Happenings On The Vista

2009 – My Year of Unemployment

2009-12-31T17:33:00.000-08:00

Today marks the end; in a few hours the book will close on 2009. Yearning for better times further down the road, it is virtually unavoidable to avoid looking back, sneaking a quick peek into the rear view mirror, reflecting upon what has been and what has not.

Like many, I have my own thoughts on 2009 and I suppose it should come as no surprise that upon musing, I find myself struggling to assign proper words to capture all that was – and all that was not for me over the past 365 days.

As a kid, the concept of time was often mysterious to me, but now as an adult, the elusive nature of time is better understood. I now see how it is that rhythmically, time has a clever way of reinventing itself into something different. Shrewdly, with skills akin to that of a practiced elder, Father Time has a way assembling weeks from a few days all for the purpose of creating a month. And jus like that, before you realize it, and without unnecessary bravado, Father Time has amassed enough months to unfold yet another a year.

I never understand how it is that planning for the year ahead can seem like such a long time, yet that same year will pass before you realize that it has come and gone.

As the current year is brought to an end, I cannot believe that I’ve been without work for all of it. How is it possible; where did the time go?

And so it is for me in 2009, the year that has at times felt painfully slow, perhaps deliberately unhurried, but as evidenced by the New Year rapidly approaching, has already come and is anxiously awaiting to exit.

It’s almost impossible for me to think about my year of unemployment without asking hindsight-like questions of myself.

Essentially, my unemployment began when Kelly and I decided to leave Chicago in order to relocate to Washington. In most situations, resignations are followed by a two-week transitional ‘notice’ period; as it was, my transition was fifteen months. In retrospect, the ill timing of our move is obvious, coinciding with a pending recession of historical nature.

I often ask myself what if we stayed?

Of course, remaining simply would have meant trading one set of wants for another. I love living in the Pacific Northwest and question why we delayed the move as long as we did. Kelly and I wanted out of Chicago just as badly as I now want a job.

Sometimes I wonder is it better to be living unhappily in one place with a job, or completely satisfied in another without? In actuality, the question is moot, as I suspect that had we stayed in Chicago, I’d still be in possession of my former job yet longing to live elsewhere.

I also ask myself what if I had looked for work locally with more aggressive fervor? You see, upon relocating I was offered a great opportunity to work remotely, but without any long-term commitments. I loved the arrangement and the accompanying assignments, and consequently did not look for local employment with the devotion I could have.

Was I foolish? Was it reckless to maintain such enthusiasm for my remote work arrangement? I don’t know, I suppose it’s hard to say really. I loved the work and the people; shouldn’t that count for something?

Often, like last night, I dream about my former life - one inclusive of gainful employment. Like most, my dreams contain lots of fantasy and other nonsense, but lately also painful reminders of what was, and now is not.

Usually, the setting for my dreaming is the workplace. Not always my former office per se, but an office setting nonetheless, often complemented with former co-workers or colleagues.

I suppose there is no denying the obvious, my dreams are simply the manifestations of feelings and concerns buried deep within my thoughts and subconscious. Fears and other reservations I carry around like baggage and burdens inexplicably linked with unemployment.

Earlier this year I thought mostly about and focused my efforts on the pursuit of securing additional professional credentials to supplement my work experiences. Beyond that I looked forward to possibly enjoying some time off over the summer.

Perhaps I was naïve; maybe I should have been more careful about what I wished for. Suddenly, my time off has transformed. Days have become weeks, then became months, and now have become a year.

At the moment, here I sit just a few hours shy of a new year. For me it is bittersweet that 2009 is almost complete. At times the year has been very good, other times not so much.

All the same, one thing nags at me … for the life of me, I do not know where the time went nor how it passed by so quickly.

What I do know is that tomorrow will bring a new day. Just like always, Father Time will continue to amass a collection of days, unassumingly assembling the year that is to come.

A year is a long time; I wonder what experiences lie ahead that I cannot yet see.

Beautiful Civia

2009-12-30T20:46:00.000-08:00

It's no secret that I have a love of bicycles. Marveling of functional simplicity, the right bike can be beautiful and utilitarian – both a transporter from here to there and a piece of art, all at the same time.

Atop a bicycle with wind whooshing past a childish and giddy grin, meandering about the asphalt road is a homeopathic remedy every person should experience. It simply doesn’t get any better.

And so it was that I began the quest of identifying a new bike for my wife Kelly. Yearning to join my desire in eschewing the need for an automobile, Kelly concluded that a new bike – one appropriate to the task of routine errands and travels, would be a welcomed treat.

The criteria was simply really, the bike had to be hassle-free, capable in year-round weather typical of the Pacific Northwest, and of course, must be strikingly gorgeous.

Enter the Civia Loring.

After a ridiculously over-engineered process of review, I suggested to Kelly that she saunter over to a local bike shop. There, she could have a look and get aquatinted with her future ride.

As I suspected, Kelly was no match for the Civia - it was love at first site.

And who can blame her really. With form following functionality, Minneapolis based Civia offers the Loring to be art disguised as a commuter/errand bike.

Generally, I’ve never been overly impressed with any of Kelly’s bikes – that is, they have been solid and functional; nothing more and nothing less. The same cannot be said of her new bicycle.

Simply, the Civia Loring is a spectacular eye-catcher. I’m ashamed to admit my jealousy. Of course, Kelly deserves such a jewel, but still…

In Search Of the Perfect Water Bottle

2009-12-29T21:41:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time reading bike-related blogs. Such activity has been inspired - in part - by my desire to significantly curb usage of my car in 2010. I never would have guessed such a variety of commuting and other 'lifestyle' bike websites exist, but trust me, there are many.

And so it is, that more and more I find myself riding my commuter/errand bike quite a bit. In fact, I've really become quite "anti-car" over the past couple months as I go about completing my errands or when taking trips into Seattle.

Taking inspiration from a guy we know who's goal is to fill his pick-up gas tank no more than three times annually (although he does loan the truck to others who often fill the tank in exchange for usage), Kelly and I are aiming to commit ourselves to a similar limitation. While we have not yet finalized what our exact gas tank goals will be for next year, we are activity debating what is a realistic target. I'll keep you posted on our decision.

In the meantime, all this time in the saddle has prompted my search for the perfect water bottle. I know that such a pursuit is quite silly, especially since I probably have upwards of twenty bottles in my kitchen cupboard. Regardless, I continue seek a commuting/errand bottle companion - one that that doesn't boldly advertise to some race or bike shop.

With this goal in mind, you can probably imagine my excitement when I came across the 'humping bunnies' water bottle (courtesy of Cannondale).

Humping Bunnies water bottle

Seriously, how funny is that bottle? At $5.50, the bottle's price point is reasonable, and without question, the humping bunnies is has immediately ascended itself as my leading contender - the bottle all others will be judged against.

BI Runners

2009-08-23T22:07:00.000-07:00

Shortly after moving to BI, I hooked-up with a local group of runners, unoriginally known as BI Runners. Now, the better parts of eighteen months later, my Sunday mornings have involved a trip to a local bakery.

BI Runners is loose group of runners comprised of varying ages and differing speeds, who meet at Bainbridge Bakers every Sunday. The ‘usuals’ consist of a diverse and eclectic collection BI resident runners, most of whom I probably would have no other logical reason for association.

I’m lucky to have connected with this group as they are a great group of people.

The unofficial, official run rarely begins on-time at the designated hour of 7am, but there is never any doubt that upon completing the morning run, all attendees will secure a coffee and pastry and enjoy some post-exercise conversation.

delicious desserts and pastry awaits

It’s been wonderful meeting and running with the BI Runners; just another reason why I love living on Bainbridge Island.

Swim. Bike. Run.

2009-08-23T21:39:00.000-07:00

About twelve years ago I was talked into registering for the Chicago Triathlon, the largest multisport event in the world. As the event approached, I found myself intimidated by the challenges of the combined swim, bike, and run effort. Sadly, in the end I was a coward; I sold my entry to someone else.

Approximately five-thousand people partook in the race that day; I was not one of them.

But a few years later, I did muster the courage to again sign-up for a triathlon. I told myself there would be no walking away; this time I would finish the race, which I did and I was instantly hooked.

And so it was, a small race in rural Illinois now serves as the anchor for what is my favorite pastime, my passion, the sport of triathlon.

I’ve never forgiven myself for selling that Chicago Triathlon slot. I’ve gotten so much enjoyment from triathlon over the years, and had I not sold that spot, I could have even more memories.

As I headed into my third year of competing, I decided I would buy a proper Time-Trial bicycle. Commonly known as TT bikes, these rigs fit and handle differently from their road bike cousins, in that the frame angles distribute the rider into an aggressive, more aero position.

TT bikes are meant for one thing – speed. Generally, a TT bike handles poorly and is heavier than a standard road bike, but under optimal conditionals, a TT bike is as comfortable as it is fast.

My TT ride is a Trident, handmade by a small frame builder in Maine - Aegis bicycles. In the world of high-end bikes, my 2003 frame is ancient. Many would argue that she is better suited for a museum than on a racecourse. But I love this frame and as much as I covet a newer, sexier ride, I simply cannot let go of my Aegis.

There is often an odd attachment between a person and their bike. I have many bikes, but my TT bike is special, I hold particular fondness for her. Often affections like the one I describe are strengthened with emotional glue, better known as memories, of which I could fill a library if I choose to document all of them.

For me, this bike represents my first ‘high-end’ bike, a milestone of sorts I suppose. The purchase receipt reads just over $3,300 and I remember thinking that amount was too high, that I was crazy to spend so much for a bike. I debated long and hard about that purchase, mainly was it wise to spend that much. Doubts crammed my thoughts, but in the end, I decided that I would not let uncertainty and fear drive my actions as it did in that Chicago Triathlon a few years earlier.

I laugh now. Not only to I cherish this bike, over the years I’ve continued to pour heaps of money into this ride, replacing every piece of equipment from that original purchase – less the frame, fork, and headset. Today, I posses an insurance binder for double what I initially paid. I would have never anticipated such a thing.

For eight years this bike has been a faithful companion, like an old friend – there for me. I’ve peddled this machine for hundreds of hours, equating to thousands of miles. Be it in a race or simply a training ride, my Aegis has served as catalyst for great conversation and powerful introspection. She is battle tested and I have an unquestionable trust in her ability and companionship. There is no denying I love this machine.

I’m sure there will come a day when I am forced to retire my Aegis, a sad day that will be. Of course I could never sell her. But until then, I am quite certain that my unfailing partner will be there for me as I call for her.

Irony Is Not My Friend

2009-08-20T20:57:00.000-07:00

I am a big fan of the American novelist John . I’m not sure what drives my liking to his work, but something about his writing just grabs me. Despite his creative influences being cut of a different cloth then mine, there is certain realness to his pen, which I somehow relate. I always love his stuff.

Recently, I read Travels With Charlie , which is a bit of an anomaly compared to other Steinbeck novels. Actually, referring to it as a novel is not quite accurate, as the book is really more a personal journal than piece of fiction.

Without giving away too much, I will simply say that the book chronicles the journey of Steinbeck and his dog (Charlie) looking to discover ‘real’ America. Together, this duo spends a few months traversing the back-roads and small towns of America. The process is simple enough, but the expedition proves to be anything but.

Early in the book, Steinback talks about an itch he has, one I to which I easily relate.

“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was upon me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch.”

I love that passage. I am that passage.

I find it painful to sit still. For me, to be idle is to suffocate. While reading this book, I found myself repeatedly envious of the premise – that is say, the trip itself.

Steinbeck’s story unearthed memories of a similar, albeit much smaller trip of my own. Prior to my senior year of high school, a buddy of mine and I embarked on a mini journey of our own. Keeping planning efforts and decisions simple, we eradicated prolonged preparation by way of a coin flip; heads would take us east, while tails would bring us west.

The results of that simple coin flip pointed us towards the east. We then loaded the car, pressed the gas pedal, and embarked upon our one-week journey.

Epic is probably an inappropriate adjective to describe that simple voyage, but our travels were indeed impactful, the memories have not yet faded to black. All these years later, my pal and I occasionally laugh in reminiscence of that trip. It seems great adventures do indeed cement themselves into the brain, forever a welcomed companion.

I try not to let it get the best of me, but I’ll tell you this - irony can be a real son of a bitch.

For years, I’ve gotten up every day to go to work. During this time, my moments away from the office were precious, something to be protected and used strategically. Routinely, I was in the habit of safeguarding vacation days such that the folks guarding the Coca-cola secret formula were impressed.

But here’s the real kick is ass … at long last, here I am with nothing but time. Devoid of burdens facing regular adults, I am free to color my blank canvas of time with any adventure mosaic that might move me. Sadly, I have no crayons.

And so it is, I have an abundance of roll-over minutes. If left unused, there will come a point wherein this time, such a precious commodity will vanish into thin air.

I lack work, the enabler of money with which to fund crayons for capturing the adventure that could be. Surely, my situation is not bleak when compared to so many others. The truth is I am fortunate; I have no real financial strain, just less disposable dollars than before. It could be far worse; I understand the significance of that. Believe me, I do.

But, I cannot help but to conclude that Fortuna has an odd way to her will. My sudden abundance of time is now without a partner to fund what could otherwise be a beautiful partnership, together enabling fabulous adventures.

I catch myself smiling just thinking about what could have been, but evidently is not meant to be.

Marmot Pass - Revisited

2009-08-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

In a previous post , I spoke of a trip I took to Marmot Pass, a glorious wonderland located in the Olympic Mountain range, west of Bainbridge Island.

That trip, being my first to the region was a great time indeed, but also very much a learning opportunity for me in that headed into the trip, there were a lot of unknowns. Suffice it to say, my camping buddy and I had done some research of the area ahead of time, but really, we went into the trip as a reconnaissance undertaking, the insights to be better applied some other time.

Sure enough, at the conclusion of the trip, we both agreed that next time we found ourselves on the pass, we would be well served to camp and hike elsewhere.

And so it was, a few weeks later, I found myself thinking about Marmot Pass, looking for any good excuse to revisit the area once again.

Chris and Katie-dog climb to camp

Then it happened.

My brother-in-law Chris called, indicating a unexpected swell of vacation days. This being the case, he was interested in spending a few days camping. As Chris is not especially familiar with the area in and around the Olympic mountains, he decently deferred decisions to me. With pent-up enthusiasm similar to some kid eagerly itching to spend a few dollars of birthday money from Grandma, I emphatically declared (albeit to myself) that Chris and I would be spending a few days in the backcountry of the Buckhorn wilderness, home turf of Marmot Pass.

At the pass, Katie-dog looking for Marmots to chase

Unlike my previous overnight visit, Chris and I would be spending three days at the pass. As far as I am concerned, a three-day camp trip is about perfect really, allowing for an extended foray of the area, but is not too long such that extended supplies are required. Also a benefit - excessive stink does not have time to fully percolate into an abhorrent funk.

Home sweet home

Over three days time, Chris and I were able to hike along the many high pass trails, politely but firmly imposing their eternalness to this region. As with any welcoming host, these trails invited us into their home, which in this case generally consisted of narrow trails precariously balanced atop sheer ridgelines, only to be encompassed by seemingly endless alpine valleys.

At times, an ill-advised misstep would equate to certain injury, perhaps death. Opposites attract, and it seems that nature has a funny way of partnering peculiar bedfellows?

Approaching the peak of Buckhorn Mountain (elevation 6,988ft)

Chris, descending Burckhorn Mountain

Why is it that the majestic so often accompanies peril? A precarious partnership perhaps, but one that is breathtaking and of unquestionable beautiful; nature at its finest.

One of the Marmot Pass valleys

It would seem that one could walk for days

Three days had past, time to walk out

Mt. Rainier

2009-08-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

Generally, I like to think that I recognize a good thing when I see it.

In this case, a good thing took form in the shape of an invitation to partake in a day hike with a running buddy of mine at Rainier National Park.

Since moving to Bainbridge Island, I’ve been in amazement of Mt. Rainier, the namesake of Rainier National Park. I’ve always heard, and can now attest, to the natural beauty of this wonderful treasure, even if I’ve only seen a fraction of its 368 square miles.

Most importantly, I’ve now witnessed the mountain up close. Surely the broader park is beautiful as it is expansive, but the mountain is the main attraction. Similar to a good warm-up band, the park is indeed good entertainment and does put on a good show, but headliners sell tickets and fill the seats, not warm-ups bands. Mt. Rainier lives up to such billing as the headlining act.

For almost two years I’ve been catching various views of the mountain from the broader Seattle area. In clear skies, Mt. Rainier seems to float effortlessly upon the horizon, providing awe-inspiring views in the process. I hate to sound dramatic, but really, it is quite amazing.

And so it is, having viewed it from afar, I finally made my initial visit to Mt. Rainier on Sunday. What a good trip it was.

I’m not sure what I did to deserve it, but Mother Nature could not have crafted better weather conditions. I’ve hypothesized that since my visit fell on Sunday - a day of rest for some – perhaps Mother Nature called for a truce amongst the powerful and furious conditions that often wreak havoc in the area. Can it be that even the weather gods need time for rest?

weather can eschew many, this sign warms of related risk

No matter, the conditions were a gift. Such weather is not to be questioned or understood – simply enjoyed. And so I did.

One day, perhaps next summer, I hope to visit the summit of Mt. Rainier. But as I possess virtually no technical climbing experience, I must start somewhere. It is within this context that I began my journey to the summit with a more immediate, intermediate goal to reach Camp Muir, a climb beginning in an area appropriately known as Paradise (elevation 5,400ft).

At 10,100ft, Camp Muir is approximately the halfway point to the summit, which tops at 14,400ft. These days, Camp Muir typically serves as the primary base camp locale for those with intentions to push onward towards the summit.

Resting upon an expansive glacier, Camp Muir serves as an ideal springboard for those with aspirations to reach the top. Often, guided groups will spend 1-2 days at Camp Muir practicing alpine technical safety procedures. Of course, one hopes to never actually use such training under duress situations, but the soft glacial snows provides an ideal training environment.

My guide for the day, Jeff Philips, has been to Rainier countless times, including multiple successful summits. While our day did not include any bid to reach the summit, we did set our sights squarely on reaching Camp Muir before lunch.

The hike started out steep almost immediately, and we climbed through the most beautiful alpine meadows I’ve even seen. Before long, we ascended through the tree line and onto the glaciers.

alpine meadows in full bloom

As this was my first time hiking on glaciers, I was a bit bemused. On the one hand, I was giddy with excitement, but also fearful of the unknown. Mainly, I didn’t know what it was I didn’t know; I wasn’t sure how I felt about this uncertainty.

As the trail cleared past the tree line and we made our way onto the glacier, Jeff offered some simple, but very effective techniques to ensure I had proper footing on the sometimes-clumsy snow/slush mixture. As with any good teacher, his instruction was clear and concise. Quickly, with my confidence back, I was again on my way.

Jeff, making progress to Camp Muir

Pausing for photos

The glacial snowfield is as peaceful as it is beautiful. During my ascent, my body found passive tranquility within the alpine environment, but my mind did not.

I simply wanted to enjoy the gift nature had placed upon me and let my mind wander; thoughts and ideas free to come and go at their leisure. Much as I tried to give my mind freedom and permission to drift, to not dwell upon any single thought, I simply couldn’t move past an inevitable question – how is all this beauty possible?

Mentally, I was trying to reconcile the overwhelming splendor all around me, but uninvited questions of ‘why’ and ‘how’ dominated my thoughts. Try as I might, I was not able to avoid a battle with myself over creationism versus evolution. My thoughts seemed to stall; as i awkwardly trapped within a glacial crevasse, too deep for quick or easy escape. But on this day, I did not want to be burdened with such heavy dispute; not here, not today.

For right or wrong, I’m a pragmatist, which seems to situate me firmly in the evolution camp. But, if ever there is a time to take pause and consider the influence of a higher being and the notion creationism, standing in the midst of an alpine mountainside might be the ideal time and place for such reflection.

The experience is exhilarating and serene all at once. And for just a moment, I considered re-examining my stance … but I did not.

In the end, I brokered a truce with myself; my time on the glacier being neither the time nor the place to resolve this inner debate.

Instead, while Mother Nature laid down her weapons to take a nap, I simply chose to enjoy the scenery and the hike.

I had a great day.

Lunch at Camp Muir

Tents at Camp Muir

Some prefer to sleep indoors

Composting bathrooms at Camp Muir

Bad Co-Pilot With Even Worse Breath

2009-08-01T21:22:00.000-07:00

Like most dogs, Murphy genuinely takes pleasure in going for a ride car. She doesn’t discriminate on the particulars of our meandering; so long as a visit to the veterinarian is not incorporated into things along the way.

It is not uncommon to see a dog accompanying their owner in a vehicle. Generally, the scene is easily predicted – the canine, his head enthusiastically poked out of the window, ears flapping as if waving to all whom pass by.

Murphy certainly enjoys reaching out beyond the confines of windows, the cool air fluttering her whiskers as she strains to discern the bonanza of scents all around. But soon enough, she wisely concludes that such investigative effort is futile, the car simply moves to quickly for her otherwise keen snout to keep up.

Hell-bent not to be denied, Murphy’s next course of action usually involves her taking a spot as my co-pilot, albeit not a very good one.

She really seems to take pleasure in our little arrangement, which affords her optimal sighting, while I support her head and massage her ears.

If only I had it so good.

Dungeness Spit

2009-07-30T22:25:00.000-07:00

Recently, my sister and brother-in-law were in town visiting so Kelly and I thought it would be fun for all of us to drive over to the Dungeness National Wildlife Refuge, located about an hour’s drive from our house.

In my opinion, the main attraction of the refuge is a long extension of land mass known as the Dungeness Spit. At just over 5.5-miles (8.9 km) in length, this sand spit juts out from the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula, into the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

It seems that this spit is in fact the longest natural sand spit in the United States. Its land area, according to the United States Census Bureau is 1,271,454 square meters (0.4909 sq mi, or 314.18 acres).

Not content to rest upon its laurels, this lengthy land mass continues to swell, little by little, day be day. Literally extending itself 5 miles into the seas, the spit has unassumingly stretched its crooked finger into the strait at roughly of 15 feet per year for the past 120 years.

I was wondering why the spit continues to grow, rather than slowly wash away in the incessant waves crashing all around.

Much to my surprise, erosion is kept at bay due to complex winds, waves, and importantly, the eroding neighboring bluffs to the southwest.

Water is a formidable opponent, and these seemingly mighty bluffs have no choice but to surrender themselves to the relentless and never-ending waves. Slowly, yet with all the will of a heavyweight champ, the waves eventually overcome the bluffs, their pounding effective like well placed body blows to the torso. The resulting KO seems inevitable.

Defeated, the sediment of the eroded bluffs simply fall victim to the tidal currents and before they know what has happened, find themselves anchored alongside the spit, hence a catalyst and material for growth. Then, as elsewhere in nature, the process repeats itself.

Collaborating in the spit’s advancement are the strong northeast gusts, which reverse shore drift; the process corroborating nature’s will. In this case forming the Graveyard Spit ‘hook’.

During our visit, park staff told us that many, if not most visitors do walk the short route to the base of the spit, but only a small percentage of these same visitors actually extend their hike to the lighthouse located near the end of the spit (presumably, in 1858 the lighthouse was at the end of the spit).

Having completed the journey myself, I now appreciate why many do not advance to the lighthouse. It’s not that the trek to the lighthouse is terribly difficult; it’s just that a 10-mile hike is simply that - 10 miles.

Moreover, tides have a major impact on the walking surface of the spit, and depending upon when one starts out, the path will be hard-packed sand, or it won’t. We got the benefit of mostly hard pack on the way out, but coming back a high tide forced us to navigate atop deep sand and rocks.

the walk back

wood litters the area

wood up close

being a wildlife refuge, birds are everywhere

flying away

It is also worth noting that the salt water has an odd way of transforming itself to salty air. At one point it hit me that I was covered in salt sediment - my sunglasses and camera lenses taking an unfair share of the punishment.

All in all, the trip to Dungeness Spit was a very good day trip and I highly recommend others take time to visit.

Maybe if you are lucky, you might spot a nuclear submarine headed to the Pacific Ocean … we did.

Marmot Pass

2009-07-15T21:44:00.000-07:00

Officially, this quintessential Olympic Peninsula trail makes an excellent day hike, but I spent the night. My friend Brian was especially keen to take sunset and sunrise photos, so it seemed best to bring a tent and enjoy a night atop Marmot Pass.

Basic details of Marmot Pass are pretty straightforward: 3500 feet at the trailhead, rising to 6000 feet at the pass; a 10.6-mile round trip journey great views, etc.

Blah, blah, blah.

In my mind, the book details are simply that – two-dimensional text. Real high-definition appreciation comes only when one takes a walk along the pass trail itself.

The trail enters the Buckhorn Wilderness straight away, and for the first two miles Brian and I hiked amongst towering old growth peacefully progressing adjacent to the Big Quilcene River. At 2.5 miles in, we came reached Shelter Rock Camp, a nice enough intermediate campsite I suppose, especially if you have small children, but Brian and I had our sights focused higher up the mountain. After a few pleasantries with others at this lower encampment along with quick check of our map, we affixed Shelter Camp and the thick canopy of gigantic trees squarely to our rearview mirror.

Progressing through the next two miles, the trail climbed in and out of forested patches, but seemingly made its home mostly in small, enchanted meadows.

The trail climbs steadily the entire way, but it never too steep, provided you have some base fitness to draw from coupled with solid footing. However, I did have a hard time keeping up Brian at times. Whether it be on foot or bicycle, he simply loves to go ascend, and relishes any opportunity to do so, our ascent no exception.

To be honest, I think he took special pleasure in emphatically demonstrating his superior hiking strength. But in my defense, Brian posses a secret training weapon which with I cannot compete – mainly his incessant carrying of a toddler atop his shoulders.

Getting back to the trail … approximately 4.5 miles from the trailhead Camp Mystery, generously offered us a few open campsites to select from, all of which are just off the trail and conveniently next to an endless supply of ice-cold water.

Having selected out site, dripping in sweat, and definitely ready for dinner, we wasted no time setting-up camp and preparing our cuisine of instant Lentil soup, some almonds pretzels, and hot tea.

Following dinner we decided to wander a bit and further explore the nearby pass and take in some sunset views. Along the way, we spotted a few secluded campsites, which we both agreed were superior to our real estate (I’ll make a note to self for next time I’m there).

Just prior to reaching the final climb to the pass, a large open meadow takes the trail the rest of the way up to Marmot  Pass. As you might imagine, the views up top are breathtaking - some of the tallest Olympic peaks, the Dungeness Valley, Hood Canal, the Cascades and more.

Similar to the two-dimensional text I previewed prior to my arrival, the enclosed pictures to not serve this area justice. Given the opportunity, you to should capture your very own high-definition experiences.

I’m quite certain your experience atop Marmot Pass will be as good as mine.

Brian's digital appendage

Good Stuff

2009-07-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

Damn, this is a good strawberry smoothie.

Another Crack At An Old Foe

2009-07-13T21:55:00.000-07:00

Empathizing with my dysfunctional and magnetic pull with Ironman, Kelly recently (and graciously) provided her nod of approval of my request to sign-up for another full distance triathlon. So, with her endorsement in hand, I promptly registered for what will be my fifth full distance tri – the 2010 Ironman Couer d’Alene (IMCDA).

My good buddies Bill and John will also partake in the event; their presence upping the ante, adding additional purpose to this race.

Bill, John and I are longtime pals, but as Bill lives in Charlotte and John in Chicago, I do not get to see either often and it will be great to spend four or five days with them next June. In an attempt to create additional drama and other nonsense during the race build-up, the three of us will especially enjoy what is sure to be an abundant exchange of trash-talking throughout the next year. I cannot wait.

Previously, the three of us competed together at IMCDA in 2006 and this time around things should be quite different for all. That ’06 race was Bill’s first crack at the Ironman distance and his focus, wisely, was simply to finish feeling good. John had a broken toe which limited his superb bike power and reduced his otherwise strong run to an awkward walk. Not to be spared, I suffered incredibly in the oven-like temperatures, the heat reducing my effort to pathetic at itmes.

Redemption was had in 2008 however as the three of us regrouped once again, this time at Ironman Wisconsin, an endeavor proving to be a great success as each of us crossed the finish line feeling good and with personal best times in hand. Looking ahead towards 2010 IMCDA, I am expecting another solid day for all of us, especially Bill. While still the Ironman baby of our trio, he has now twice finished the race and and will come armed with tremendous experience and confidence in his ability to conquer the 140.6 mile course.

After IM Wisconsin. John and Bill with me - the tallest and fastest

(photo courtesy of John)

As one would expect, at both IMCDA and Wisconsin, I consistently prove to be the better athlete (such status was never largely debated), bettering the times of both John and Bill. I expect to once again sit atop the podium and will enjoy watching Bill and John battle to be first loser.

Boys, you had better bring your A-game, cuz I intend to bring the heat in about 10:45.

Getting Your Food On

2009-07-12T20:27:00.000-07:00

People like to eat. We’ve all had moments wherein we should have put that fork down a few bites earlier than we did, myself included. But for a certain confederacy of dunces, the ills of their full bellies are not easily placated with the simple loosening of a belt notch … or two.

A week ago, many Americans took pause to celebrate Independence Day. Typically, such celebration includes a bit of barbecue, a few firecrackers, and perhaps even lemonade and apple pie. But for some, the July 4th holiday would not be complete without astonishing amounts of food consumption. I’m talking crazy amounts of food.

At this year’s annual July 4th Nathan’s Hot Dog eating contest - broadcast live via ESPN – a raucous crowd forty-thousand strong cheered - and perhaps gagged- as Joey Chestnut literally stuffed himself with silly. Fueled by euphoria and lack of good judgment, Chestnut (wait for this…) set a world record by chomping sixty-eight hot dogs (yes, sixty-eight) during a ten-minute “contest” period.

I hope he had a comfortable toilet; I imagine he needed it.

Actually, Chestnut and others are professional eaters aligned to the International Federation of Competitive Eating. The Nathan’s contest being just one of many stops along the circus that is the Major League Eating tour. (don’t even get me started as to whether or not eating is ‘sport’ and worthy of league sanctioning)

What is it about this grotesque intake of food that compels so many to abate better judgment, only to conclude that such consumption might
possibly be a good idea?

As I begin to firmly settle into life here in Seattle, I try to convince myself that we in the PNW appreciate food more so than mainstream America. I like to believe we are not foolish and gluttonous, abusive of cuisine.

I was wrong.

Imagine my horror when recently, while reading a local newspaper, I stumbled across an article featuring some knucklehead reporter hell-bent on besting the “ten pound hamburger challenge”.

To be precise, the ten-pound challenge is a bit misleading in that the challenge consists of two objectives really; a single five-pound monster cheeseburger, besieged by five pounds of greasy French-fries.

click the image above to see video of the 10-pound burger challenge

Considering a tango with this burger mistress? Perhaps you had better watch the video above before you judge your potential cholesterol inducing ballroom partner. Assuming you proceed, and if you can clean your plate spotless in less than an hour, the meal is gratis. Need more enticement - the chef will hang your picture on the “Wall of Fame” next to all the other jokers who happened to conquer the burger and fries mountain before your successful summit. Finally, with your belly full and aching, you also take home a $25 gift certificate for, get this, more meat from a local butcher.

I wonder why so many of us are overweight and diabetic?

Two Wheels Is Better Than Four

2009-07-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

About a year and a half ago, Kelly and I decided that we could use additional motorized support. Rather than purchase a second car, we opted for scooters.

As long as I can remember, I’ve always found enjoyment riding a bicycle, its beauty being its simplicity. But never having owned scooter, the bicycle's motorized cousin, I was cautiously optimistic, not sure what to anticipate. I struggled vigorously to keep my high expectations in check.

Here I am now, almost two thousand miles later, completely satisfied in my scooter purchase. There has been no buyer’s remorse on my part. If I were a bit more arrogant in action, I just might shred the purchase receipt, emphatically symbolizing my intent to keep this black beauty indefinitely.

I quite enjoy the whoosh of wind splashing my face, zigging and zagging gracefully atop her mighty little wheels, tires gripping the road as if she owns the asphalt. The Vespa LX150 is quite possibly the biggest little bike on the boulevard.

It would be better only if I were riding in Italy.

Pure bliss.

Reincarnation

2009-07-09T21:59:00.000-07:00

So I’ve begun to look at material goods a bit differently. Sort of.

That is to say, as I am able, and more often than not, I find certain fulfillment in the recycle and reuse of stuff as it is feasible and worthy.

As it were, my neighbor (and good pal) Anne offered Kelly and me an opportunity to reclaim some cedar wood planks she was looking to unload. The offer was not without some strings attached though, as the cedar was actually in the shape of a shed - firmly anchored deep within the depths of Anne's far backyard.

the shed resting peacefully, unaware of the pending pandemonium

Due to the shed’s position, some skilful calculation and demolition was needed to raze the structure without causing damage to the valuable, aged and weathered cedar. Being the yin and yang duo we are - Kelly in possession of intellect and I of brawn - controlled chaos quickly ensued and we made steady progress, slowly obliterating what must have been years worth of yard waste in and around the shed.

At times, some unanticipated obstacles presented us with slight setbacks. Yet, equipped with a ferocious reciprocating saw, a crowbar, and a mighty two-pound maul hammer, I would not be denied. I was peacefully in my element.

With great satisfaction and without too much labor or examination, the demolition was completed. Before we knew it, our trailer was loaded with fabulous cedar fit for its new purpose, a future not yet fully known.

It is said that centuries ago, Europeans explorers symbolically lit their ships - a most valuable asset aflame upon reaching the shores of the new world. Such an action emphasized to all the need for collective success within their new destination. So to it was for Kelly and me - there was to be no turning back now, the morphing of the shed was underway. Failure was not an option.

As a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly, this humble shed shall was reinvented into flower boxes and stands, proudly hoisting and housing flowers and herbs.

much better perched at eye level - up off the deck surface

look closely - most of the original galvanized nails were salvaged

dill, chives, oregano, & parsley

another herb box, but currently filled with bush flowers

On the whole, Kelly and I are really happy with the outcome.

Pink Can Be Cool Sometimes

2009-04-15T07:55:00.000-07:00

Pink, but very cool

I really like the wide variety of trees to be found throughout Bainbridge. Since my arrival, I’ve been exposed to many new and differing species versus what seemed native to Chicago and the Midwest.

I’ve especially come to enjoy the spring Cherry blossoms. Perhaps they are my favorite.

I’m no arborist, and I certainly cannot tell you much about these blossoms - other than I think they look really cool this time of year (although ironically I find them to be very ugly during the winter).

Maybe these tress were easily spotted in Chicago and I simply did not take notice. If so, shame on me. But now that I’ve acquired a fondness, it seems that these days I’m spotting the pink beauties sprinkled throughout the island when I least expect.

At the risk of sounding hokey … when passing, I do catch myself slowing just a bit, taking pause to examine the tree. As I study the structure, I find myself wondering how long this particular tree has been standing. I want to know how did it take its shape, and whether or not this particular tree will later produce tasty fruit.

All questions of interest, but I concede, not necessarily of importance or relevance.

Before shattering my brief respite, I try to make mental notes, trusting that I’ll remember where the best trees are positioned. Gullibly, I tell myself I’ll be back for another visit later this summer, albeit this time to inspect for and pick a mid-afternoon snack.

I’ll see about that. Maybe I’ll add such task my list.

Anyway, I first took notice to the spring Cherry blossoms while jogging last year. My Sunday morning running group maintains a regular route through the Grand Forest. En route, we almost always pass a farm offering the most spectacular stretch of blossoms. In actuality, it was a parade of blossoms next this farm that first gripped my attention.

Yesterday, I took a moment to snap a few pictures of the farm blossoms, ensuring that I capture the beauty before the pink fades, transitioning to a less magnificent, white foliage.

Next to the farm

I’m not alone in my spring blossom appreciation. Kelly also likes the blooms, but for distinctively different reasons. She likes the smell. I concur; the scent is delectable.

Lucky for us, there are an abundance of Cherry blossoms to be found within close proximity of our house.

This being the case, Kelly has ample opportunity to emulate Murphy, sniffing her way around the block, while Murphy, uninterested in the blossoms, retains focus on more important canine-related duties.

Looking towards our house

Close-up

By the way, it’s worth noting that one might deduce that Kelly is experiencing respiratory failure during these walks, however, such conclusion would be incorrect. This not easily forgotten performance is Kelly simply ‘maximizing’ her opportunity to enjoy the sweet-smelling journey to be had whilst circling the block.

I know…but you must appreciate that it’s these peculiar and idiosyncratic mannerisms I love about Kelly.

Thanks, But I Prefer the CD Experience over the Billboard 'Hot 100'

2009-04-13T13:07:00.000-07:00

In November of 1955, Billboard Magazine Published its initial Top 100. In theory, the list categorized music as characterized by the following: the Best Sellers In Stores, Most Played By Jockeys and Most Played In Jukeboxes. As you might imagine, over the years, Billboard has modified the quantitative ranking criteria - eventually settling on radio airplay as the primary indicator for what is now the 'Hot 100'.

While Billboard may introduce and track musical awareness for the masses, I prefer to follow a different path in my search for new music.

A few years back, my good friend John approached me with a idea – organize a group of his musical aficionado friends together and assign each of them the task of assembling a music CD. More specifically, each month one participating friend will compile a book of songs which they hope to introduce to others participating.

The CD Experience was born. An idea as simple as it is genius.

Currently, the CD Experience – in its third season - is publishing Volume 3. April is my month, and I’m really excited about my compilation. Seattle offers one of the best music stations in the country (KEXP - 90.3fm), and I’ve been introduced to some fabulous artists since my arrival the the area.

It’s worth noting that my lovely wife holds a quite differing opinion of the CD Experience. Actually, Kelly quite despises most of the CD Experience offerings. Of course, as I look at it, one would be obtuse to defer musical commentary to Kelly, as by and large, her musical filter generally sifts out anything that isn’t:

Part of the Grease I or Grease II soundtrack
Kenny Rogers
Somehow associated with a John Hughes movie
An artist/band she saw live at the South Dakota State Fair sometime during her youth

On other hand, I am absolutely addicted to the CD Experience. As a direct result of this initiative, I’ve crossed paths with music which I’m quite certain I would otherwise have never been exposed.

As I finalize my CD to be mailed out to others – most of whom I’ve never met – I nervously hold my breath. It’s human nature to want positive reinforcement and feedback and I’m no different in my selfish desire for peer approval.

In case you’re wondering about my April line-up; click the song name to have a listen.

	NAME	ARTIST
1	About You Before	The Hermit Crabs
2	California Girls	Magnetic Fields
3	Dreams of 18	Lal Meri
4	Cemeteries of London	Coldplay
5	Way You Walk	Papas Fritas
6	Venus As a Boy	Björk
7	Hard Sun	Eddie Vedder
8	American Boy	Estelle
9	Impossible Germany	Wilco
10	November Was White, December was Grey	Say Hi
11	Rawnald Gregory Erickson the Second	Starfucker
12	House of Jealous Lovers	The Rapture
13	Do the Whirlwind	Architecture In Helsinki
14	Bigger Burn	Eleni Mandell
15	My Baby Portable Player Sound	Pizzicato Five
16	Exit 109	Dale Watson
17	Lady Divine	Alena Diane
18	Business Time	Flight of the Conchords

Kona Will Have to Wait

2009-04-12T22:09:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, lottery slots were announced for the 2009 Hawaii Ironman World Championships to occur in October. I suspect the lottery is one of a few events meaningful enough to impel over-achieving type-A triathletes to cross all their fingers and toes in hopes of securing one of the desired Kona slots. Specific details are not generally released to the public, but it’s commonly accepted that upwards of thirty thousand entrants pin their hopes on obtaining one of the coveted 150 lottery slots.

In the few minutes prior to the announcement itself, there is an odd mixture of excitement, anticipation, and tension. A muddled concoction lingering stagnant like the early morning fog. It is an uphill battle trying to make sense of it, all you can do is wait. You simply wait; it is agonizing.

It is odd how lottery day can affect you like that. When it comes to triathletes and Kona, dreams can be realized in exchange for a paltry $50 entry fee. The numbers don't lie. Taking a page from Vegas, these lottery odds are squarely stacked against you. Yet despite the odds, many look to beat the house at its own game and hit jackpot.

The exchange is a no-brainer for most.

As for me, I’ve dreamt about toeing the line in Kona for years.

Like many, my Kona fantasies started by watching the event on TV. Then, as is the case now, something about Kona pulls at me. Years later, having completed four Ironman triathlons, I must admit that I find the opportunity and allure to partake and compete in Kona to be an unfulfilled dream.

For most, a ticket to Kona is punched by qualifying at one of the worldwide qualifier events. Sadly, the cold truth is that I simply am not fast enough to qualify. Not by a long shot.

As it is, last September I finished Ironman Wisconsin (a qualifying race) in 11 hours, 23 minutes. This time represented a personal best for me by almost an hour. By any measure an otherwise hugely successful day. Maybe, if all goes without incident, I could someday finish in sub 11 hours. Maybe.

The point is moot however. Even if I were to complete an Ironman event in less than 11 hours, such a time is realistically ninety minutes or so off the typical qualifying time standard for my 35-39 age group. Hopes of qualifying are a waste of time. I might be better served wishing to sprout wings and fly into the blue sky.

As it is, the lottery is my only chance at Kona.

Normally, I would be one of the many lottery entrants. Normally, I would be foolishly pinning my hopes on a lottery slot. Like many others, hoping to defy the odds with my invitation to Kona assured and in hand.

But this year is not normal. This year I’m unemployed.

The irony would crush me – the year I finally get my ticket to Kona is the year I simply cannot spend the money for a trip over to the big island. It is what it is, and anyway your slice it, a week in Hawaii doesn’t come cheap.

I simply couldn’t risk tempting fate.

So this year – painful as it was – I had to walk off the dance floor early. I did not enter the lottery. No way I’m risking my ticket to the big dance with an empty wallet.

I've never been to Hawaii and I often joke that I'm not going unless my partaking in the Ironman is part of the agenda. Won't I be the fool if my stubbornness is all for naught. I'm told Hawaii is spectacular; many call it paradise on earth.

I really want to go there.

(insert a heavy dramatic sigh here)

Hopefully things will be different next year. Hopefully next year things will be back to normal and I’ll once again be holding my breath in naiveté that I might see my name on the 2010 lottery list.

Hopefully…

PS - If you want to better understand the hype surrounding Kona - Click here

How a Fireplace Created An Odd Addiction

2009-03-30T15:40:00.000-07:00

Sure, I’ve had a fireplace before – one of those silly gas-burning jobs. You know the type; instant romance at the flick of a switch. Total jive.

Now, for the first time in my life, I live in a house that offers the rustic warmth and comfort of a proper wood-burning fireplace. Actually, it’s not a fireplace per se, rather it is a wood burning insert, ours being the Vista, by Pacific Energy.

I’ve come to quite enjoy stoking the fire - its blended aroma of fiery cedars, firs, and alders. Pleasant as a crackling fire may be, I must admit the house does get a bit warm for my liking at times. Oh well.

Kelly and Moo-Moo embrace a differing viewpoint, they instinctively seek a fire’s warmth and comforts as would a small child take the safety of its favorite blanket.

The problem with the wood-burning firebox is the need for firewood.

Last year, Kelly and I bought and stacked a cord of wood – a first for us. It turns out that a chord is quite a bit of wood, lots of wood in fact.

Yet surprisingly insufficient for our proclivity.

The sight of a nearly empty wood bin can be a real morale buster and ominously, by early fall, there was no denying that we were running low on this precious fuel source. The possibility of life into winter without wood launched Kelly and me into alarm, frantically seeking this precious energy source wherever we could.

Foolishly, we had no idea that wood prices fluctuate atop rising tides of seasonal ebbs and flow. The rookies we were, our naiveté found us buying wood at peak prices last year, a mistake not again to be made. Stubbornly, we found ourselves hell-bent on acquiring wood with less cost this winter.

Awaiting patiently, our current stock of firewood sits idle

Coincidentally, about this same time, a neighbor of ours had to fell a tree in order to accommodate an expanding fencing project. This felled tree, quickly converted into rounds, bestowed an opportunity for Kelly and me to split the rounds ourselves.

As you might imagine, renting a gas powered 20-ton wood splitter proved to be an interesting project. Who knew Kelly had such panache for squatting and splitting rounds for hours at a time.

Over the past few months, this chance encounter with a felled tree has quickly transformed into an obsession; my own quest to find the Holy Grail – free wood.

To that end, last week proved to be bittersweet.

As part of a larger landscaping project, my immediate neighbor dropped six mature trees – three Douglas Firs and three Alders. The firs were sold, but the alders were given to us, perhaps a good will gesture in exchange for the unsightly and barren views now upon us.

Rounds which will likely sit for two years before splitting

Regardless, I jumped at the opportunity to squeeze into my grasps, the two to three cords he was offering.

Free is free.

Let There Be Water

2009-03-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

It goes without saying that Kelly and I have taken to gardening with kid-like enthusiasm. As a couple of city folks seeking to bolster our green thumb credentials, we have expanded our garden this season with aim to amplify our yields.

On the one-hand excited about the additional garden space, we have been shouldering exhaustive trepidations towards the prospect of irrigating these very same beds. Hose in hand, last year Kelly and I spent far too much time watering our precious crops; delivering this essential clear liquid atop thirsty soils.

Tranquil as this endeavor might sound, the cruel reality is that the process generally proves to be a pain in the ass.

Getting water to the garden itself is merely the first hurdle. Hoses suck, especially when faced with many obstructions all too effective at snagging and kinking the hose lines.

Finally, once the hoses are settled, Kelly and I must then subject ourselves to what seems like hours of standing around, spaying the beds.

BTW – don’t even get me started on sprinklers. Anyone having taken time to scratch beyond the the obvious solutions knows that sprinklers carelessly and needlessly waste water. Nope, sprinklers for our garden beds are not an option.

Still stuck at square one, we had to find an alternate method of getting water into the beds.

Water Witch? Nah, I’ve got no patience for superstitions, less the voodoo “art” of locating water. Something about relying upon some guy, white-knuckle clinching his trusted fork stick dowsing for water, simply doesn’t espouse the confidence I seek.

Staring down the barrel of responsibility for nearly double the garden space, we simply had to ascertain a better solution.

Faced with these realities, and armed with confidence of a chain-smoking poker player, we’ve decided to double down on a drip irrigation system.

The trench, hosting the hose from the house to the garden

Out two days of work and about $150 less in my wallet, Kelly and I are betting that our decision to implement an irrigation system will effectively transport precious water to the crops, without either of us clumsily fighting the lengthy and bulky hose in and out of the equally pitiful deer fence (expanded to contain growing garden footprint).

Command central for all the hose lines

Truth be told, early reaction to the drip system is just that … drip.

It’s hard to determine if the process will in fact work. Regardless, Kelly and I are nervously holding our collective breathes before passing any definitive judgment.

Not the best looking, but I believe in function over fashion

Ultimately, time will tell if our bet on drip irrigation will payback big, or leave us holding a worthless set of cards.

In the end, if we do in fact fold our hand, I suppose Kelly and I can always revisit prior decisions … hose in hand.

Murphy supervising the project activities

Three Cups of Tea, $100k in cash, and One Hell of a Story

2009-03-19T19:02:00.000-07:00

About a year and a half ago, my friend mentioned that he was planning to attend a lecture presented by a guy from Bozeman, MT. As best I recall, the premise of the talk had something to do about this guy – a former high alpine climber – and how he is now operating a nonprofit which builds schools throughout remote regions of the world.

I don’t recall specifically why, but do remember I didn’t attend.

Afterwards, my friend told me that I had missed a great presentation, as evidenced by a standing room only affair. At the time, I thought it was unfortunate to have missed what apparently must have been an otherwise a good lecture.

Fast forward about a year … I’m casually flipping the pages of Outside Magazine and find myself fixated upon a picture of a guy standing in a field.

Curiosity having clasped its tight grip upon me, I begin reading the story’s teaser text…

“Greg Mortenson's school-building program in Central Asia dates back to 1993, when the banged-up K2 survivor made a pledge to the Himalayan villagers who took him in. Fifteen years and Three Cups of Tea later, it's both a powerful example of a great idea and a chaotic, ongoing adventure. KEVIN FEDARKO hits the rough road with Mortenson in Afghanistan, where they roll with warlords and deliver teacher pay the old-fashioned way: with a $100,000 bag of cash.”

I was hooked. No way I’m passing on this story and the $100k bag of cash. I had to read on (click here to read the article). I finished the author’s account of an amazing story and could not help but think that this guy Greg Mortenson is something special. Really special.

Remember that lecture I passed over – probably to watch some college hoops or other programming I’ve long forgotten – turns out that guy was Greg Mortenson. His presentation was held no more than ten minutes from my house. The fabric of irony can be ill-fitting at times.

Like a well-executed prank, Fortuna pulled a fast one on me. I am such an idiot.

Seeking atonement, I decided to read Mortensen’s book Three Cups of Tea in an effort to augment gaps with the Outside article. I mentioned my plan to Kelly, wherein – adding further insult to injury – she speedily retrieved a copy of the book from our humble library.

Without her possibly knowing, Kelly’s next comment struck me like a Kung-Fu chop, “Oh look, it’s signed by the author”, she says.

I was seething.

The good news is that I did read the book – a task I would encourage anyone to consider – and will say simply that the story is incredible. Over the years, Greg Mortenson and his non-profit have built dozens of schools and vocational facilities throughout some of Pakistan and Afghanistan’s harshest regions.

Taking into account the political and geographical impediments, and bearing in mind that this former hippie climber is considered an infidel in the eyes of everyone he must rely upon within that part of the world, these accomplishments are nothing short of Herculean triumphs.

The amount of personal risk and sacrifice taken by this man along with his team on the ground is infinite. If faced with similar challenges, I honestly do not know if I would have nearly the courage to proceed as has Greg. Probably not.

This much I know for certain - I’m still kicking myself about missing that damn lecture.

The Murph

2009-03-16T21:18:00.000-07:00

Kelly and I have had Murphy for a long time, the better part of thirteen years to be specific.

I suspect that much like any long-time dog owner, Kelly and I have fully integrated Murphy into our lives, perhaps too much some would say. What started off as a spur-of-the-moment visit to a pet shop has gelled into a long lasting affair with the dog we often times love to hate.

But we love her regardless.

Sure, as a puppy Murphy was adorable; her long and soft ears often proving a formidable obstacle even she was not able to fully navigate. It was then, these quirks made me smile.

Of course Kelly found this simply adorable.

Over time, Murphy provided cause for me to be evicted from my apartment. Apparently my landlord was serious about “no pets”.

Throughout the years Murphy has proved to be a worthy ambassador, opening the doors of introduction for what have become many long-standing friendships for Kelly and me … less that little kid who failed to keep his ice cream cone at safe distance.

It would appear that Murphy does take pleasure in ice-cream atop a sugar cone. Who knew? Lucky for Kelly and me, the kid’s parents found the entire episode endearing.

I cannot help but wonder if that kid has made his peace with dogs yet.

Recently, our vet suggested that Murphy transition to a diet for elderly canines. Apparently her kidneys lack the full digestive power of her youth. Yikes, where did all the years go? Daddy’s little puppy suddenly is grown.

The vet simply states the obvious; these days Murphy’s old age cannot be disputed. She reminds me of my grandpa in his late years. She to seems to be slowing, the spring in her step less sprightly than in years past, her hearing loss is obvious, and she’s become increasing ornery.

An old curmudgeon is what she’s really become.

But we love her regardless.

I like to think that our recent relocation to a more rural setting has been good for Murphy in her golden years.

She really appears to enjoy our big yard and is always keen to locate potential bread scraps the birds might have overlooked. She likes to walk the Grand Forest trails where infinite aromas are abundant - a lottery of sorts satisfying her incessant sense of smell and endless searches to discover something akin to her version of lotto.

Also, did I mention that Murphy is trending towards increasing levels of stubbornness? Sometimes I want to leave her in the forest.

Alas, we love her regardless. Unconditionally.

A Bear and a Frog

2009-03-13T12:11:00.000-07:00

Kelly and I are always happy to have visitors to our home and recently, we were pleasantly surprised to find an unannounced visitor ringing the doorbell.

It seems that our guest – at the suggestion of one of his classmates – has been spending time with many families recommended as probable and hospitable home stay hosts. Taking sabbatical from his regular life as a second grader from Big Hollow Elementary School, Theodore has been traversing the country enjoying what I can only imagine to be a wonderful journey.

In attempts to win-over our traveling friend, Kelly and I gave Theodore a proper tour of Bainbridge Island, highlighting all the places he had earlier identified and was hoping to visit during his stay.

Sadly, the weather did not always cooperate, resulting in some rainy moments which I suspect dampened Theodore’s spirits slightly at times. All was not lost though - Kelly and I had a plan - the perfect place to take Theodore.

Enter Frog Rock.

In 1971 - as an artistic divergence from the established rituals of “Paint Night”, two Bainbridge High School graduating seniors bucked tradition and opted not to partake in the longtime and frowned upon practice of painting their names atop the local boulevards.

Instead, these creative sweethearts provided local residents with a peace offering gesture … widely known now as Frog Rock.

Upon first sighting, Frog Rock represented something idyllic for Kelly and me; symbolic reassurance that Bainbridge Island was in fact a good place for us to begin the next chapter of our lives together.

As for Theodore, he didn’t mention his exact opinion, but Kelly and I think he found Frog Rock to be pretty neat.

BTW – remember that couple who erected Frog Rock … they went on to marry and rumor is they have remain together all these years.

The Joy Of Breakfast

2009-03-12T22:00:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan of breakfast.

In fact, rarely do I miss the opportunity to start my day with a healthy dose of food.

Generally, my morning mealtime ritual commences with a double espresso. Upon slurping the last few ounces of liquid caffeine, I progress next to preparing toast (with honey!) along with a big bowl of cereal - generally a blend of wheat flakes mixed with granola and dried fruit.

A sizeable glass of fresh orange juice serves as a perfect chaser.

Oh, and I also take delight in more espresso by way of a yummy latte.

As it turns out, most mornings I generally park myself at the dining room table and enjoy the spectacular western views over-looking the Olympic Mountains. Over the past year or so, this little ritual has served me well, providing a serene moment prior to facing the remainder of my day.

Earlier this week - for some reason I cannot effectively articulate, I was particularly struck with momentary awe by the day's sunrise. I can’t quite pinpoint what it was, but I found myself uncontrollably drawn to this particular first light.

At the risk of sounding hokey, this dawning of the day was simply breathtaking.

Needless to say, the benefits of an otherwise routine breakfast provided extraordinary delight.

It's Kind Of Like Green Acres

2009-03-11T21:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel like my life is but an episode of the former 1960's CBS comedy Green Acres. You the know the show - a married couple moves from Manhattan to a farm in the country. Episode after episode, this couple - one of whom wants to be a farmer, the other wanting to remain a city dweller - struggles to maintain balance in their lives.

About a year and half into my life here in the PNW, I'm sometimes torn between my previous life in Chicago and my current one in rural western Washington.

Meanwhile, Kelly continues to solidly cement her love for the country and if she had her way, would move to a proper farm tomorrow if she could. While I am continuing to find joy in life away from the big city, I'm not quite ready for full fledged farm life.

However, I do quite enjoy the benefit of a huge yard and the ability to *farm* within our garden. Over the past couple weeks, Kelly and I have dedicated countless hours expanding our garden (versus last year) and preparing for this season.

We are especially excited to try out our new cloches which should allow us to jump-start our seed sowing and also enable a much longer growing season.

It turns out that building the cloches was pretty straightforward, but Kelly did volunteer for a particularly messy job which I was did not want any part of during the construction process.

It turns out that Home Depot does not carry 2" PVC clips as we needed, so Kelly had to fabricate about 60 pieces, which besides being a particularly tedious effort, did lead to her also getting filthy.

The good news is that these little clips provide a great seal for the cloche ends and without them, the benefit of the cloche is not maximized.

I'll be thanking Kelly this spring for her efforts as we enjoy some fresh veggies for dinner.

Gift For My Niece

2009-03-11T21:24:00.000-07:00

My brother Mike and his wife Andrea are expecting the birth of their first child in April. It seems to me that the arrival of a newborn is always a special event, but for my immediate family, this particular birth represents the first child birth amongst my siblings.

I'm pretty excited.

As Kelly and I were debating gift ideas, we eventually landed on the idea of baby quilt. While a quilt is not necessarily a new concept per se, Kelly and I do quite like the idea of providing a newborn with a baby quilt of their own.

Coincidentally, my neighbor is a fabulous quilter.

Recognizing opportunity knocking when we see it, Kelly and I commissioned the following quilt for Mike and Andrea.

The full view

Close-up of the front

The entire backside is comprised of this pattern

Kelly and I are very happy with the results; hopefully Mike and Andrea will feel the same.

Note: If you like this quilt let me know; I'd be happy to put you in touch with my neighbor. As an added bonus, she donates a third of her quirt earnings towards a local abuse shelter, allowing a quilt purchase to further benefit others.

The Complexity of Debt

2009-03-03T20:33:00.000-08:00

Recently, there has been an inordinate amount of conversation swirling about focused on the cause and impact of consumer (i.e. personal) debt. Certainly, it seems plausible they may be legitimate situations of misfortune and unfortunate luck propelling many innocent individuals into financial peril.

But ...

It seems to me that a recent SNL skit summarizes the most likely root cause of the consumer debt pretty effectively.

The Good Life

2009-02-27T08:35:00.000-08:00

Kelly's father is a big fan of golf. Actually he's fanatic about the game.

Here's a thought - I'd go so far as to suggest that a drug addict has a better chance of making it through detoxification than does my father-in-law successfully making his way through any period in excess of five days without visiting a golf course.

I should also add that Kelly's dad is arguably Tiger Wood's greatest fan. Like all Tiger disciples, I'm guessing it's been killing my father-in-law that his beloved 'Tiger' has been sidelined for the past eight months due to injury.

But no longer.

Marking Tiger's return, his major sponsor Nike, recently launched a new ad campaign wherein many tour players revel the "good life" with no Tiger on the PGA Tour claiming a disproportionate number of tournament wins. The ad is a parody, mocking the end of the good life many of the other PGA players enjoyed during Tiger's absence. It's a pretty funny spot.

I'm quite certain Kelly's father thought it was brilliant.

By the way, having lost in the second round of the Accenture match play yesterday, Nike's hope for a Tiger Woods storybook return will have to wait. The delay is not all bad, with no competition from Tiger this weekend it looks like the good life continues just a bit longer for someone; we'll find out who on Sunday.

Small Town 'News'

2009-02-25T08:36:00.000-08:00

During my freshman year of college I took a trip to visit my buddy at his parent's home in Milbank, SD. Upon returning to campus, I learned of and took humor in the fact that my visit was referenced within the Milbank weekly newspaper as - ahem - 'news'.

Apparently, my buddy's parents took the time and effort to submit certain details about me and my visit to a local reporter.

Good grief.

At the time, I could not understand why this sort of content is contained within a small town newspaper. Now, nearly eighteen years later, I have the benefit of reflection and tend conclude that such reporting helps to foster a sense of community.

So here I am with Kelly, now living in a small community of our own - the antithesis of Chicago. There is no daily newspaper in our town, rather, the Bainbridge Island Review arrives once a week complete with much of the same hokey content as was contained within that Milbank paper so long ago.

Ironically, our small-town newspaper now provides me with a sense of delight. More specifically, the said delight is mostly contained within the Police Blotter, a summary of police activity.

Here are recent samples:

11:02 a.m. A woman reported that she suspected her boyfriend had taken $300 from her dresser drawer before leaving for Boise, Idaho. She had not heard from her boyfriend in five days and had no way of reaching him. She said they were planning on getting married.

2:15 p.m. A citizen found a Swiss DMQ, women’s-style watch on the sidewalk near Winslow Mall. The watch was entered into storage for safekeeping.

8:45 p.m. A woman flagged down an officer on Winslow Way and turned over a Verizon cell phone found near a picnic table in the parking lot of the police station. The phone was wet and its battery was dead. It was entered as found property.

10:22 p.m. A Lariat Loop resident called police to report an incessantly barking dog. An officer responded and found a small, white poodle barking in the driveway of a home. The dog ran to the front door when the officer approached. The temperature was in the 30s and the officer noted the poodle “did not appear to be an outdoor-type dog.” A homeowner came to the door and attempted to catch the dog, which promptly scurried into a neighboring yard. A report was forwarded to the humane society.

Certainly, this reporting is not likely to warrant a Pulitze r, but it does put a smile on my face.

Surely that has got to be worth something.

Happy Birds, Happy Kelly.

2009-02-24T17:54:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows Kelly is very aware that she is a animal lover - perhaps a bit over the top at times, but that's for another post, another time.

It is also accurate to state that Kelly is huge big fan of clementine s. During season, she takes to a clementine like a little kid takes to candy.

One waste byproduct of the clementine has nothing to do wit the fruit itself, rather the waste is store packaging of the fruit itself. More specifically, the wooden shipping crate one finds for themselves in possession of after consuming this tasty citrus fruit.

The other day it dawned on me that I can refashion these wooden crates while also fulfilling Kelly's desire to nourish the birds.

This modest contraption keeps everyone happy - Kelly is delighted that birds are getting adequate food supply, my cat is giddy with all this new action, and I get to see a variety of interesting birds from the comfort of my deck.

It's a win-win-win anyway you look at it.

Hoping For An Abundant Yield

2009-02-23T21:02:00.000-08:00

Kelly and I have always enjoyed food, especially good food. To clarify, for us *good food* is that which is fresh and without a lot of fanfare. Often times we feel that less is more.

We also really like fresh fruits and vegetables. When we lived in Chicago, we often frequented the Evanston Farmer's Market and also were members of a local CSA. Upon relocating to Washington, Kelly and I were anxious to get a garden of our own planted. Upon learning of our intentions, some friends recommend that we read Michael Pollen's The Omnivore's Dilemma as a catalyst to further cement our commitments to the garden.

As you might image, life as a Chicago condo dweller did not serve to lay a solid gardening foundation, but nonetheless, last summer we took our initial steps at growing food with - albeit with modest results.

This year, we've decided to really increase the stakes and approach our garden planning without reservation. To that end, over the past couple weeks Kelly and I have poured hours into planning and preparing the garden in hopes of a high-yielding crop for 2009. There is ample opportunity to apply many lessons from last year and also much of the reading we've compiled over the winter.

One garden project we are especially keen on is our decision to plant a couple varieties of berries - both Raspberry and Tayberry shoots.

Most people are very familiar with Raspberries, but if you are any thing like Kelly and me, you may not be familiar with the Tayberry - we certainly weren't prior to last summer. In short, Tayberries are extremely delicious and I would recommend them to anyone (although watch out of the thorns).

Where once yard clutter resided, there is optimism - and hopefully tasty berries to sprinkle atop some home-made ice cream.