The Road to 65, Mile 207: Queen of the Inland Northwest, Day 1

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Posted by on in Hiking and Nature, Travel

June 23, Spokane- I woke up from a night of roughing it, on the ground at Country Corners RV Park, in Wilbur, WA, about ninety-minutes west of Spokane. I got dressed and off to breakfast, at Doxie’s Diner, one of those places where the cook is the waitress, and the regulars address her as “Mom”.  The coffee was on the main table, and I was invited to make myself at home.  Great place, Doxie’s, and I could easily have whiled away a good morning there, especially listening to everyone’s stories of the previous night’s aurora borealis, through which I slept, of course. It had appeared around 2 AM.

I had a feeling it was about time I got over to Spokane, to see what had changed since I was last there, in 1995. I stopped for a bit of reflection, at a Rest Area, off US 2. Greeting me was this intrepid little critter, who might be a tad uncomfortable on a leash.

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I got to Spokane, around 9 AM, and headed straight for Riverside Park, which was one of my fondest memories from 20 years ago.  The first sight was the salmon ladder.

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The Spokane Falls, though, are quite prominent, both at the north end of the park and towards the middle.

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After a couple hours of meandering around the park, I headed east a bit, to the old Flour Mill, now home to about a dozen shops.  One of these is Chocolate Apothecary, whose proprietor had sandwiches advertised, along with his main line of delectable chocolate.

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Alas, his sandwiches, prepared by Rocket Bakery, had not arrived.  At his suggestion, I headed across the parking lot, and up the street, to Stella’s Cafe. The Northwest is a fabulous place for cavernous, Steam Punk cafes and restaurants.

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Stella’s offered a lovely Roast Beef, au jus  and had some intriguing art work.  This woman had tied up her demon and her ego, and was ready to take on the world.

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After lunch, I checked out Spokane’s near north side, and its majestic County Courthouse.  This neo-Renaissance classic was built by W. A. Ritchie, and was open for business in November, 1895.  It is, arguably, one of Washington State’s finest buildings.

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Returning to Riverside Park, I found quite a flock of gulls, feasting on whatever they could find in the Spokane River.269

Anthony’s at Spokane Falls is another member, in that great chain of West Coast seafood establishments.  It is across the bridge from the hydroelectric power station.  It is notable that Spokane, using the force of its cascades, was the second community in the U.S., after New York City, to become electrified.271

It was starting to get pretty hot, in mid-afternoon, so this fountain was a big treat for the children who were at Riverside for the day.

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As for me, I went over to Atticus,  a lovely coffee, book and gift shop, across Spokane Falls Drive from Riverside Park, and got a refreshing, cool beverage.  After being there for an hour, catching up on my e-mails and correspondence, I noted the barrista’s consternation, and vowed to come back the next morning, sans laptop, and just savour the coffee.

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The evening was spent, between Downtowner Lodge, which at the time was the only motel in downtown Spokane with no WiFi, Spokane Public Library, and the Food Court in River Park Square, which offered connections to anyone eating supper there.  After satisfying myself that my friends and family were safe and well, I went back to the room and watched a bit of nondescript TV, then read for a while.  Day two would feature a gondola ride, more walking around Riverside Park, perhaps a visit with an online friend and an evening with some of the Baha’is of Spokane.

The Road to 65, Mile 217: More Than

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Posted by on in Personal goals, Social

July 3, 2015-   I encountered two online posts by women, today.  One was a TED Talk, by a fashion model.  The other was a blog post by a young friend, part of her ongoing exploration of who, and what, she is.

We thrive on the superficial, many of us, because it seems easier.  Men ogle attractive females, from girls not even old enough to drive a car, or hold down a job to those women deemed by society to have “preserved well with age.”  Women have their share of “Magic Mike” and Chippendales moments.  There is not much difference, in such as we do in that regard, from a trip to the zoo.  Now, to fend off any troll who may be sharpening his rhetorical knife as he reads this- Yes, I have had my share of such superficiality.

It’s time to move up the evolutionary scale, a few notches, however.  I was married to a physically lovely woman, with a winsome personality, who was also several points higher than I, in terms of intelligence.  Since she passed on, my friendships with women have been varied.  In each case, I have learned to place their sense of self-worth, first and foremost.  I was not a perfect husband, but Penny taught me that much about friendship across the much vaunted Gender Divide.  We were best friends, as well as spouses.  Anticipation of the other’s needs is part of it, and direct communication, another.

Of the utmost importance, though, as the young model and my blogging friend both attest, is that there is always more, far more, to any given human being, than the pretty face, lithe figure and statuesque bearing that seem to mean so much, to so many in society.  I thought of this, constantly, during a recent visit to Spokane.  As I walked from my motel to downtown, I passed a billboard featuring the singer/actress Taylor Swift.  The ad stressed her features, and makeup.  My immediate thought was “There is so much more to you than this, precious soul.”

Those dismissed as “eye candy” may buy into that shallow assessment.  The human spirit, however, is a hard taskmaster.  A pigeonholed person will act in restless fashion, and will either: Seek attention in unhealthy ways; will meekly submit and then fade into obscurity,  as the feckless lose interest; or will, as the late, and estimable, Hedy Lamarr did, combine a healthy respect for her natural beauty with a vigourous pursuit of her intellectual skills.  The same is true for men, though on a lesser scale.

The closest of my friends, both female and male, are those with whom I can carry on meaningful conversation, can engage in interesting activities or just sit in one another’s presence, each doing what is foremost in their personal realm.  The key is mutual regard, a belief in the ability of the friend to reach whatever heights one’s soul seeks and a willingness to let go of limiting personal agendas.  There are those in my life, conversely, who are often calculating what I might do FOR them.  They see little of me.  I have enough to do, to pay back those who have shown me great kindness, but that’s a topic for another post.

To each, falls the task of scaling one’s own mountain, and triumphantly setting foot on one’s own moon.

The Road to 65, Mile 206: Evergreen Crossings, Day 4- Cascades and Coulees

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Posted by on in Hiking and Nature, Social, Travel

June 22, 2015, Wilbur, WA- The day started with getting laundry done, in Monroe, at one of the more expensive laundromats I’ve seen in a while.  It uses an Easy Card, so the fare is purchased in advance, for  laundry supplies, washer and dryer.  I did everything in one load,as is my wont, when on the road.

I passed Travelers Park, before turning right onto Highway 2 East.

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On the way out of town, I gave a short ride to three people, who my intuition said, correctly, were good risks.  They had no interest in me, other than to know why I was here, from Arizona- a reasonable query of a stranger.  Eight miles further, I let them off, at a place called Gold Bar.

My next stop, however, was a tough little town called Skykomish, which has about 500 people who still support a weekly bus service to Monroe and have their own school district.  It was founded as a rail stop, by routing engineer John Stevens, for whom nearby Stevens Pass is named. This old building used to be Skykomish Hotel.

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The rest of the town also has a frontier air about it, still.

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I had lunch (leftover lasagna) at a picnic table facing the main street. Then, it was on to Deception Falls.

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This popular trail, at the foot of Stevens Pass, offers the three cascades of Deception Creek.

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Note the relative purity of the water.

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The trees provide variety in the scenery, especially as they lean,

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serve as springboard stumps,

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or act as nesting pots for new trees.

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or, still as a place to drive piles.

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Meanwhile,back at the falls:

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There was a plenitude of visitors, yet much of the time, I found myself alone, as most people gathered at two overlooks.

The road led next to Leavenworth, not the Federal prison, but the touristy mountain community, about forty minutes from Wenatchee.  The Wenatchee River is a major comfort, for locals and visitors alike.

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I stopped just long enough to walk along the river a bit, and to buy some coffee from a local grinder, Square 15.  It was to be a gift for my friends in Reno. The faux Bavarian scene can be taken in small doses.

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I stopped in Wenatchee,for about two hours, long enough to marvel at the clear air (compared to the smoke which brought me here in prayerful service, three years ago) and to enjoy a fine Hispanic-fusion meal, courtesy of two friends.

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I shall send them some Arizona treats, very soon.

The rest of the evening entailed driving down from the central Cascades, and into the western edge of the Great Basin.  Some outlying areas reminded me of the Great Plains.  There are patches of desolation.

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There is a worrisome dryness.

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The coulees of the Columbia River, and its tributaries, provide irrigation water, regulated by a series of dams.

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One of these is Dry Falls Dam, about a mile south of Grand Coulee.

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No, that’s not a fresh-water dolphin, in the river above.

I settled in on a grassy patch, at a little RV park called Country Corners, and slept fairly well, except there was this event called Aurora Borealis, and my tired self couldn’t leap out of the sleeping bag and take a shot or two.  Perhaps one or two of you saw it.

The Road to 65, Mile 216: Celestine

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Posted by on in Personal goals, Social

July 2, 2015, Prescott- I am grounded.  The Nissan’s dash says “Service Engine Soon”, so it will sit in the carport until my mechanic, and everyone else, has gotten the holiday out of their system.  It may stay there longer, if the money that I am expecting shows up in my account, tomorrow morning or Saturday.  Then, I will catch a shuttle to Phoenix, and a plane to San Diego, and honour my son as his birthday approaches-on Sunday of course, and I would stay in SoCal until Wednesday evening.

I have personal and civic obligations here at base on Independence Day, and these, too, are labours of love.  A parade, in which I will be in the Red Cross contingent, a gathering at the American Legion, and the rest of the day with my best friend in Prescott, all of which brought me back here on the 29th of June.

Last night, after I watched “The Celestine Prophecy”, about which more in a moment, I was upbraided on social media, for not being willing to conduct an online dalliance, with someone I’ve never met.  What a change, from two years ago, when I was all over the place, trying to figure out what my emotions were and how to deal with them.  Most of the people who were in on the mental anguish I was enduring at the time, are still my friends, and God bless every one of them.

This brings me back to “The Celestine Prophecy”.  Every American film, it seems, has to have a romantic twist.  In this one, Marjorie is pursued by John, captivated by both her beauty and her aura of mystery (he saw her in a vision, that appeared to have taken place in the year 1622).  John learns, quickly, to give the lady her space, and eventually sees that it is not the time for them to be together, though they certainly endure a lot- especially at the hands of Jensen, a cartoonish villain (whom John also sees in his vision, replete with wispy, handlebar mustache.)

“Celestine”, a film adaptation of the first of a series of novels by James Redfield, explores the growth of human consciousness and postulates nine principles, revealed in a series of scrolls in ancient times.  John, and a group of like-minded souls, seek to find the ninth scroll, which Jensen, representing The Powers That Be (an Illuminati-like entity, who, of course, remain unseen), wants to find first and destroy, lest it tear asunder the power structure.

The upshot of the film is that the quest for power, by  the Illuminati and everyone else, is a chimera.  Human consciousness is moving steadily to a far deeper level than any materially-oriented force an ever appreciate.  It is emerging, regardless of the quibbling, death and destruction that The Powers That Be are visiting upon us, and will continue to visit upon this planet, for a certain time.  Real power, however, is spiritual and collective.  It is as present in the most humble, vulnerable child, as it is in the person of a brutish, swaggering general ( such as Jensen’s chief minion in the film), and perhaps more so.

So, I sit in a safe, comfortable room, and contemplate my blessings:  A strong, hard-working son, a good woman who is a steadfast friend ( and who, much like the film’s Marjorie, is given the space she needs to process all that is going on in her own, considerably complex life), a community that stands firm together, in spite of the callow local government, and a Faith which can carry me through anything at all, and does.

The Road to 65, Mile 205: Father’s Day

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Posted by on in Hiking and Nature, Personal goals, Travel

June 21, 2015, Monroe, WA- I woke , to a bit late today, around 7:15, to speak with my son on this Hallmark morning.  It’s always good to hear his voice, contrived occasion or not.  I was in the suburban clime of Mount Vernon, had been wished “Happy Father’s Day” by the waitress at Farm House Restaurant, in this city’s La Conner neighbourhood, after getting off the ferry last night, and got a somewhat more subdued greeting from the server at Riverside Cafe, near the motel, during breakfast this morning.  Racial politics, Hispanic vs. Anglo, seems to be playing out a bit in this community, which is always a hard thing.  I was given my breakfast, and two cups of coffee, then expected to leave.  Riverside will not see me again., though Farm House would be a pleasure.

I was in a funk, not knowing which direction to head, yet after reclaiming some items I had left at Holiday Motel, the day before, and enjoying some coffee and a treat at Johnny Picasso’s, in Anacortes, I had an idea.  Heading to Arlington, and Oso, the site of a horrible mudslide in March, 2014, I took some time for prayer towards racial healing, as several people back in Arizona were gathering to pray for the same, with the Charleston Massacre as their focal point.  There is no one group that does not need a healing balm.

The message was clearer to me after that, and I drove east on Highway 2, finding the small town of Monroe to be a good place to rest.  The Monroe Motel lies alongside Woods Creek, so there was no finer place for me to observe today, thinking of fatherhood-how it affected me as a son, as a son-in-law, as a spouse and as a parent. 158

I was not an easy son.  My happy-go-lucky, but hard-working father did not know what to make of me, half the time.  I did not know what to make of me, half the time.  I wonder if he knew how much he was loved, back then.  He knows now.

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My role with my father-in-law was part good-natured foil for his jokes, and part guarantor of his family line’s continuing on in safety.  We gave him his only grandson, and that guaranteed my safety. He knows now, how important it was to me that Aram actively knew his grandfather.  Both of mine were dead before I emerged from toddlerhood.

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Penny and I were close to nature, as individuals and as a pair.  She would sometimes, in the throes of her progressive decline, say that she felt she was in my way.  In truth, she WAS my way.  She knows that now.

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I have gone through a fair number of personal struggles, in my late teens, in my twenties, and in the buffeting called my fifties.  Somehow, I have emerged.  Fatherhood happened for me, in the best way I knew at the time.  There was a lot more I could have provided, for my son’s stability.  I realize that now.

He’s okay, thanks to the discipline of the Navy, and his grandfather’s guiding hands of steel and velvet.  I am here for him, and can finally show a solid example of how to move through life, come hell or high water.  Aram knows that now.

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I went into this lovely, if cavernous, establishment in downtown Monroe.  A Caesar salad, meat lasagna and a bowl of spumoni were my Father’s Day meal.  Half the lasagna was saved for tomorrow, and my drive to Wenatchee, where I will reconnect with friends from three  years ago.

I end this with Monroe’s comment on the whole race issue.

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My spirit guides are with me, still.

The Road to 65, Mile 215: Challenges/Opportunities

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Posted by on in Personal goals

July 1, 2015, Prescott- As is always the case when I return from a wandering, there were lots of base camp tasks in front of me.  Not the least of these was tracking down my pile of mail, so as to get two pay checks deposited and thus stave off NSF.  I have had a good track record, since recovering from the Great Recession, and aim to keep it that way.

Finance has neither been my strong suit, nor has it been an Achilles heel.  The best way, for me, to go about life is with cash and check.  Work will be quite constant this coming academic year, and that’s a great thing.

My yard project was pretty much done for me, by the landlord himself, while I was away. He is a trouper:  That work was done during the period that Prescott, and much of the continent, endured 100+ ,for nearly three weeks.  I will keep at the process of building raised beds, so that next year, seeds may be planted.  At least the onion bulbs will go in shortly, and we’ll see how they do.

July will be prime time for volunteering, I can sense, so I will show up at things like the Fourth of July Parade, and the Red Cross float, the Hope Fest kickoff event on July 18, and whatever things Slow Food and Yavapai County Angels have going.  Then, too, there would be any disasters that happen, but we will let sleeping dogs lie, for now.

The travels?  Yes, I have gotten to be the Poster Child for wanderlust.  As another friend recently remarked, this seems to be a Sagittarrian thing.  This Sagittarian will be more inclined to short, focused bursts, for the next five years at least. There may be a faith-based trip down to Chile, late in 2016, but my primary focus is on family and friends:  My son, and a couple of good friends, in southern California; my paternal uncle, in Colorado; my soon-to-be hexagenarian brother, in Atlanta; and the bulk of my biological family, at Christmas-time, in New England.  I want to do more day trips from here, that could draw in a good friend. Finally, there are my long-neglected Native American friends in northeast Arizona, and at least one weekend in early August will see me up there.

This day finds me in a very relaxed frame of mind, ready for whatever life sends.  It’s just too hot and languid to be otherwise.

The Road to 65, Mile 204: A Potlatch and A Walking Tour

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Posted by on in Hiking and Nature, Social, Travel

June 20, 2015, Victoria- I hit the ground running this morning, though it’d have been easy to laze the day away in Anacortes.  A three-hour ride across the straits lay Sidney, BC, a harbour town northeast of Victoria.  British Columbia’s capital was participating fully in Canada’s National Aboriginal Day.  While this was officially on Sunday, the festivities were going on all weekend, on the grounds of the Royal British Columbia Museum, a magnificent facility, which would have taken up the entire weekend, in and of itself.

I zipped to the ferry station, west of Anacortes, and parked carefully in the day lot, as I would be returning at night.The wharfside featured some competitors for breakfast.

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The cormorants far outnumbered the lone gull, however, so he followed us into the water for a while.  Our first stop was Friday Harbor, a delightful little town I might like to explore further, some day.

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The same is true of Sidney, the small port where we landed.  A gruff Customs Officer gave me the third degree, then sent me happily along, to the port’s charming downtown.

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My first act was to check Eastview Park, and its sculptures.

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The artwork continued, downtown.

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I spent about 20 minutes and C$ 10, at Haunted Bookshop, said to be Vancouver Island’s oldest.

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The proprietor was kind enough to give me change for the bus to Victoria.  I took a double decker, going to the top tier, and engaging in conversation with a Korean student, resident in Vancouver, who was also here on holiday.  He was primarily interested in shopping, and in going to Butchart Gardens, which I had already consigned to a future visit.  They are another site that is worth a full day, in and of themselves.

Upon arriving at the potlatch site, I took several minutes to wander among the totem poles of the Royal Museum grounds.042

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I also took in the Helmcken House, home to Dr. John Helmcken and his family, in the late 19th Century.  Dr. Helmcken persuaded fellow British Columbians to join the Dominion of Canada.

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This carillon, on the north side of the museum grounds, adds a more contemporary touch to the mix.

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Once into the Potlatch area, we were set straight as to where we were.  The Songhees and Esquimault (Es-KWY-mawl) are working commonly, to preserve Aboriginal fishing rights and guard the health of the waterways.

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I was taught, from an early age, that listening and observing were especially important, when in the presence of Native elders.  Of course, these skills certainly lend themselves well to getting along in ANY company.  I watch a seal-hunting dance, by some of the Songhees people, after having enjoyed a bowl of Vancouver Island-stye clam chowder and fry bread, an Aboriginal staple, across the continent.

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While waiting for the walking tour guide, I took in the British Columbia Parliament Building and the Empress Hotel, diagonal from Parliament.  The neo-Baroque  British Columbia Parliament Buildings were completed by Francis Rattenbury, in 1898.

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The Fairmont Empress Hotel, completed in 1908, was the western showpiece of the Canadian Pacific Railroad’s hotel line.  It certainly competes with the grand hotels of Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver, in terms of ornateness.

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I’m sure Queen Victoria would have approved of the city named in her honour.

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Our walking tour started, just after I had paid homage to the Queen.  We began at the old harbour, which guide Mark Albany, of the Songhees Nation, explained was traditional Aboriginal fishing ground, though the harbour was largely filled in by the British, for the sake of commerce.  It is about half the size of its pre-British days.

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Mark was an incisive, fast-moving human encyclopedia.

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Human hand and arm sculptures appear at five points, in downtown Victoria.  They honour the industry of all workers, who built the city, into a vibrant port.

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These Romanesque supports for the downtown evoked Rouen and Vannes, France, for me.

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Aboriginal kitchen middens have been preserved, at the water’s edge, by the City Council, as an archaeological zone.

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Mark took us in and around the remnants of the Bastion, the original British seaside fortress, meant to defend against the Spanish and Russians, as well as against any Aboriginals who might have had depredatory intentions.

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As you might guess, part of this building is now used as a wine cellar.

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We looked around the old commercial district, where Mark noted the contrast between the British division of property into parcels, and the Aboriginal notion of land being for common use.

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The original cobbles of Victoria’s streets were built of Douglas fir.

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As this was soon found to be an unwieldy practice, the British turned to stone and pressed glass pavers for their streets.

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I had to bid farewell to Mark,the group (who were mostly Victoria residents, just learning about their city from a First Nations perspective) and to fair Victoria.  As the ferry back to Anacortes passed into the strait, a pair of orcas were engaged in feeding.

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It wasn’t quite sunset, but the red sails were out.

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The trimast also was out, seeking cetaceans for the evening.

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I was favourably impressed with Victoria, and will set aside more time, strictly for Vancouver Island, on some future jaunt.  For now, though, thought must be given to other areas of the Northwest, before I head southward to my base.

The Road to 65, Mile 214: The Black Tiles

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Posted by on in Personal goals, Social

June 30, 2015, Prescott- This is where I resume the practice of writing two posts a day.  Morning will feature a reminiscence of the day just prior.  Evening will bring a post related to a just-completed journey to the Pacific Northwest and southeast Alaska.  Thus, you will not a juxtaposition in the “Miles” referenced.

On June 30, 2013, I was returning from a visit to the Navajo community of Dinebito and the Hopi village of Polacca.  Whilst driving through Leupp, on the way back, a bulletin came on KNAU.  19 wildland fire fighters had been killed in a windblown firestorm, at Yarnell, west of Prescott.  The team had been based in Prescott itself.  The communities of Yarnell and Peeples Valley had been evacuated, thus giving me an exact message as to what had to be done next.  I went directly to the Red Cross shelter, at Yavapai College, and served, as needed, there for the next four days, while working around a family event in San Diego.

All of that is now a blur, but the suffering of the “Hot Shot’s” families, ever since, is all too real.  Their day-to-day recovery has been undermined by the crusty attitude of many here in the area- “The men knew what they were getting into, when they signed on. Don’t give the survivors a dime more than they’re due already.”  Fortunately, enough of us Prescottonians can look beyond that benighted view of life, so that the surviving families have prevailed, in the courts and in every day life.  A foundation has been established, to handle the most pressing long-term needs.

There is a tradition, in the firehouse, that a rookie does not step on the set of black tiles that lines the middle of the floor, until he or she has been through a major blaze.  The tiles in Station 17, where the Hot Shots were housed, are now enshrined.  No one steps on them.

This leads me to thinking. Years ago, my father-in-law took me aside and said, “You have had some fine experiences as a couple, already.  You have not, though,as yet, been through more than a minor bump or two.  That was in 1985.  Since then, everyone who knows me, has witnessed the real rough patches.  The years from 2003-2011 were enough for any person’s life education.  I have stepped on the black tiles of my own life house.  It is a humbling place, and not often  a lonely one- thanks to those who have stayed as true friends.

As I stood this afternoon, on the Court House lawn, listening to the Fire Marshall offer words of respect for the fallen, the thought came that, while there is no guarantee that a fresh calamity won’t come our way, tomorrow, the sense of community that transcends even the differences of opinion,which sometime threaten to tear us asunder, will be what lifts us in a healing and forward-moving direction.  Yes, love is the secret.

The Road to 65, Mile 203: Evergreen Crossings, Day 1: Anacortes

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Posted by on in Hiking and Nature, Social, Travel

June 19, 2015, Anacortes- The ferry brought me in to Bellingham, right on schedule.  Taking my sick camera to a Best Buy, in nearby Burlington, for shipment off to a fix-it shop, was my first priority.  While waiting for the store to open, I got some coffee and a muffin, and saw the horror we had missed, whilst aboard ship:  The Charleston Massacre.  I was numb, for a few minutes, then throw-the-book-at-him angry, that this should continue to happen, in the middle of 2015- the midmost heart of the second decade of the 21st Century.  Thought then took over- I had just been in a fairly isolated environment, with little interaction with anyone, for nearly two days.  There were, however, people of all “racial” groups aboard, and the crew was well-blended.  This reflects the Alaska of 2015, which ought to, in turn, reflect the America of this same year.  Yet, hearts don’t change.  People hold on to the most quotidian of symbols- a gun, an outmoded flag, as if these guarantee some sort of shield from a malevolent external force.  Perhaps, in a way, they do.  Does that mean, however, that these symbols may be used as malevolent forces of their own- and against people who have been NOTHING BUT LOVING to the individual who now attacks them?

I had to carry on, though, and did, choosing the comforting and picturesque ferry port of Anacortes, as a place to settle for one day, and just walk about, after a comforting nap at Holiday Motel.  It’s run by two of the nicest hoteliers I have encountered in the “lower 48”, though I have to say that, how I perceive people is usually how they end up being.

Anacortes has an old church, which is now for sale. Other denominations seem to be thriving, but not this Congregationalist parish.  Perhaps it moved over to the west side of town.

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I wandered around the east harbour, where there is a skate park, a yacht club and several container vessels.  East Anacortes seems to be the more industrial part of town.

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Street art seems to be everywhere, these days, and Anacortes has its fair share.  There is a Music Festival coming here soon.

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I visited the Performing Arts Center’s grounds, after hours, and was overjoyed to see its name.

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The venue is to be very active, tomorrow.  I will, however, be in Victoria, BC, for a National Aboriginal Canadians Day festival.  Still, this is another very comforting thing about this little port.

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Hearts come in all shapes and sizes.

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They can also be complex.

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I wonder if Juliet, or Rapunzel, would favour such a balcony ?

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Perhaps, if her suitor were to proffer such a mix of flowers as this.

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Wandering, reluctantly, away from Hearts of Anacortes, I found a gem of a different sort.  The city includes a waterfront park, at the north harbour. The wharves are largely given over to disuse, and are therefore welcoming to some cormorants.

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Could this pass for a dog, or an alligator?  Driftwood does inspire flights of fancy.

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Spying a fossil shell was a treat.

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It appears Nature has her own pictographs.902

There were a few other intrepid souls out, enjoying this special park.  It is a good mark for a community, when it takes the best of what is placed in its midst.  If I ever felt the need to leave Prescott, for another base, Anacortes would be on my short list.

The Road to 65, Mile 202: Southeast IS Northwest, Day 11, Reflections While On The Inland Passage

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Posted by on in Personal goals, Travel

June 18, 2015, Off Campbell River, BC-  On a full day of being ferried through the Canadian section of the Inland Passage, the focus turned inward.  Fleeting glimpses of places like Bella Bella were more a diversion than the main attraction, on this misty day.

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Three central issues in my life flowed along today:  Worthiness, safety and perseverance.

In my late teens and in my twenties, I was a train wreck. I was taught social skills in my childhood, but never quite internalized them, until about age 30.  The less said about all my missteps and accidents in that decade or so, the better.  Things went along well, in my thirties and forties, the prime years of our marriage, and of careers.  My fifties were another rough patch, yet there I did learn perseverance, and that it is the natural outgrowth of commitment.  My family and friends have stuck with me, through all of it, and each of these years passed before me, in reflection, during the course of this day.

I have had a hard row, in feeling safe, in certain places, during the course of my life.  I felt alternately safe and threatened, growing up in my hometown, but learning to face adversaries is an all-too-common part of life.  I certainly feel secure, when in Saugus, now, of course.  So, too, has the list of places where I feel at ease and free from harm, been growing, over the past few years.

Maybe that’s the real reason why I have been in so many places, since 2011.  I have always wandered, as has been mentioned before, but perhaps the only way to know for sure as to security, is to go to a place, follow the normal protocols of safety and courtesy expected there, and prove to myself that all is okay.

Now, on my way back to the more contiguous reaches of North America, I am reminded of perseverance.  There is much ahead, in Prescott and vicinity, across Arizona, and around the southwest quadrant of the United States, over the next many months.  Family events will take me away, for a few days here and there, but the main focus will be the life of community.

So, as I read “Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Book Store”, and “Crota”, my mind considered the sacrifices made by the protagonists of both stories, the triumph over almost insurmountable challenges, and the three-dimensional nature of the antagonists.  My mind considered what I had overcome, when I had been a protagonist of sorts, and when I have been cast as the antagonist in an event- which has happened, more to my chagrin than I sometimes care to think.  Nothing beyond the mist is as foggy, or as clearcut, as we sometimes like to think.

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Many things go on, like the lives of whales, largely beneath the surface.

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Then, the truth surfaces, and distant realities also have to be considered, even as we marvel at the sight closest to our eyes.

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I started to refer to the town visible from our port as “Port Hardy”.  A gentleman who is more seasoned on these cruises calmly stated the town was Campbell River, and that he had camped there in his RV, on a few occasions.

Oh, the joy, and humility, of seeing illusions evaporate.  I placed the freshly-completed copy of “Crota” back in the Purser’s library, and donated “Mr. Penumbra” to that collection.  It will appeal to at least a couple of inquiring minds among the ship’s crew.  In the morning, I would see the sight of Fairhaven, the ferry port at Bellingham, WA.  It is time for filling in the gaps, of my map of the Evergreen State.