The History Lesson

The mailboxes were right here. And this hill was steeper. A suspension bridge spanned this creek until a winter storm tossed a stately sycamore tree into mid-span, sending both tree and bridge down river to the lagoon that swallows Volkswagons. I swear the beetles are stacked three high under the sands in the beach lagoon; and there was the refrigerator floating by from upstream that I swam out to ride in. A few bookcases, at least a dozen bicycles. When the rains ceased, people would gather around the rim to watch appliances disappear.

The Statue of Liberty in the Planet of the Apes.

How do you explain childhood? Or describe life in an open meadow where the only remaining evidence of homo sapien domesticity is a random staircase to nowhere concealed by bamboo, or a rogue grapefruit tree patrolled by a granddaddy rattlesnake?

You smile and laugh and step over the snake. You remember where the full moon rose in winter, the hillside you climbed to escape homework, whose yard had the best loquat trees. And you re-live it all in the telling: a conspiratorial half smile revealing your personal conspiracy with history. And you harvest the grapefruits.

I watched my cousin go through the same process a day later in a clandestine ravine behind the hillside house that began life as our grandparents’ home. The homestead was handed down to her father, who took up caring for their fruit trees, a career in medicine that mimicked theirs, his own three children and eventually a new wife and her two kids. Last year everything but three oaks were reduced to ash by a careless migrant flipping tortillas over open flames in the canyon below.

But here we were wandering up a stream in Rattlesnake Canyon, dragging the next generation over boulders, across fallen logs, dodging poison oak and parachute-shaped spider webs collecting dew from the dense ground fog, listening to Moira tell her kids about the times when the world stood still, right here.

In the morning, viewing the coast through the window of a southbound train is like seeing through a Holga camera: every scene a murky, hand-tinted postcard from 1959. On the back would be a brief attempt to record the smell of salty ocean air, the ecstasy of ripe strawberries, standing below a two-story tall plaster Santa Claus with your grandmother.

At a consignment shop somewhere in Omaha, Nebraska, someone is lifting the lid on a wooden cigar box full of 50-year-old hand-tinted postcards from Santa Barbara.

Our Place in the World

Just a brief visit to the magic of the San Juan Islands is an emphatic reminder of our place in the Natural World. Forests of madrone and cedar trees defy the coldest, wettest winters, wild deer swim between islands across channels running with 12-knot tidal rips, and dense, tangled bushes exploded with flowers and berries in the summer.

Canadian Coastal Islands just to the north are so inviting, but one must consider the rips and tidal exchanges. Best to stay close to shore, yet a narrow passage like Danger Rocks is where the rips can be the swiftest.

Even the most populated town on the islands, Friday Harbor, is carved out of encroaching forests on the edge of San Juan, where residents struggle year round against cold, wet, harsh conditions on land and sea for their livelihood. Tourists in the summer see it at its best, when the sun is shining and fresh local produce is abundant, murals are freshly painted and craftsmen show off their work at county fairs.

Summertime means the sun sets after 8 p.m. and twilight lingers till 10. On the full moon, with the lunar eclipse happening across the globe, extreme tides sucked entire lagoons out to sea. And we wonder, where does the water go? Is it piled up in a heap somewhere in the middle of the ocean, only to return to us six hours later?

The wild red wheat hid the island foxes while the foraged for whoever they would eat next. Bald eagles needed no such protection. They boldly scanned the surfaces of land and sea for their next prey. The young ones were scolded to get up out of bed and find their own breakfast.

Greens from the garden meant less trips to the store, but riding a BMW sidecar was definitely the way to cruise the island.

Whether we are there to experience it or not, the San Juan Islands, surrounded by the Olympic Peninsula and the Canadian Islands, will always be one of the more spectacular places on Earth.

Kayaking on a calm day in San Diego

It's good to be back on the water.

Taking advantage of the mood swings of the season as they play out on the ocean surface: sometimes gray and furious, other times radiating peace and clarity from 60-feet below, I never cease to be amazed how quickly the noise and fury of a large city disappears when you're on a kayak just half a mile from shore. From dawn to dusk, from Mission Bay, along Sunset Cliffs, to Coronado Island in San Diego Bay, it's easy to find the calm, and sometimes the dolphins.

Rarefied Air

Tuko Pamoja "We're in this together" became our mantra as we emerged from the rainforest into heather and beyond: six kayakers from San Diego, two guides and 16 porters from beautiful Tanzania: a village of nomads, weaving slowly like a colony of ants balancing oversized bread crusts on their heads through lava fields and alpine desert towards the snows of Kilimanjaro.

Chasing twilight on slick red mud, using tree roots as steps, a luminous moon led us the last mile home to our first camp at Mti. Mkubwa, 9,498 feet, where tropical rains soaked our dreams in the songs of rare birds and delicate red and yellow-spotted impatiens. Leaving Mkubwa for Shira I next morning, emerging from the canopy of mahogony and podacarpus trees, the elephant tracks gave way to jackal prints in the mud. Over a field of wooden outhouses, we saw our mountain, so very far away, covered in snow, radiant in the setting sun.

We were pampered with too much food: veggie stews, fruit, toast and jam, rice, popcorn and hot cocoa. An essential ingredient, "fat spread" got poured into every hot dish. We began to make gifts of all the snacks, the trail mix, the chocolate bars we brought, to lighten our load.

Following a trail of proteas in varying stages of bloom to Shira II at 12,500 feet, Kilimanjaro remained in view, but never seemed closer. How could we reach the snow line, let alone the summit, in three days? The rain began to fall as we reached camp, but when it retreated in a few hours we found ourselves perched on a ridge of dark chocolate soil, heavy blue clouds from the west resting on the jagged peaks below camp, a thunderstorm echoing through the valley to the east. It was here our guide Dismas Urio, a veteran of over 300 ascents, relayed radio reports from higher on the mountain, that our path might be barred by heavy snows and rains. As we stood in the fading twilight, watching lightening at play, each of us silently developed the mental resolve to prepare for the worst.

When Tanzanians laugh, the song spreads across the sky, and there are no more problems in the world. The porters were singing to Maria Carey and Chaka Khan on a faint transistor radio in the brilliant cloudless dawn, melting the hail clinging to our tents. Our nomad village advanced through the lava fields into wet snow and icy winds, singing Beatles tunes and sharing movie trivia. This was a personal best for everyone: Lava Tower at 15,190 feet. Higher than Mt. Whitney. And as we descend to Barranco Camp, 13,044 feet, a new landscape emerged. The senecio tree, like a Joshua tree,  indigenous, thrives here on moisture from the cold mists in the ravines. In the morning we were to face the ominous Barranco Wall, a scramble up a lava face, with hand holds made from the cooling of lava bubbles.

Sparrows woke us. We cheered our porters as they steamed past us on the Barranco Wall, then into the Karanga Valley, our last water source, and up again. Massive glaciers clung to the side of Kilimanjaro now and when we reached the wide open alluvial plain, I felt the urge to run across, lest the slightest rain bring a flash flood strong enough to carry away elephants.

We were starting to feel the magic. As we walked into Barafu Camp, our highest home at 15,330, I was humming loudly, and Dismas 2 (Mtuy) started to do the same. This was the camp rangers said we might not reach. This is it. We would have a quick dinner, four hours rest, and pack ourselves like marshmallows into every piece of clothing we brought before our ascent at midnight. But in the meantime, we paused to appreciate the grace of sister peak Mawenzi, content in her beauty beside Kibo, the peak they call Kilimanjaro.

Under the full moon, midnight didn't seem so dark. Fireflies danced in the void above us, earlier hikers nearing Stella Point. My feet had rocks in them, my lungs had cotton batting. Step, pole plant, breathe. The switchbacks were short, you kept your eyes on the boots in front of you. Step, pole plant, breathe. When desperate for a sip of water, somehow Dismas knew, and we would stop. We moved as a centipede, tight together, our minds full of every word of encouragement we'd ever heard, plodding upwards to claim 4,400 feet in three miles.
After six hours of sleepwalking, the growing light around us recharged our energy. We cried and hugged on reaching Stella Point, then fortified ourselves with half frozen Clif bars and electrolyte slush against a 30 mph wind rising up to escort us the final quarter mile to Uhuru Peak.

The sun has risen here at the top of Africa every morning since the faulting of the Great Rift Valley created this volcanic mountain over two million years ago. Every morning in this rarefied air, above the clouds, it casts a golden light across the famed glaciers of Kilimanjaro. But I will have seen it only this once. Standing there, knowing this, my face to the sun, I am both truly alone and at peace with the world.

It was a bittersweet parting, our nomad family, the next morning at Mweka camp, 10,000 feet. Tanzanians were excited to go home to loved ones. We showered them with gifts of Thermarests, rain pants, hats, gloves, batteries, swiss army knives, chocolate. The tips we give them will more than double their income, and they will do it again, perhaps next week. For us it was a trip of a lifetime.

A Walk in the Park

Not just any park.
One that calls people to it from all corners of the globe. And yet so few of us ventured down from the South Rim one day last week, bundled in four layers of capilene and fleece against the 20 degree morning, our feet strapped into Stabilicers and Yaktraks. Torn between looking down to watch our footing on the icy narrow trail and watching the sun peel back the shadows from snow-covered ridges, we smiled through the first three miles, until the trial became red dirt and we could shed layers.

Though the day was long, the distance was not. We reached the Phantom Ranch canteen before closing time at 4pm for a celebratory cold one. Our group cabin was a humorous bin of flotsam from our packs, everyone mumbling about how much gear they brought, wondering if they should wear all their clothing through the night since our bunks only had thin coverings. Bless Bill for the Grand Marnier, and everyone for not snoring.

If the color of sun against the canyon walls wasn't so captivating, it would be easy to suffer claustrophobia on the canyon floor given the brief day's light. Work crews scurried to put new roofs on cabins and Brian Weir of the park's fisheries department visited his traps to rid Bright Angel Creek of invasive brown trout twice a day, before darkness pulled a fresh blanket of stars over us.

 Easily, the most magical moment was starting the hike out in near-total darkness and 25 degrees, warm again in our layers, all matter consumed by the roar of the Colorado River, rushing with purpose through its rocky maze. Fireflies danced on the canyon walls, the only evidence of hikers scattered along the trail. Though it never got above 30 degrees, the wind slept and let us be, and snow stayed in the ice clouds over the North Rim far away.

Looking back, one mile from the rim and that Fat Tire waiting, we all wondered when we would be back to do this again.

The Cane Boil

Inside it was warm while we layered in fleece, old sweatshirts, knit caps and gloves. This is Alachua, Florida and it's 19 degrees. The dogs ran circles around us turning the frosted grass to green mush as we approached the tool shed for our machetes. Why? Because sugar cane grows well here. Because even two acres is enough for a family-sized year-round cane crop and victory garden here. Because if you have ever tasted home grown, home juiced, home boiled sugar cane syrup, you will never be the same again.

R.G. Peattie carrying harvested cane to the cutting pile

 

Tapasvini feeds pieces of cane into the Vijay juicer while Nadia keeps the supply coming. Both the feeder and the catcher of squeezed cane are covered in cane juice in no time.

The girls take a break from algebra equations to sample cane juice cut with lemon.

Eventually the December sun overwhelmed us. Jackets, hats, long underwear were cast over fences as we moved through preparations for Saturday's Community Cane Boil: juice enough cane to get a full cauldron ready, make sure firewood is dry, gather enough machetes, kitchen knives, bowls and buckets; split enough harvested cane. Visiting friends and a handful of students from Gator Nation will pitch in at various necessary chores in the process. But they must be fed, so bisquits and a huge pot of soup have to be made.

 Jim Crack glares at his human friends from the cabbage, fixing them with one green, then one blue eye, wondering why the dogs are getting more attention on Cane Boil Day.

R.G. keeps the juice circulating in the caste iron cauldron as it begins to boil down. This is the place to stay warm, beside the fire.

Call it community involvement, call it a spiritual connection with Nature. For me, physical labor in pursuit of dirt under the fingernails and blisters from hand tools are a form of meditation. Cane leaves slice like paper cuts, and sugar in a wound stings as much as salt.

When others have gone, the family works into the evening to finish the juicing.

The aroma of sweet cane syrup warms the clear winter sky.

Maybe it's having happily  labored to get to this goal. Maybe it's appreciating all the robust taste of all things organic. Maybe it just is what it is: one finger full of warm cane syrup elevates the senses, and they will demand to know, why have you been keeping this from me for so long?

Just a small plot of sugar cane in a Florida backyard, a small juicer from India, and a hand-me-down cauldron yield endless cane juice and more than six gallons of cane syrup.And many many perfect pancake breakfasts.