all the Canadian geese this year?”  Why, they’d be up in Canada, of course.

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One must use this tunnel, to get to Kits Point on foot or by bicycle.   Of course, being South Granville, it’s perfectly safe by day.

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This pleasant little park sets the tone for Kits Point, which is a hipster neighbourhood, not used to tourists.  I had a mild, but satisfying meatball panini at Epicurean Cafe.  Here, I learned that, unlike in the U. S., a patron must bring the ticket up to the counter.  Servers do not act as cashiers in Vancouver, I was told.

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Here, though, is a reach-out to the people of Latin America.

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Canada Centre: This grand building defines downtown Vancouver.

Gastown is a heavily-trod section of downtown; in fact, it is the original European settlement of Vancouver, virtually dating from the arrival of the British.

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This is the Steam Clock, which has been here almost as long as the British.

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This is the Canadian Railway station, on the waterfront.

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The Cenotaph, in Memorial Park, is the beginning of the East End, and the rougher part of town.

I was cautioned, when first making plans for a Vancouver stay, that the East End was not a place in which I would want to spend a night.  After walking the area a bit, I can see why one would draw that conclusion.  Most of the hotels in that section of East Hastings Street look a tad ragged, primarily residential.  I’ve seen similar establishments in Los Angeles, Chicago, London and Paris.  The street was alive, though, with people who don’t exactly have it made.  I did see a lot of animated behaviour and many seemed to know one another quite well.  I kept coming across an older man in a blue pinstriped shirt, walking his dog.  He and I were each offered marijuana, by a top-hatted young man who was pretending to sell men’s suits.  The dog-walker looked thoroughly shocked.  I was non-plussed, and definitely not interested.  I didn’t take any photos, as no one is to be treated as a curiosity.

A gratifying element is the Urban Garden, on the south side of the street.

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My sentiments exactly.  More power to them.

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Back in Gastown, I was reminded of when people said I would drive to Canada, when……

Here is one last scene from the original settlement of Vancouver.

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It somewhat reminds me of Yonge Street, Toronto.

In the next post, Stanley Park, and the west waterfront, will show the natural side of Vancouver.

The Road to 65, Mile 186: Northwestward, Day 7, Part 2- Everett and Blaine

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June 2, 2015, Blaine, WA-  As mentioned earlier, I drove the length of the Puget Sound metro area, stopping only in deference to my fellow travelers, as the rush hour, and a few accidents, dictated.  I stopped in Everett, the northern anchor of the metro region, in search of at least one of the port city’s well-regarded botanical gardens.

Legion Park honours the American Legion, to which I belong.  It was thus a logical place to stop and enjoy the interspersing of the great evergreens of this area, with the riot of colour that comes with every well-planned garden.  Not being much of a floral authority, I nonetheless present several of the plants that stood out most prominently to me, on this drizzly but glorious afternoon, when I had the place virtually to myself.

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                                                         Legion Park Memorial Plaque

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                                  The Douglas fir is the signature resident of Evergreen Arboretum.

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                                                 There are seven distinct gardens, within this park.

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                                                                     Here is a Japanese White Pine.

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                                                               Someone says “Peek-a-boo”.

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The Asian ambiance of the garden is scintillating.

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                         Purple and white hemlocks co-exist very well.  Let that be a lesson!

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                           Rain is helping the engineers who are healing this soil.

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                                                  Various clever sculptures accent the flora.

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                                             This is my signal to move forward and achieve!

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                            My mother  always had forsythia, as ground cover, when we were kids.

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                                                                 Robin kept me company, near the Rock Garden.

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                  The Northwest Native Trail gave me a feeling that I was back on the Olympic Peninsula.

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                                        No arboretum is complete, without Bonsai.

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                                           “Nanny, nanny, boo-boo!”

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                             Even the frontage of the parking lot is well-flowered.

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                                                             Here’s one last look back.

Port Gardner Bay, just west of the park, offers a fine view of north Puget Sound.

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                       This bay has a huge osprey colony.  The birds were busy fishing, though.

Moving northward, I opted to stay close to the Canadian border, and chose this fine little establishment.

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                      A Korean woman owns the place, and the hospitality is very warm.

Next door, Ocean Bay Restaurant offers excellent Chinese cuisine.  It draws regulars from White Rock, BC, a few miles away.

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This section of a mural, inside Ocean Bay, brought to mind the victims of the recent Yangtze ferry disaster.

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                            Penny was born in a Year of the Horse, so  all her strength and beauty appeared to me, through these magnificent animals.

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When I arrived at Bayside, this gull was begging a local woman for food.  He obliged me for this profile, a bit later.

Looking northward, I spotted the community of White Rock.  Borders may be seen as necessary right now, but they are still artificial.

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Thus did my very full day end, in Blaine, Washington.

The Road to 65, Mile 186: Northwestward, Day 7- Part 1, Olympia

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I had been to the Capitol Complex, three years ago, but that was by night.  The edifice looks just as imposing in daylight.

I drove up to Washington’s capital, from Chehalis, after enjoying a vanilla latte, bowl of oatmeal, and cranberry scone for breakfast.  The last time I was in Olympia was a rush job, in between two attempts at visiting cyber-friends.  Neither was available this year, so I focused on becoming more familiar with this delightful little city, at the southern tip of Puget Sound.

I get the feeling it was trying to become more familiar with me.  I could swear the capitol dome was watching.

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The people of Washington honour their veterans as well as anyone.  This imposing sculpture spells Gratitude.

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                                           The men shown represent our troops of World War I.

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                                     The Hall of Justice evokes its counterpart in Paris.

All is not gray and staid, however.

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                                                    The Capitol grounds are well-tended.

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         A lone fir tree stands sentinel, at the east end of the grounds.

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                   On the far eastern end of the Capitol Complex, there is this inspiring poem.

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                   I sought more colour, on this rather overcast day, and found it in downtown Olympia.

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This is the old state Capitol, now the office of the Superintendent of Public Instruction.  It was the Capitol until 1928.

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                           The present Capitol had its eye on me, even down at the harbour!

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                                                 There is a calm at the south end of Puget Sound.

I dropped in at Druid’s Nook, out of curiosity and picked up their last copy of Alice Walker’s “Hard Times Require Furious Dancing”.  The proprietor and I agreed that people can come up with some very strange notions.  Ms. Walker would probably concur, as well.

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                                      This is an eclectic supernatural and spiritual shop.

I spotted this spoof of “Hot Tub Time Machine”, while on the way to lunch.  Hot fudge was indeed a fun part of my childhood.

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Lunch, however, had to be more substantial, sooo:

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                                                                           Cafe Love, it was.

This little safe haven offers paninis, all manner of espresso and lattes, and vegan cupcakes.  The Northwest is downright Texan, when it comes to cupcakes.  It seems I’ve spotted them on every other corner, In Portland and in Olympia.

I did not stop in Seattle.  It was beginning rush hour, when I passed the exit to Pike Place, and I wanted to take in at least one of the public gardens in the north Puget city of Everett.  Legion Park, and Everett’s north waterfront, will take up the next post, along with the border town of Blaine.

The Road to 65, Mile 185: Northwestward, Day 6- Portland’s Moveable Feast

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June 1, 2015, Portland- The City of Roses is a foodie’s paradise.  Between the food trucks, which are everywhere, and the great brick and mortar eateries, one could easily pack on 50-100 pounds, with a smile.  Of course, the city is also a walker’s paradise- and the pounds would just as quickly melt away, if one were to indulge in the natural wealth of the hills above the Columbia River, at its confluence with the Willamette.

I took a light breakfast at Econolodge, this morning.  That’s a good thing, as one of my Portland favourites, Laughing Planet Cafe, is cattycorner from that motel.  The White Bean soup hit the spot at lunchtime, on this most typically Northwestern, drizzly day.

Afternoon brought me back to Washington Park, for a few reprise shots of, what else, roses.

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These exuberant specimens show that the Experimental Rose Garden should have a banner year.

I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, in Hoyt Arboretum, as well.  It is a pristine and dignified tribute to those contemporaries of mine who did not make it back alive, and those whose remains lie there, still.

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The path spirals to the top of a small ridge, from whence to more completely appreciate this serene memorial.

After reflecting some on the basic goodness that my generation still manages to show, for the most part, I took the Wildwood Trail, to the park’s southwestern corner, before ambling back to the Rose Garden.

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This is the area that Lewis and Clark trod, looking much as they probably found it.

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I also managed a downtown walkabout, from Pioneer Square to the Pearl District.  Here is Old Chinatown.

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The lions are said to make troublemakers think twice about entering.

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Pioneer Square is well-festooned with roses, and other flora.

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After my photo shoots, two things remained.  Dinner at Pastini brought me their vegetable barley soup and baked manicotti. No Tiramisu, this time, though; I want  to refrain from capsizing the ferry from Bellingham to Wrangell, a few days hence. 😛

I spent about a half hour at Powell’s City of Books.  It is a given that I must make a pilgrimage there, much as I go to Boulder Books, when in the Front Range.  The little novel for which I looked was not there- it’s been distributed independently.  I can scarcely imagine a book not being in Powell’s, but there you have it.

The rain came down in buckets, as I headed out of town, and crossed the great Columbia, into Vancouver, WA.  With heavy traffic headed into that historic city, I kept to the left and drove on to Chehalis, a gateway to Mount Rainier and Mount St. Helens, neither of which I will be seeing up close, on this journey.

My Alaska ferry ticket is purchased, and on Friday, I will be beginning two weeks on the Marine Highway.

The Road to 65, Mile 184: Northwestward, Day 5: Mount Shasta to Portland

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May 31, 2015, Portland-  This is my third visit to the Rose City.  I got here around 8:30 PM, after a marathon drive up I-5, from Mount Shasta.  The day started with a light breakfast at Seven Suns Cafe, and a brisk walk.  I headed north, a little after 11 A.M., after my usual reflections and writing.

My first stop was about thirty miles up the road, in the intriguing town of Yreka (wy-REE-kuh).  The pronunciation is intended to distinguish this old mining town from Eureka, the former whaling port on the Lost Coast, about 100 miles west southwest and over the Coast Range.

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                                                             The origins of Yreka, thus described.

Yreka, CA

                                                               Downtown Yreka, CA

Near this spot, I took a call from my former client, who was delighted to report that all was well in his new environment.  This helped further set the tone for my own fine day.

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This is the Franco-American Hotel Building.  There was no one about, of whom I could inquire as to the flags.  I imagine they may be left from Memorial Day.

Just up the street is MacGregor’s, a book and gift emporium.

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                                    Closed on Sunday, yet worthy of the title “emporium”.

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                                               Most Western towns have their Garden Club.

Yreka’s favourite son promoted freeways across California.

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                                From his point of view, connectedness meant roads.

Two churches in the heart of downtown, are diagonal to one another.

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                                                    St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church

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                                                                St. Mark’s Episcopal Church

I bid farewell to Yreka, and to California itself, shortly thereafter.  My friends in Ashland, OR were waiting.

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                                           Mount Ashland, from the the east.

I enjoyed a lovely lunch, and a two-hour conversation, with my friends, the Weahs, at their lovely garden home.

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The freeway took me through plenty of beautiful mountains and valleys, past great owns like Grants Pass, Roseburg, Eugene, Corvallis and Salem. I did stop in Eugene for dinner at Empire Chinese Buffet, which I would recommend for variety and quality of the food.  Nothing was overly heat-lamped, and the attendants were constantly replacing the empty pans.

Portland, though, was my destination, and having connected with one of my friends here, I settled in for the night at the downtown EconoLodge.

The Road to 65, Mile 183: Northwestward, Resumed, Day 4- Reno to Mount Shasta

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May 30, 2015, Mount Shasta- I am at the base of northern California’s most sacred peak,

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in a town where Black Bear Diner came into existence, some twenty years ago.  The little eatery is still here, and in several other locations, across eight states.  So, I had dinner there this evening.

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More about that, in a bit.  The day started with my little “grand-niece’s” blanket tent being carefully honoured by everyone, including she.  After my usual breakfast of cereal and coffee, I bid my Reno family farewell and headed west.  The first stop was the Sierra Nevada town of Truckee, both for a bite of lunch, (leftover from last night’s dinner at Pho, in south Reno). and to check out the neat little spot.

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Sierra Inn is one of Truckee’s signature hotels.

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Truckee Hotel is the other.

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The main street was just starting to stir, on this bright Saturday morning.

On the north back street, there is a cute Arts Center:  Kindred Art and Folk Institute

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Having been to the performing arts center in Carson City, a few days ago, I am more inclined to notice these places, further along the road.

On the south side of town, across the tracks, runs the Truckee River.

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It is about as low here, as it was in Reno, on Thursday.

The grass and meadow flowers are doing okay, though.

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I drove on, across the Sierra Nevada, skirting Donner Pass- the site of infamy, in the mid-1860’s, and over to I-5, stopping briefly at Panera Bread, in Sacramento, for a power smoothie.  The Sacramento River, seen from the highway, appeared to be running a tad higher than the Truckee.

I made it to Mount Shasta, the city of a few thousand artists, ranchers and dreamers, around 5:30.  Finlandia Motel, on the west end of town, was my choice of rest stop for the night.  It has a small spa, which gave me a much-appreciated soak, after checking out the town by car and on foot.

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The office and lodgings have a fairy tale ambiance about them.

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I got to play with my zoom lens a bit, over the past few days.  The peaks to the west of Shasta (southern Cascades) loom larger.

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The town has a fine natural foods market, Berrydale.

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A barefoot young man, seemingly in a state of befuddlement, asked where he could get espresso.  Berrydale has a small deli counter, but it was 7:30, and even natural foods grocers have to go home at night.

Seven Suns, though, is the main spot in town for fine coffee and tea.

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                                   Has Beans is the preferred coffee source in this part of California.

Back to my dinner:  I sat at the counter, and was served by an attentive, mature lady.  Nearby, a local man was working a crossword puzzle.  I was able to give him one of the words, and a man in the booth behind us, gave another.  Our conversation ranged from the arcane (He:  “Different species of people can interbreed very easily”.  I: “That’s because we are all the same species”) to the edifying (He:  “I save all my paperwork.  When the government came after me, I won.”  I:  “That’s good to know.”)  I learn something new from everyone I meet, it seems.

The Road to 65, Mile 181: Carson City and Karaoke

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May 28, 2015, Carson City– I am not graced with a melodic singing voice, and dancing came to me only after a lot of practice.  Today would be capped by my artistic Washoe County extended family members, dancing (3-year-old ballerina) and singing (professional disc jockey).

We headed out for Carson City a bit before noon, the eventual goal being to watch a pre-school graduation, with several dances and Nursery Rhyme skits.  First up, though, was a visit to one of downtown Carson’s neat eateries- Comma Coffee.  It is just down the road from the St. Charles Hotel, on Carson Street. The Ferkin & Fox Company now owns the St. Charles Hotel.

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Comma Coffee is home to a rather spooky group.

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The walls reflect 150 years’ worth of memorabilia.

The “performers” prefer to hang loose.

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Carson City’s beginnings, rooted in the days of the Pony Express, are commemorated in front of another cafe.

We spent a half hour or so walking around the State Capitol District, the heart of Nevada’s capital city.

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This is one of three buildings used by the Attorney-General of Nevada.

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West of the AG’s complex is the Donald W. Reynolds Press Center, of the Nevada Press Association.

Uptown from the complex is the Nevada Commission on Tourism, in one of Carson City’s oldest buildings.

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We then sauntered over to the grounds of the Capitol itself.

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This statue honours Nevada’s miners, a collective mainstay of  the state’s economy.

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The state has seen its law officers more at risk, as the population has grown so rapidly, in the past thirty years.

There are several other statues on the Capitol grounds.  There are also more than two dozen types of flowers.

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We took a short break in late afternoon at LA Bakery, another fine little cafe, in the West Side Historic District.  It is owned by some Persian-Americans.

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My affinity for bonsai was satisfied by this little gem, in the dining room of LA.

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My mom  had a Ming-style bonsai, in our parlour, for over forty years.

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The Stewart-Nye House was home to a Nevada governor, James W. Nye, in the last years of the Nevada Territory.  Mr. Nye, and his predecessor in the house,  William M. Stewart, became Nevada’s first U.S. Senators.  The house now is the site of a law office.

The Pre-School ceremony was held in a former Catholic church, now a Performance Hall, ironically called the Brewery Arts Center.

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The children did an admirable job, with the various songs, dances and skits set before them by the veteran Pre-School Director.  Our youngest generation is up to reaching the bar.  My Reno extended family’s youngest member did her part in the dance, and made us all proud.

We headed back up to Reno afterward, and enjoyed an hour’s worth of karaoke, with thin-crust loaded pizza on special, at Uncle Vinny’s Pizza.  My host, Steve, was the DJ at the event, and it featured five melody masters, each doing their covers proud.  Of course, in keeping with my policy, no personal photos are posted here.

It was a fabulous day, and my Nissan is close to being roadworthy once again.

The Road to 65, Mile 180: Two Gardens, Two Riverwalks- Part 2

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May 27, 2015, Reno- The atmosphere in downtown Reno, and along the Riverwalk, is changing.  The gentry have arrived, thanks to banks and high mortgages, leading to higher rents, leading to artisans moving out.  Gentrification here, as in so many other places, means condos, retro plastic furniture and limits on public parking.  At least near the Riverwalk, that limit is two hours, free.

A friend referred to Reno as being on the edge between mountains and desert.  Indeed, this is the case.  I have felt myself being on several edges, simultaneously, this week.  It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, mind you, but one which rewards alacrity.  Let’s see:  Cold has been followed by heat; rain, by bright sunshine; near-collapse of personal transport, by active efforts at repair of same.

This brings me back to the Riverwalk.  Several cities have emulated Le Promenade de la Seine, with San Antonio and Sacramento being the most prominent, here in North America.  Reno’s Riverwalk takes in the banks of the Truckee.  There are cataracts, narrow sluices and old stone bridges on which to focus.  The water is turgid, brown, and, at present, shallow.  Kayaks have run aground here, this year.  As I said, earlier, so have a few iconic artisan shops. Dreamer’s, where we eventually enjoyed iced beverages, has moved further downtown, into Reno Center.  Another, once comfortable, gathering spot has replaced a detailed mural with one that is more generic, and its big comfy chairs have given way to small, pea-green plastic seats, that remind me of the East Coast in the early Seventies.

Nonetheless, a Riverwalk is a Riverwalk, and there are places worthy of seeing here.

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This is an eastward view of the Truckee.  The old bridge is due to be torn down and replaced, soon.

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Cataracts lead to swimmers jumping in the deeper spots, during Reno’s July Arts Festival.

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This bridge, in mid-Riverwalk, seems to be the most popular crossing.

The oldest church in Reno, First United Mehtodist, dating from the 1860’s, lies north of the river.

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We moved towards downtown, after a quick walking survey of shops revealed trends which disappointed my host, a long-time resident.

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Outwardly, Reno has changed little, since I was first here, in 1980.

We found the new Dreamer’s Coffee House, and enjoyed iced lattes.

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I know, I need to engage my zoom lens- and I have, since- just not here.

Whilst gazing upon the Truckee, my thoughts went back to La Seine, and to the Riverwalk of San Antonio.  The last has endured some bumps, over the past five days, with its river rising and falling- and possibly rising again this coming weekend.  My heart is with San Antonio and its sister communities, across the land of the Lone Star.

In the end, though, there is this truism:

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I have my good points, as a man, but coffee- Yes, it brings us all up to speed.

The Road to 65, Mile 180: Two Gardens, Two Riverwalks- Part 1

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May 27, 2015, Reno- The sodden ground of Texas has been much on my mind, in this strange, beautiful and terrible end of May.  The Red Cross has issued a call for volunteers, both general and specific.  Once again, here I am, far afield from the disaster area, wrestling with a measure of guilt and facing my own challenge.  Such is the cost of marching to one’s own drumbeat.  There will come a time, again, when I will find myself in a disaster area, and will be all-in with the recovery work.  For now, that work falls to others.

So, on I go- being here, in The Biggest Little City in the World, for some people who I have known, seemingly forever, and they for me.  It will take another day or so for my vehicle to be refitted; then I will take my leave.  I hope that, in some way, I will have refitted my friends to address their individual pain-fields, and to be more equipped to cast that pain aside.

Most cities have at least one public garden, where flora of all kinds are celebrated and allowed to flourish.   One of Reno’s is the Wilbur D. May Arboretum and Botanical Garden, named in honour of a local philanthropist and rancher, who was a scion of the May Department Store’s founder. It is part of the larger  Rancho San Rafael Regional Park. Our visit there, yesterday, took place under partly cloudy skies, in comfortable conditions. Here are a few scenes.

The Duck Pond had two intrepid mallards in it.  The often ubiquitous Canadian geese were nowhere to be seen.  It being a strange year, that is somehow not surprising.

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After stopping by the Visitor’s Center, and confirming as to the reason for the dearth of waterfowl, we continued to the Arboretum and Botanical Garden, proper. St. Patrick’s Grove greets the visitor, and extends along the sidewalk.

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The stone shamrock reflects, with its cracks, the experience of  Ireland.

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The Labyrinth Garden is small, and mainly features ground cover, around the intriguing maze-like circle.

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Passing into the Arboretum, we came first to the Kleiner Grove, featuring oaks of the East Coast.

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                                   A small area is set aside, in honour of Wilbur May’s mother.

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                                   The bridge, and adjacent waterfalls, express Mrs. May’s tastes.

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            This waterfall was available for photographing.  The other was the focus of another patron’s deep meditation.

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This abandoned water slide lies just east of the park.

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The Songbird Garden was rather quiet, but then, it was mid-afternoon.

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These fountain stones evoked Carnac, for me.

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Light and shadow have a reassuring effect.

While finishing up our visit, I thought of Blucher Park, Corpus Christi’s downtown nature walk, which feature’s that area’s native plants.  It was lovely, this time of year, in 2012.  I wonder about its condition now, after the tribulations of last weekend.  Corpus saw its record for wettest month broken, this past weekend.  It apparently did not suffer as much as places further north and east, but the pain is there, and the community lost one of its own, in floodwaters near the town of Uvalde, west of San Antonio.

We continued on, this afternoon, to Reno’s Riverwalk and downtown.  More about these, in Part 2.