Tunnel Vision

How do I even describe Yosemite? There have been thousands, if not millions of photos taken at "Tunnel View". I've seen the photos, but none of them do the place justice. In fact, the first time we passed through the tunnel on the Wawona Road, heading back to Yosemite Valley after a full day of hiking and exploring, I gasped at this sight. I was thoroughly exhausted after covering more than 8 miles of ground. My leg was on fire, stressed from a 3000' descent over 6 miles. Yet, the exhaustion and pain were completely forgotten just as we passed through the tunnel and could see Yosemite Valley, framed by the rock of the tunnel entrance. We entered into the full sunshine, parked and walked with other awed visitors who were crowding around THE perfect shot for THE perfect photo that they had seen thousands of time before. Everyone wanted their very own personal record of the place. Now, like me, they will look at their own version of the Tunnel View photo, will share their photo with everyone they know, post their Tunnel View photo on blogs, Flickr and Facebook, and still not one of those photos will capture the full spectacle. Every photo taken of Yosemite Valley from just this spot is nothing more than a pale shadow of the actual majesty of Yosemite. Everyone who sees this view in person is awestruck. I think that all of us who have stood in this spot leaves the place just a bit sad that they must leave and cannot stay to stare at it continuously until the last day on earth. Standing in this spot is perhaps like glimpsing heaven. I've been away from Yosemite for only 6 hours, and I want to return. I need to return. I think that I have left a part of my soul there, and I must return someday to make myself whole again.

It's My Way or the Highway

We finished up Chuck's portion of our California trip, which involved his participation in the USATF Masters National Track and Field Championships. His club, Greater Philadelphia Track Club, posted an impressive 97 points earned by eight team members. I enjoyed watching the events, and I enjoyed hanging out with everyone. It would have been lovely had I not had to work, but I did spend 16 hours in the hotel room working away at transcription for 2 days. Still, from my window I could see palm trees, a maid came every day to make the beds and clean the room, and I ate in restaurants every night. In fact, we had a fantastic meal at Ernesto's in Sacramento one night, and the following night, the born-and-bred Irishman on the club suggested we visit a true Irish pub downtown. There was great music, beer and food, and I very much enjoyed listening to the guys tell tales of the track. The track and field culture has so many similarities to the hiking world, and I had as good a time hanging with them as I do sitting around a campfire with my friends at the end of a good day of hiking.

And now that we have the track and field events done, we've arrived at MY portion of the trip. I've enticed Kong into the great outdoors, and we are now settled in Yosemite National Park. It's not exactly wilderness where we are. We're staying in a swank little wooden cabin at Curry Village. It's actually referred to a as a "tent", but aside from some plastic drop cloth type material tossed over the plywood frame of a neat little 10 x 12 hut, it really isn't a tent. We have a double bed and two twin beds here, a wooden floor, electricity, a real screen door, tiny dresser, and even a heater, which I seriously doubt we'll need. Even Kong had to admit that it's "not bad." I think the place looks like a summer camp on steroids, and he says he feels a bit like a carney on the road.

But let's go back to the beginning. We left Sacramento this morning and enjoyed a another scenic California road trip. The countryside was every farmer's dream. We passed vineyards, fruit orchards, and strawberry fields. After about 2 hours, the Sierras began to rise up from the valley, and I became more and more excited. We stopped in Groveland to have lunch at the Iron Door Saloon, the oldest saloon still operating in California. The inside looked like something from a John Wayne movie, and I immediately noticed that the ceiling was fairly covered with crumpled dollar bills. There were probably enough of them up there to buy a few rounds in a packed house. Our server explained that the bills have tacks stuck through them, then a quarter is placed over the tack, and the bill is folded over the quarter. The saloon patron then tosses the bill at the ceiling. If it sticks, the happy marksman gains an invitation to the dollar party. I neglected to ask him what went on at the party, as at about that point, someone came into the bar to announce that there was a forest fire just up the road. Fire trucks screamed down the main street, and nearly everyone rushed to the front door to watch. Things must be pretty slow in Groveland. Apparently, the fire wasn't much of a threat, and we were able to finish our lunches. We each had deliciously fresh salads, and I'm quite sure that salads were not on the menu back in the 1850s when the Iron Door first swung open.

We continued on to Yosemite, arriving not long after. We nearly missed the sign, and did an illegal maneuver to get an obligatory photo. We then stopped to pick the brain of a ranger at the info station just beyond the entrance. He suggested hikes for us, and told us to stop at the Merced Grove of Sequoia just 4 miles down the road. I had heard that this was a rather unimpressive grove, but I was thoroughly impressed. We had the trail nearly to ourselves, and enjoyed a 3 mile round trip through a mostly redwood forest. Just as I began to wonder if I would be able to tell the difference between a redwood and a sequoia, I saw the first big tree. There was no doubt that this was a sequoia! The tree was massive! There were several others in the area, and I stood in awe. If these trees are smaller than the ones we will see in the Mariposa Grove tomorrow, I just may cry at the sight of them.

It was well worth having that quiet time to ourselves, because once we got back on the road headed toward Yosemite Valley, things began to get crowded. I was in the middle of reading aloud from my Yosemite Road Guide when I looked up and suddenly, there was Half Dome in the distance. I felt as if I had spotted a celebrity, someone I had seen many times in photos, magazines and on t.v., but never dreamed to see in person. In fact, I once met Orlando Bloom at a roadside rest stop in Oklahoma, and I wasn't nearly as excited as I was when I saw Half Dome. And while the Orlando Bloom story may be interesting, I'll keep that for another time and stay focused on Yosemite.

When I saw Half Dome, I stopped for a second, blinked, not sure that I had actually seen it. It looked like a painting or photograph, far distant, real but too perfect to be real. I yelled, "Oh, my God! Pull over! Somehow, pull over!" Apparently, the passengers in about 20 other cars had just had similar experiences, and they also veered into the small turnoff to take photographs. Kong could not find a place to park, but kept the car running and sweetly told me that I could get out to take a photo. And he didn't even drive away and leave me behind! I snapped one photo, but really just wanted to look at the scene. A young couple asked me to take a photo of them with Half Dome in the distance. They handed me a very heavy, very professional type camera, and were pleased with the result. By that time, Kong had squeezed into an actual parking spot and joined me, I didn't bother to ask anyone to take our photo. I just stood and stared while I felt my heart beating.

But this was the beginning of the crowds. We finally made it to Yosemite Valley, along with thousands of other people, all funneled into the same few parking lots, cramming into the shuttle buses, and trying to pack every view into their cameras at every opportunity. It was just a bit overwhelming for me. My head was twisting in every direction as El Capitan came into view, and then Bridal Veil Falls, and around another bend, Yosemite Falls, still gushing from the spring thaws as it rushed over the cliffs above and into the 90 degree heat of the valley. We passed meadows, negotiated around crowds of people and cars stopped in awkward slips of space next to the road. We found our way to Curry Village, checked in and wandered around in the general vicinity of where we thought our cabin-tent might be. We read signs and asked for help. Someone spied us with our bags and a map in hand and offered to help. It felt exactly like the first day of sleep-away camp.

When we found our little refuge, Kong seemed pleased enough to issue an approving grunt. This was one of my biggest fears. I had been certain that three days in a rustic abode would be the end of our marriage. I can endure a few whining comments, but not endless, monotonous, repetitive complaints. He had whined about a particularly death-defying stretch of highway 120, a narrow road which climbs into the Sierra, slithering its way along rocks and keeping only a tenuous grasp on the moutainside. I found it unbelievably beautiful, and I was on the cliffside of the drive. I said to Kong, "Oh, please. Just drive. I'm the one looking straight down the mountain." To which he replied, "So, you think only your side of the car is going to plummet over the edge?" It's good that he can maintain his sense of humor when he's stressed.

With the perilous drive completed, and Kong's approval of the lodging, I can relax and enjoy the rest of our time here. This evening we took the free shuttle around the Yosemite Valley. I gasped as though I were an asthmatic. Every glimpse between trees, every turn with a meadow view, every opening in the vista revealed breathtaking sites.

Now, if only all of these people would go home! Each shuttle but the last at nearly 9:00 p.m. was jammed with people. The free shuttles are fantastic, don't get me wrong. I would truly hate to try to move my car and park it here. It's just too congested. But the shuttles are uncomfortably reminiscent of SEPTA buses during rush hour. We hopped on and off crowded buses, making a round of the Valley, stopping at the visitor center, and then returning to Curry Village to try to get something to eat. It was no good. The Curry Village food court was packed. I thought of Dorney Park on July 4th. There were not enough sticky tables to go around. We decided to forego a 6:30 dinner and let the crowds thin out. And then we decided to take the shuttle back to the furthest dining area in the Valley. We rode to Yosemite Lodge where the crowds were much more manageable. In fact, we found that the Yosemite Lounge was nearly empty, which was probably due to the fact that no one under 21 could enter, and the menu was limited. But it was perfect for us. We had sandwiches and beer, and enjoyed the quiet. As did a little squirrel who came into the dining room and walked under the tables looking for scraps. I found it amusing that small rodents are allowed in the lounge, but not children. I actually agree with the policy. I like kids just fine, but it was time for a break from all the noise. I think we've found a chill spot for our time in Yosemite.

Tomorrow we'll visit the big trees in Mariposa, and spend the day hiking and enjoying time away from the Valley crowds. After that, a day in the high country is in order, and Thursday we will take on the valley from a different perspective on Glacoer Point.That will also be the day we move to the Ahwanee! There's still more to come!

Road Trip!

We woke up yesterday morning with a plan to take a road trip. As Kong had no running events scheduled in Sacramento, we'd thought we'd take advantage of the unlimited miles on the rental car. It's a hybrid Nissan Altima, so we'd thought we'd take advantageo of the fuel efficiency, as well. Gas prices in California are high, well over 3.00 per gallon, so we're glad we chose the hybrid option. This Altima does not compare to our Prius, at home, but it'll do.

Our plan was to complete our journey across the continent and touch the Pacific Ocean. Neither one of us has ever even seen the Pacific, so it seemed the thing to do. A quick look at a map and the decision was made to drive to San Francisco, cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and then make a nice, comfortable loop on the Pacific Coast Highway down to Santa Cruz, returning via San Jose through the California countryside.

I drove the first leg, and it didn't take long for me to be wowed by the farmlands west of Sacramento. I grew up in South Jersey, and honestly, people need to stop making New Jersey jokes. In my youth, I was surrounded by farmland and daily enjoyed locally produced, delicious food, whether it was fresh in season, or home preserved by my grandmother, mother and aunts. The landscape was lush all summer as corn, tomatoes, peppers, and the lovely peach trees of Gloucester County soaked up the warm summer sunshine.

But, California! What an amazing sight to see miles of farmland and rich black soil. What struck me, though, was the variety of crops growing along our short drive. I've made many road trips around the country and have always enjoyed passing through farmlands. But each area of the country has it's own specialty crop. Tomatoes and corn are the staple crops of South Jersey. I've marveled at the tropic-like appearance of tobacco in the south, and the other-wordly look of cotton fields ripe with fluff ball fruit. In the American midwest, the endless fields of wheat turn prairies into oceans. But in our short drive through the California countryside between Sacramento and the ocean, I saw nut trees, berry fields, vegetables galore, and artichokes growing in fields that practically touched the ocean. During a lunch stop in Half Moon Bay, I marveled at a grocer's sidewalk display of local produce. I picked up an ear of corn with the diameter of a major leaguer's baseball bat. As a Jersey Girl through and through, I have long held that there is no sweet corn better than that grown in Gloucester County. But, as I held that hefty, sweet smelling log of corn, the deepest kernels of my South Jersey belief system were challenged for the very first time. Could it be possible that there IS better corn grown somewhere? For a moment, I wondered if size really did matter, but then remembered that I had no way to cook that ear of corn and laid it back on the display.

As if sensing competition from the vegetable world, the flowers along our drive were not to be outdone. Everywhere we looked we saw flowers massed on the roadsides, in boxes and pots in front of San Francisco homes, at the base of a lighthouse, just outside the window next to the cafe booth where we enjoyed lunch. They were beautiful. Back home, I've been on stand-down mode with my flower displays, the recent 100-plus degree temperatures having evaporated the life from the displays in my garden. I'm sure Kong was quickly bored by my endless comments about the amazing displays. This truly is a beauty spot. Were it not for outrageous housing costs and the possibility of earthquakes at any moment, this place might even be paradise.

Kong and I did more than admire the scenery during our drive. Just before crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, we pulled into a dirt parking area to explore. We found a walkway that passed under the bridge. We stood beneath the structure as vehicles roared overhead and shook the deck. On the other side, we discovered Vista Point, crowded with tourists who had ridden double-decker tour buses, hiked across the bridge, or rented bikes and colorful helmets to make their crossing from the city. We took photos and decided to hike to mid span, as well. What a fun hike! It was as much fun to watch the people as it was taking in the views. We heard languages from around the world and watched as families lined up along the railing for photos with the bay and city as backdrop. Parents with small children clutched their youngsters' hands tightly as they passed along this narrow corridor between whizzing traffic and a death plummet into the water. Echoes of every mother's warnings to stay out of traffic and, "If your friends jumped off a bridge . . . " came to mind. Along the way, we also passed two young men who were crossing the bridge in an interesting fashion. One held a video camera, recording his friend's progress as he flopped down on all fours in a frog-stance on the walkway. Then he thrust his legs behind him, did a push up, reversed the process and stood up again. People turned and watched, cheered him on, and took photos. (Yes, we have video.) On our way back, we passed the two young men again. This time, they had switched positions. I noticed that they had torn athletic tape covering their hands. We, however, enjoyed our time on the bridge in the usual fashion.

Once back in our car, we wandered in town a bit. At some point we turned toward the coastline but quickly were lost. Kong pulled over to the curb as we surveyed the situation, checked the GPS and an old-fashioned map. I looked up and realized that we were directly in front of the Pacific Ocean. "Oh, that's the Pacific!" Kong didn't appear to be impressed. He wanted to find the marker for the western terminus of the Lincoln Highway. He has a sick compulsion for roadside attractions, and I have to admit that I share that interest to some degree. However, if I were given a choice between seeing a concrete Lincoln Highway marker or the Pacific Ocean, I'm quite sure the ocean would rule the day for me. He fiddled with the GPS a few more times, turned the car around in a few likely places and peered into the woods of a city park. But even Kong gave up the search when he spied someone relieving himself in the woods just inside the tree line. So, off to the beach we went!

It was foggy, as I had expected. It was cold, as I had not expected. I never thought that it would be 60 degrees on a July day anywhere in the lower 48. I had, however, checked a weather report before leaving Sacramento, so I was prepared with a fleece jacket, which I wore for most of the day. Kong was more adventurous than I. He rolled up his jeans and took off his shoes to stand in the ocean. I simply reached down and touched it with my hand. Once again, I forgot to ask him to take a photo of me. So, we only have one picture of him. When he dies, there will be lots of great photos to display at his funeral; for me, no so much.

We also enjoyed a stop for lunch in Half Moon Bay where we ate at a cute little cafe. I ordered a simple grilled ham and cheese, but it included the most delicious roasted pepper I have ever had. There was a slice of weak tomato included, and I have to say that my Jersey Pride was restored. We still have better tomatoes back east, thank you very much. After lunch, we drove on south along the Pacific Crest Highway, taking in the beautiful views. We stopped briefly at Pigeon Point Light, where we met a State Park volunteer who had previously lived in Willow Grove, PA. We chatted about the weather, life back east, and she agreed that we grew better tomatoes in the Delaware Valley. I tormented her by telling her that I had 4 foot tall heirloom tomato plants in my backyard. She drooled a little, and I was happy. Outside, we watched harbor seals sunning themselves below the lighthous and watched the fog move along the landscape.

We continued our drive down the coast and turned back toward Sacramento when we reached Santa Cruz. It was a lovely day on the road. Today, we'll be at the track, as Chuck competes in the 800 meter finals this afternoon. Perhaps we'll roll into Old Sacramento this evening and check out the local life.

Blessed Be Bernoulli!

I hate to fly. I know that statistics show that flying is safer than driving, blah, blah, blah. This is a phobia, and phobias are irrational. So, let's not try to argue with an irrational person, shall we? That would be an utter waste of time. And if I could successfully argue my point of view that sitting in a giant bus with wings hurtling 32,000 feet above the earth's surface is likely to result in a firey, painful death ... well, then you'd be just like me. And what good would that accomplish? So, let's just leave the argument and move forward.

And move forward I did. Yesterday, I boarded a plane for the first time since 1995. I'll give you a moment to point and laugh. OK. All done now? Fine.

My day began at 5:30 a.m. as I sat down to put in a full day's work before leaving for Sacramento. My concentration was periodically interrupted by moments of ever-increasing anxiety. What started out as a lack of appetite, eventually gave birth to butterflies in my stomach, then full-on nausea, which was compounded by the lack of sleep from the night before. No problem! I just didn't eat, whined a little, and soldiered on through the day's work, proud of myself that I was actually organized enough to have finished packing a full 24 hours in advance. Kong and I were finally ready to leave the Monkeys alone by mid afternoon. The Princeling acted as our limo driver. He did a good job of hiding his joy to be well rid of us, except for the ridiculous dance he kept doing, accompanied by shouts of "PAR-TAY!" He booted us to the curb at Philly International and sped off, leaving us and our baggage to Fate's determination.

We were booked on a 6:00 p.m. flight to Sacramento, which gave us about an hour and half to wander the terminal and for me to think about wise Mr. Bernoulli, whose principle I knew would keep me in the air. It turns out, the guy was pretty smart, because we never did crash. I thank you, Mr. Bernoulli.

I was able to manage my anxiety quite well. I didn't scream, cry or panic in any way. But, I must give credit where credit is due. I made it through the 6-hour flight to California completely unmedicated. I had seriously considered having an anesthesiologist fly with me, sitting in the seat next to me and administering a lovely IV concoction straight into my veins during flight. But, as it turns out, none of that was necessary. What got me through the flight, you ask? It was simple distraction. To my unnamed seat neighbor who knew no boundaries of personal space and social decorum, I am indebted.

I had completely forgotten that there is something I hate more than flying itself, and that is flying with other people. Enter the Frizzy-hair Lady.

Moments after Kong and I had stowed our carryon bags, and just as we were about to take our seats, a voice in the aisle caught my attention. I hadn't even had time to look around the tiny cabin and contemplate how my death may occur, when someone said, "Here, put this over there." A woman of about 55, haggard, dry, over-dyed hair with 3-inch gray roots frizzing out of control about her head had thrust a bag of bricks into my hands and told me to, "just put that on my seat."

Why, hello! Nice to meet you, too. I'm so glad I booked this particular flight so that I can serve YOU!

MY mother taught me not to be rude, so I kept my thoughts to myself, smiled, and helped the tyrant with her bag. She then proceeded to lift another larger bag of bricks into the air, attempting to shove it into an overhead compartment. Other, non-rude people helped her complete this task, and un-thanked, they were permitted to pass along the aisle as she turned away from them to climb past us to her window seat.

Despite this awkward start, Frizzy Hair seemed to be friendly enough. Perhaps she was more socially awkward than rude, and I will give her that benefit of the doubt. As she stood in the tiny space in front of her seat, she rifled through her bag, arms akimbo, jarring the poor woman who was sitting in front of her. Frizzy Hair told me that she had been in Europe for some time and was headed home to California. She couldn't decide what she wanted from her bag, pitched it under the seat in front of her, dragged it out again, and rifled through the contents, again. This process was repeated several times. I wondered if she was a nervous flyer as well. "Oh, no! I love flying!" she told me. "I get my best sleep during flights." Good, I thought. You'll be still then.

We chatted a little as she continued the tedious torment of her belongings. A full size pillow emerged. It was covered by a filty pillow case and gave off a faint aroma of stale spittle. Lovely. The woman in front of Frizzy Hair was making a desperate loud phone call to her mother in California. I gathered that she positively hated the weather in Philadelphia. "I don't know, Mother. No. I really don't know. I can't think about it now. Mother... Mother ... No. All I know is that I HAVE TO GET AWAY FROM THIS HUMIDITY!"

Wimp! If the founding fathers could birth a nation in the July heat and humidity of Philadelphia in 1776, how horrible could life be for those of us with access to air conditioning?

The distress of the impatient daughter in front of us spurred Frizzy Hair to begin a conversation about the weather. Yes, I told her. It is often humid in Philadelphia during the summer. Yes. It's been quite hot. Europe was hot, too, she told me. And it'll be hot in Sacramento, as wel.

It's a good thing she told me. Because I might not have been prepared for summer in July.

We endured a brief delay on the runway as planes stacked up a bit due to storms to the west. But, before long, we were screaming toward yet another test of Bernoulli's Principle. I waited for the moment when the increased air pressure beneath the wings would lift us in the air, and darned if it didn't happen just the way it's supposed to!

I opened my book to try shift my attention to the enormous area of nothingness between my feet and terra firma. But, I hadn't completed one paragraph before Frizzle Hair began to arrange herself for an in-flight nap. She began plumping her stinking, dirty pillow, jammed it between herself and the window, then behind her neck, then on her lap, under her arm, back between her and the window, and on and on and on. While she engaged in these upper body calisthenics, she engaged in a lower body workout, as well. She shifted her hips from one side of her seat to the other, then crossed her legs, uncrossed them, slid down in her seat, pushed herself back up, turning from side to side, leaning forward and back in what seemed like painful seizures. I wondered when she might begin that deep sleep she told me she enjoyed during flights.

Finally, she seemed to find a position that suited her, and for a few minutes, I was able to read quietly. But then, as if stabbed in the back, she sat bolt upright, leaned forward and put her head between her knees. I thought she was ill, but apparently, she was only reaching into her bag yet again. After lots of sighing, jabbing, squirming, and yanking, she rose up from her dive with an eye mask in her hand. She gave me a triumphant thwap on my shoulder, smiled and rose her mask in the air. "I couldn't sleep without this!" She slid the mask over her eyes while I stared at her dumbfounded. She began her squirming again as she readjusted her positioning. I continued to stare, and safe in the knowledge that she couldn't see me, I childishly stuck out my tongue at her and crossed my eyes.

I returned to my book as her thrashing subsided. She finally found a comfortable position and lay there unmoving, eyes covered, head smashed into her foul pillow which was jammed against the cabin wall. Her body was contorted into a serpentine shape, arms bent up close to her chest in something like the pose of the rotting corpse of a long dead T-Rex. Her mouth hung open and the loose folds of skin under chin gently shook with each tiny rumble of the jet. She was still.

And I would have been happy with this situation, had it not been for the forgotten armrest. An armrest on a plane is not just for supporting one's forearm in a comfortable positon. It is a boundary which defines personal space, equivalent to yellow crime scene tape. I had haplessly forgotten to lower the armrest when I claimed my seat at boarding. Now, with no boundary between us, Frizzle Hair's comfortable sleeping position included about 3 inches of my own seat. In her Jurassic fetal position, her butt was now pressed against my left hip and thigh. I was not happy. But, if I woke her to lower the armrest, I'd have to endure another 20 minutes of thrashing. I decided to let that sleeping dog lie, and instead sidled over a bit close to Kong, as we had quite appropriately left the space between us un-armrested.

True to her word, Frizzle Hair did indeed sleep well. She barely moved. She paid no attention to announcements from the captain about turbulence ahead and completely slept through the drinks and snacks served by the flight attendants. I tried to doze, as well, but I have never been able to sleep in an upright position. I was, however, settled in for the flight, and was thankful that all of Miss Frizzle Hair's contortions had kept my mind off the actual flying. I was sure I could endure the rest of the flight.

At about the 3-hour mark, however, she stirred and awoke. Now bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, she smiled at me and chatted about the sorts of things strangers on planes talk about. Where we were from, where we were going, the weather, etc. In short, we completely repeated the conversation we had when we first boarded the plane. Three or four times we repeated the conversation, in fact. Only now she seemed distracted. She wanted water but had slept through the beverage cart. She started to turn and twist in order to get a view down the aisle. She was searching for a flight attendant. When finally she was able to flag someone down, she grabbed an empty plastic water bottle from her stash of goodies below her feet and thrust it quickly across the 2 inches of air space directly in front of my nose. She didn't really say anything. She just jammed this empty bottle toward the attendant, who thinking that Frizzle Hair was simply passing along some trash for collection, took the bottle, smiled, and trotted off down toward the front of the plane. Frizzle Hair leaned back in her seat, but after just a minute or two, she lurched forward and pushed her hand into my left shoulder, and exclaimed, "Oh, no!"

"What? What?" I asked, thinking that perhaps she had seen a gremlin on the wing of the jet just outside her window.

"She thought that bottle was trash!"

"Excuse me?" I wondered what she was talking about. In rapid succession, thoughts fired through my brain. Bottle? Trash? Why did you hit me? Is this the person I'll be sitting next to when I die?

"I gave the stewardess my bottle. She thought it was trash. I wanted her to fill it with water."

Oh, Dear Lord, I thought. She began twisting and turning again, waving for help like a woman stranded on the side of the road. A flight attendant came over, and Frizzle Hair began a long story. "It may have been you or one of the other people, but I gave my bottle to someone and I wanted water. But they took it, and I think they thought it was trash. But I wanted some water. Was that you? Do you know who it was?"

She repeated these statements several times, until the patient flight attendant assured Frizzle Hair that she would bring her some water. Which, thankfully, was done very quickly. With water and ice in place, Frizzle Hair appeared content. She pulled down her tray, got out some reading materials, and I retrieved my iPod in an attempt to shut out her and the noise of the jet engines. A headache was beginning just behind my left eye. Coincidentally, this was the eye closest to Frizzle Hair.

My iPod did not deter her, however. She turned and spoke to me several times. Once or twice, she wanted to recap the empty-water-bottle-mistaken-as-trash story. Then, she wanted to tell me abot the weather again. I will give her credit, however, for only getting up to walk to the bathroom once.

We were now 4 hours into the flight. With my headache growing, I focused on the relatively brief amount of in-air time ahead of me. It looked like I was going to make it through this trip alive. Frizzle Hair decided to try to sleep again. She started to seize again, as she twisted, turned, adjusted, re-molded her odiferous pillow. Before settling into a satisfactory position, she hip checked me once more, and I shoved back a little. I heard her mumble, "Sorry."

All would have been well, if she had stayed like that for another hour and a half. But that was not to be. She had one last trick in her bag to distract me from my troublesome thoughts of crashing that would rise to the front of my brain every few minutes or so. Just when my headache was building to a crescendo, just when I thought I was about to lose it, she startled herself to wakefulness, nose-dived between her knees, reaching into her bag for a good rummage. She emerged with a bottle of Purell and very nonchalantly squeezed a good sized portion into her right hand, and then reaching across her body to her left side, I wasn't quite sure, but I thought perhaps, she was smearing the stuff under her left arm. In a second or two, she squeezed another good sized portion into her left hand and then left no doubt in my mind that yes, indeed, she was cleaning her armpits with Purell.

I felt violently ill. I spied the sick bag poking out of the pocket in the back of the seat in front of me. It was comforting to know that the little white bag was so close to me. I would not have to spew into Kong's lap. I twisted away from her and buried my head in his shoulder. I didn't know whether to moan or laugh. I checked my watch and saw that we had about 45 minutes left to the flight. Thank you, Scientist Bernoulli! Thank you. I was sure we'd make it through alive!

We began our descent into Sacramento. I tried not to think of the words of a good friend, a former pilot, who once told me that landing a plane was nothing more than a controlled crash. I listened to my breathing as I tried not to listen to the rattle of landing gear, the changing sound of the jet engines, and felt the stomach-lifting drop of the plane onto the runway. Made it! Oh, joy of joys! I survived the flight AND Frizzle Hair.

I smiled at her as we gathered our things, said good-bye and wished her well. She had served a purpose. Her annoying behavior had kept my mind off my fear. I have survived, and am settled into California.

Check back later for updates from the track meet. Chuck is scheduled to run in the M50 800 meters this afternoon.

Leavin' On a Jet Plane

Kong and I will be boarding a jet this evening as we head to Sacramento and Yosemite. It should be a great trip. Kong is competing in the US Masters National Track and Field Championships through Sunday. Following that, we'll head to Yosemite National Park, where I will listen to him whine about being outside for a week and how much we're paying to sleep in a tent. Meanwhile, back on Monkey Island, the Princeling and the Baby Monkey are running wild. The neighbors have been informed to call the police should they spot flames or wild parties at our house. The monkeys have been given specific instructions for running the household, more than half of which I expect will be ignored. They seem completely delighted to see us leave. And why wouldn't they? The refrigerator and freezers are full, they have a roof over their heads, two vehicles, and one of them is legal drinking age.

Tune in for updates throughout our trip. And if you live in our town, drive by the house every now and then and please post a comment about the condition of our house. I don't trust the monkey boys.

Bring Back the Monkeys!

Well, will you just look at that? It's been nearly two YEARS since I've updated this blog. Really? I mean, REALLY?? Why don't I write more? Well, I actually DO write often. I just haven't thrown it up here. Want to see some of the stuff I've written? Stay tuned. I'll post or link it here soon.

So, what have I been up to? The answer to that can be investigated through Facebook. It's not really private. You know that, right? That's where I post all the mundane activities of my life. Why anyone would actually care what I'm having for dinner or what my gym workout consists of is beyond me. But I do have actual Facebook friends, and they follow my updates. Hmmm? Actual friends on Facebook? Actual friends? Sort of an oxymoron, don't you think? I do actually know some of them. My husband, for example, is one of my Facebook friends. Last I checked, I actually knew him.

In fact, I've actually been married to him for 25 years. We celebrated the big day in January by having dinner at the Glenside Pub. Did you expect a Michelen star restaurant? Not this married couple! We're much more the pub type. But, for those of you who may be concerned that we did not properly recognize a milestone of such import as a 25th wedding anniversary, know that we have a big trip planned for this summer. It's a trip of a lifetime, combining his major love, running in competitive circles on a track, and my major love, walking about beatiful landscapes and communing with the rocks, flowers and trees.

Speaking of which, I plan to post some of my journal entries from recent backpacking trips I've made. In fact, I've been off the trail for just a few weeks now, having spent an unbelievable week of wonder and fun on the Appalachian Trail. Tales of night hiking with coyotes at our heels, seemingly endless cold drizzle, dehydrated food, bug bites, and strange characters will be forthcoming. Truly, it was one of the best trips of my life.

And lest we forget the monkeys, they have returned to the island. The Princeling, who had planned to stay near his school for the summer working for Uncle Sam, has returned to the island as his sublet fell through in the 11th hour. Poor guy is pretty upset. Here he is at age 22 living with his parents. And here are his parents watching him consume vast quantities of expensive groceries. Baby Monkey, who commutes to school daily, is still here. Having them both on the island at the same time surely means there will be stories to tell.

So, stay tuned. It won't take me 2 years to update this. In the meantime, go back and read some of the old posts.

Fried Old Computer

My brain didn't fry before completing the post below. My computer did. It made a sad little ker-plop sound and wouldn't start again. It's toast. (Honey, if you're reading this, you might want to consult with the computer gods about finding a replacement for me!)

So, just a matter-of-fact message tonight. We made it to Mt. Rushmore, but so did heavy rain, thunder and lightening. We decided to camp another night in a motel, and a nice one at that. (Hubby is surely cringing.) No decent cell service, so no call home tonight. We enjoyed a fantastic ride today... the plains, the Badlands, Wall Drug, Mt. Rushmore. South Dakota Rocks! I'm liking the pampered life, but itching for a night in the tent and some respectable hiking.

Will post another progress note when possible.