Glorious Currents

When I was born, my parents were living in Edie’s family’s garage apartment, so Edie and I go back as far as friends can go.  We attended each other’s first birthday party. We suffered the wrongs of an evil science teacher who accused us of cheating (which we had not).  We both adored Ms. Josten, our beautiful 8^thgrade Latin teacher. We danced, over and over, to Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” in our living room at 638.  We drove stealthily past Cliff Pemberton’s house when, at sixteen, I longed for him. We made mashed potatoes for midnight snacks and begged Edie’s mother to make her famous chocolate sauce. And fifty years later, when my Mom received her diagnosis, it was natural to call Edie and weep while curled on the green-carpeted stairs of 638 where, as teens, we’d spent countless hours gossiping about boys. 

Before Mom got sick, Edie and her husband, Dave #2, invited us to their time-share in Bend, Oregon, and that is what prompted our entire trip west.  

Edie and Dave #2 are seasoned travelers and hikers, and after my Dave and I experienced Glacier’s High-Line trail – during which we inched along a foot-wide pebbly path while clinging to a cable bolted in the rock face so as not to be swept to our deaths by buffeting winds – we thought we were reasonably ready to keep up with them. 

On our first evening in Bend, they eased us in with a lovely canyon walk.  The next morning, we were up at 7:00 AM, slathered with sunscreen, fortified with granola and yogurt, and out the door by 8:00 in order to stay ahead of the scorching sun during our hike up Smith Rock. 

Edie and Dave #2 were compassionate to us Smith Rock neophytes.  Yes, they’d chosen the Misery Ridge Trail, clearly designated “Most Difficult,” for our second day, but as I said, my husband and I were secretly preening with unearned cockiness after conquering at least a mile of Glacier’s High Line, and, adrenaline-charged, we were game. Besides, Earth herself beckoned to us, her bones exposed, ragged, red and raw, towering above and before us. Onward campers!

Our Bend Camp counselors were mindful of hydration and stamina, and insisted upon regular shade and water breaks, and, omigod, Chocolate Mint Cliff bars.  Can I tell you how good those things are? Anyway, we didn’t realize how significantly Edie and Dave #2 had slowed their pace for us, and Dave and I thought we were hoofing along just fine; we were solid.  The breath-stealing sight of rock climbers suspended from cables slung from one precipice to another gave us yet another excuse to take a good long pause for pictures and exclamations. 

Ultimately, the sun caught up with us, and our final descent down a series of switchbacks was sweltering as well as challenging, but Dave and I were proud and exhilarated that we’d hiked this “most difficult” trail.  Were we undone by the rattlesnake curled in the rocks to the right on the teeny trail? No! We inched by and took pictures. 

When we reached the end of the trail, mentally, I danced a victory lap that, at 65, I had successfully, fairly comfortably, achieved such a feat. But, I had not remembered, had not considered, the climb back up to the parking lot.  When I gazed up toward the lot - so faraway it seemed! - my body began to protest. 

You know that let-down response when you really have to go to the bathroom and you pull into a rest stop and your body thinks, “Yay!  Now I can go”? And then, the bathrooms are closed for renovations and you are really screwed because your body thinks it has permission to release?  Yeah.  It was like that.  

Agh, I was so close, but my knees said, “no way,” so I sat in the meager shade of a stunted pine while my heart cursed me with a frenzied, erratic, reproving beat.  Wait. Wait. Slow it down. Slow it down. I reflected on an incident at Logan’s Pass, when Dave and I witnessed a rescue helicopter landing to pick up a hiker who’d had a heart attack. Oh Lord. I’d not been charitable in thinking the man had been unrealistic in gauging his abilities.  Breathe.  Breathe. Judge not, lest ye be next. 

When my heart calmed, I stood up, and remarkably, that respite was enough. I crested the final leg to the parking lot where Dave #2, bless him, waited in the car with the air conditioner blasting.  Once seated and cool, my triumph and bravado returned. 

So, what next?  Bring it on!   

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In the morning, rested and well fed, again we were up and out by 8:30 to hike the volcanic cone of the Newbury Shield.  It was forbidding and charred, a vast expanse of spikes and crevices. Surprisingly, berry-studded bushes and yellow potentilla bloomed from cracks in the rock, and chipmunks and lizards scurried about the black surfaces.  How could that be?  Oh, this Earth! So beautiful, bountiful, resilient, and mischievous!  I’m thinking about having her tattooed somewhere on my body.  

In our normal life, a moonscape stroll such as this would provide stories and adventure for months, but this was but one morning at Edie and Dave’s Bend Camp.  For, that afternoon, we were off to the Sun River Resort for a bike ride followed by tubing down the Deschute River.  

After a tasty lunch on the balcony of a club overlooking a golf course, we changed into bathing suits, took a shuttle upriver, and slipped into the water, each cupped in our own royal blue inner tube, at the mercy of the river’s whims.

For three hours we drifted. Three hours to gaze at blue sky. Three hours to admire passing greenery and the occasional bird. Three hours to chat, when our tubes floated close enough, about the wonder of creation, man versus nature, evolution, and the danger of Trump’s roll backs in environmental and species protections.  

Three hours where my control was limited to what paddling hands could accomplish in steering clear of debris or maneuvering toward a promising current. Despite what we like to believe about life, isn’t that really all we are ever able to do? 

Late Night at the Depot

It is 12:26 A.M. and the oak benches in the depot at Whitefish are hard. Our 9:15 P.M. overnight train to Portland – with its cozy bunks and tiny bathroom – is delayed. The ETA keeps creeping later, and we hope the current projection – 2:38 A.M. – sticks.

While on the Red Bus tour, our stopover at Glacier’s Lake Macdonald Lodge had been tantalizing, but brief.  Given our naively anticipated departure time today, we had, even then, plenty of time to kill, so we returned to the rustic, 1913 lodge for a tasty lunch and lengthy stroll along the lake before heading for Whitefish.

With its shops featuring an eclectic mix of antlers, stuffed heads, swinging-door saloons, and a nuance of nautical, the town has a “come ski and sail in the wild west!” appeal. We had dinner at a restaurant called “Casey’s”, and of course, took a picture of the logo to send to our daughter. It was still early, so we drove into Lee Mason State Park for a quick look, and when we needed a bathroom, stopped at the luxury lodge on Whitefish Lake.  With the confident air of paying guests, we strutted to the poolside facilities. Then, brazenly, we walked the lodge beach, our bravado rewarded when a staff member smiled and asked if we were enjoying our stay.  Oh yes, thank you!  

Lulled by the memory of our prompt departure and entrancing train ride three days ago from Portland, we returned our rental and headed for the depot with a half hour to spare. Four hours later, we are surrounded by our future fellow passengers, many of them striving to snooze despite the oaken seats. 

The Hertz office is open, so Dave and I bide time chatting with Mr. Duff whose family has run this franchise for over 70 years.  His grandfather’s massive Victorian roll-top desk – with two secret drawers – dominates the small office.     

Hours pass. I should read or write in my journal, but I’m mesmerized by the bizarre programs on the big-screen TV. “Ring of Honor” wrestling? It has to be a parody.  Oh lord, I hope so.  Such posturing, leaping, and flailing!  Wild, swinging punches, tumultous falls, swirling capes, and threatening growls! Totally ridiculous, but a glance around the waiting room reveals that, like me, those not sleeping are riveted. 

A kind young woman offers food from the vending machine to an elderly couple sitting nearby.  A mother strolls round and round, crooning and cradling her adorable chick-fuzzed baby who makes not a sound, but gazes wide-eyed and quiet at each of us in turn. The child’s father snoozes with his head resting on a backpack while his tiny daughter sits next to him playing on a phone. Wizened and bearded, an ancient gentleman sits alone.  If it were possible, I would’ve guessed him to be a Civil War veteran, although Viet Nam is more likely. 

Did I mention the full-grown stuffed mountain goat encased in glass in the middle of the depot?  No?

Around 2:00 A.M., a youthful couple stumbles in; clearly they’ve passed the time at a local bar.  The boy’s round face is good-natured and cherubic, with coppery curls tumbling from beneath his brimmed, leather hat. The girl is pretty, with long blond hair. To our surprise, they greet Dave and me as dear friends, and we realize we met them while waiting for a shuttle in Glacier.  At the time, we were heading up to Logan Pass, and they were off to the wilderness to camp. When you’re traveling, even a brief conversation qualifies as a connection, and when gritty-eyed, tired, and stranded in the wee hours, a familiar face is a welcome sight.   

The minutes crawl by and just as we reach the point of dismissing any announcements related to our train’s status as cruel fabrication, it pulls in at 3:10 A.M.  Our weary crew stands and stretches, gathers up pocketbooks, empty candy wrappers, water bottles, and suitcases, then trudges out to the platform to board.

Once ensconced in our unit, Dave climbs into his bunk and immediately falls asleep. I squeeze into our diminutive bathroom to brush my teeth, and am dismayed by the smears and splatters on every stainless steel and porcelain surface. Oh AMTRAK! I love thee, but you betray me with this dark-of-night, mandatory floor-sink-and-toilet swab.

The rail line is somewhat redeemed when daylight brings tasty boxed breakfasts, although our “vegetarian” offerings, so marked in bold black Sharpie letters, include thick chunks of ham.  After we eat around the misplaced meat, we search out our bleary young friends from Whitefish who have spent their slice-of-night sitting up in coach recliners in a separate car. They’re happy to have a ham-and-bread snack.    

As our train snakes along the Columbia River Gorge, Dave and I snag seats in the observation car and marvel at the stunning variations in landscape.  We lurch from one side of the car to the other, cameras ready, striving to capture it all; the sunset-amber hues of the ragged and rounded cliffs of the gorge; the vast blue sweep of the river; the thunderous thrill of passing trains; battalions of white-winged windmills; bustling logging yards; distant wildfires blowing billows of smoke, ominous as nuclear clouds; and open expanses of water with para-sailers drifting above like dragonflies. 

So, yes, we arrived in Portland five hours late, a nightmare for those meeting friends or making flights. But without that delay, those river views would have passed unseen in darkness.  I stand by my mantra: have faith in the unfolding. 

Glacier National Park: Going to the Sun

With an elegant carriage that gleamed the deep red of a mountain berry trimmed in black, the Red Bus pulled in at the visitor’s center to take us up the Going-to-the-Sun-Road and beyond during the eight-hour “Crown of the Continent” tour.  Perfectly designed for maximum viewing with roll-back canvas tops, survivors of the park’s original fleet were newly refurbished pro bono by Ford. Our bus hit the road for the first time in 1936, and she was gorgeous. 

Dave and I checked in with Peggy, a park representative, who introduced us to our driver and guide, Peggy. When I slid into my seat, the woman next to me said hello and told me her name was Peggy.  Dave said it was lucky he’d not been born a girl because if he had been, his name would have been Peggy too. Yes, seriously.  

Driver Peggy was freckled and blond, gregarious, energetic, informative, and funny.  Her admiration of the park’s natural features and the builders of the Going-to-the-Sun-Road was boundless. As she skillfully navigated twists and switchbacks, hugging the cliff sides to maintain a safe margin between us and the precipitous drops, she maintained a steady barrage of park facts and history.

The road itself is a marvel. Bound by National Park Service construction standards to “protect the landscape above all else,” a team of “robust men” - World War I vets, Swedes, Austrians, Russians, engineers, and expert stonemasons – labored on the edge of 1,000-foot drop-offs for almost twenty years to carve a winding road that would harmonize with the setting.  “The country was wild, steep, and unforgiving,” the work, tortuous and dangerous, but for the 300 men who took it on, the pay  - $.50 to $1.15 per hour – was solid by 1920’s and 30’s standards. (1.) 

At scenic overlooks, Peggy would pull the bus over and announce, “Yip!  Yip!  Prairie dogs up!” apparently hoping we’d join her exuberant chorus as we stood to poke heads, shoulders, and cameras through the open roof.  Stood we did, but yips, no.  And where other members of our group were initially reticent to Peggy's request for questions, Dave took every opportunity to make up for them, peppering our guide for dates, geology, botany, and wildlife information.  

But as the hours stretched on, we coalesced as a group. At rest stops, invariably Peggy would torment the tardy by steering the bus toward the exit while punctual passengers obediently ensconced in their seats waved and grinned at those trotting to catch up. Ed, an artist, was the first to linger too long over his purchase of a Twix bar.  At the next comfort station, I was too leisurely in the rest room and was the one left briefly alone, sheepish, in the lot.  Ed and I bonded, two rebels, and each stop reaped new recruits to our giddy gang.         

About halfway thorough the tour, we pulled into Many Glacier Hotel in the “Switzerland of North America,” the northeastern section of the park.  Built in 1914, the lodge sits on the shore of a remote lake ringed by mountain slopes that fold and bow like prayerful yogis at the waters’ edge. Peggy gave us an hour to explore and stretch our legs, so Dave wandered toward the stables while I climbed a rock-strewn rise above the lodge. 

Clumps of tiny yellow flowers, potentilla, clung to the dry soil. Three straggly trees, long dead and beaten to driftwood gray, leaned into the buffeting winds.  Gusts whipped my hair and pummeled my skin, stirring the sun-silvered water below into white caps. It was glorious. The misty mountains and solitude. The wind, wild and alive as an ancient spirit.  I couldn’t help but thank God for the beauty of the planet and the blessing of my presence in this place.  

     

Once back on the road, the bus slowed in East Glacier as we cruised past meadows bright with purple lupines, Indian paintbrush, yellow potentilla, and… a bear! “Yip, yip, prairie dogs up!” Peggy crowed as she pulled to the roadside. A two-year-old grizzly stood among the wildflowers, not far off, quickly gathering a crowd as cars and buses parked to observe him.  Phones and cameras swung to focus as the oblivious young one nosed about in the flowers seeking a snack. 

“Bear jams” such as this occur with every roadside bear spotting causing a potential hazard to the animal. In this case, it was amazing how rapidly two rangers arrived to shoo the bear away. Peggy told us that a female bear had recently been euthanized because she was too seriously injured to save when someone chased her over a cliff. After the sad, furious outburst that followed this news, we discussed the challenge that confronts all the parks: how to do the important work of nurturing a love for nature by encouraging visitors while protecting the park’s features, inhabitants, and the visitors themselves from human stupidity? 

Yes, our species needs a serious whupping to restore some sense and foresight, but the park’s crusty monoliths, lofty peaks, jagged channels, and swooping slopes were a stunning reminder that ultimately tectonic plates and grinding glaciers will have their way.  Dangerous though we are, in the face of seismic upheavals, inland seas forming and disappearing, and mountains rising and falling, we are small.  Is it strange that I take comfort in this? 

1. Going-to-the-Sun-Road, by C.W. Guthrie, Farcountry Press, 2006, pages 7, 29, 34

          

Glacier National Park: Park Stars

After a glorious scenic overnight train ride through the Columbia River Gorge, Dave and I arrived at the tiny depot in West Glacier, Montana. Early the next morning, we drove our rental to the Apgar Visitors Center, parked, and asked a ranger for suggestions given our lack of rigorous hiking experience.  He directed us to a series of shuttles that would take us up the Going-to-the-Sun-Road to the Hidden Lake Trail.  

My, what a mixed crew marched this accessible route with its enticing name and a trailhead conveniently located above the visitor’s center and restrooms! Seasoned hikers wore safari hats and leather boots and carried walking sticks. Dave and I carried no poles, but wore sensible layers, sturdy sneakers, baseball caps, and fanny packs stocked with sunscreen and water. 

Teens, nimble and spirited, scampered along, shrieking with glee and tossing snowballs scooped from patches of snow.  Some sure-footed souls had opted to wear flip-flops and sandals. Amish nature enthusiasts wore flowing dresses, aprons, and bonnets, and an Indian contingent breezed along in elegant saris. Parents trucked babies in backpacks and held the hands of little ones clutching just-purchased stuffed grizzlies and mountain goats.  

Alpine meadows swept to the foot of striated, craggy mountains. Swaths of snow and stony soil alternated with grasses awash with yellow wildflowers. Towering clouds, puffed and important, mounded overhead. And look!  My God! Look!  A mountain goat! Soon after, we spotted a shaggy mother nuzzling her baby, a snoozy goat under a scrubby pine, and a herd of seven picking their way across a snowfield high on a peak above. Like the bison of Yellowstone, beasts at first remarkable to those accustomed to squirrels and deer, the goats soon became an expected, marvelous, part of the scenery. 

    

Every wildlife sighting spawned a gathering of pointers and admirers, so no passers-by missed anything. I loved the wish to share wonders, and the elevation of animals to Park Stars.  They aren’t “game,” a nuisance, or something to “harvest”; they are the rightful, extraordinary inhabitants, and all humans trooping the Hidden Lake Trail joyously celebrated them together. 

But often, when it comes to nature, many people seem to have lost sense and instinct. At one point, the trail narrowed and climbed, with steep drops to left and right. It was one-way only, and slippery with smooth, hard-packed snow.  Crossing required caution, so lines formed on the ascending and descending sides as patient hikers awaited their turn to inch forward. 

Suddenly, a young father with a babe in arms and toddler in tow started to run down the path.  A cry went up, and we stretched our arms, as did everyone else down the line, to catch and steady him and his children as they slid, tottered and careened.  Maybe he was trying to be thoughtful by rushing to spare those waiting, but seriously?  Strangers’ arms prevented a terrible fall. 

Joy, awe, and effort combined to steal breath as the trail wound on and up to the overlook with its spectacular vista of Hidden Lake and Bearhat Mountain. A thin rope prohibited access to the next leg of the trail down to the lake.  A sign meant to instill a healthy keep-away response read, “Entering Grizzly Country!  DANGER.” If that weren’t clear enough, it went on,  “This Trail is Closed Because of Bear Danger.”  Of course two teenage boys sat smirking, bold in their bravado, just on the far side of the rope. 

“A bear!” someone called, and every head swiveled.  The two boys lurched to their feet and scrambled under the rope in a hurry. All eyes followed the pointing finger, and scanned the shore of the lake far below. Far, far below. We searched, and then strained, to better see a tiny blotch at the distant end of the lake. It could have been anything. Several brown stumps had already ramped my heart rate with a confusing mix of joy-fight-or-flight, but this blotch was moving, and safely distant.  

“Look!” An even smaller brown speck had appeared by the side of the blotch.  A cub!

Kind onlookers who’d had the foresight to bring binoculars shared this treasure, and we, at the guardrail, were united in our oohs and ahhs in confirming the momma bear and her cub ambling along the shore. 

Yes, mountain goats are marvelous to see, but bears are the beast most feared… and sought. Over our three-day visit, every conversation included bear cautions, sightings, and close-encounters. Many visitors, certainly those embarking on longer hikes or deep-woods camping, carried bear spray, and a number of signs advised this. Dave and I did not, but we learned that if we did have some, we were not to spray at the bear, but in a swath between us and the animal. Good to know. 

We also learned to make a lot of noise while walking, which we did, although we did not jingle like those who carried “bear bells” to add to their clamor. Later, Peggy, our Red Bus tour guide, told us, “Mmm.  Bear bells. More like dinner bells. The bears learn to associate that sound with humans and their food. Some say you can tell the scat of black bears because it’s small and full of berries, while grizzly scat is large, scented with bear spray, and full of bells!” 

McMenamins' Canvas

Dave and I had consulted an oversized atlas to get a sense of locations and distances when we began planning our trip west.  Geography is not my strength, and while Dave retains his fifth grade ability to recite the states and their capitals, we needed visuals to figure out travel times. 

The genesis of this journey had been an invitation to join Edie, my friend-since-birth, and her husband in Bend, Oregon, so that was our ultimate destination.  Since we were heading their way, we wangled visits to our friends Princie and Bob on Bainbridge Island, and my cousins in Seattle. Those were the dots we had to connect.

With ruler in hand, we played with a variety of routes, decided on a southerly course with stops at Zion and Bryce National Parks, and sent our thoughts to Edie and her husband, Dave.  Yes. Another Dave.  This could get confusing. Shall I call him Dave #2 for clarity’s sake? 

Dave #2 emailed back applauding our ambitions and suggested a stop at McMenamin’s Edgefield Inn if we had time, so I Googled the inn’s website.

Picture me, hands on the keyboard, mouth agape, eyes wide in wonder, gazing at the glories of the McMenamin brothers’ vision.  This could not all represent one location.  But yes!  A county poor house transformed into a charming inn. A winery, distillery, and brewery on site.  A meandering soaking pool, gardens, and restaurants!  Bless you for the suggestion, Dave #2!  This place was a must. 

I called the reception desk at the inn with the dates that would work into our tentative schedule. None were available. With desperation in my voice, I pled, “Do you have anything from July 16th to the 28th?”

“Hmm.  Let’s see.  I have one room open the 16^th and 17^th.”

Forget the southerly route! The eons-carved crags and red spindles of Zion and Bryce could wait!  “I’ll take them!” I cried, thrilled, grateful to this young woman, my new best friend. 

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Abandoned schools, failing hotels, former power stations: the McMenamin brothers saw brew pubs and restaurants where others saw fodder for wrecking balls.  In the 1980’s, vagrants, rats, and a legendary black rabbit had taken over the 74-acre property that became The Edgefield Inn. A county poor farm during its earliest incarnation, the land and buildings also did time as a prison and nursing home. In 1985, it was doomed to demolition when the Troutdale Historical Society intervened, hoping to find a buyer who would revive and restore the site instead. Mike and Brian McMenamin took on the challenge, infusing the decrepit building with new life… and providing a wealth of canvas space for local artists. 

The moment our Uber dropped us off in front of the inn, we were entranced.  The Victorian red brick façade with its wide porch and rocking chairs begged us to pause, but there was time for that later.  We couldn’t wait to explore. 

We checked in, chattering like fools to the receptionist about skipping the wonders of Zion and Bryce in favor of Edgefield.  She gave us our keys and a map of the campus, and gestured toward a cask of chilled, flavored ice water in case we needed refreshment before heading to our room.  Lovely! 

Off we went, rolling our bags down a long hallway, slowing to stop and stare as we noticed the murals painted on every surface.

Who knows how many indigent souls, wayward individuals, and neglected seniors worked the surrounding fields, slept on narrow beds, and ate in communal dining halls over the years? What did they long for?  What were their dreams?  What paths had they followed to this place outside Portland?  With paintbrushes, full hearts, and imagination, area artists sought to portray their conceptions of the fantasies and realities of former residents on every door, beam, pillar, and hallway throughout the inn. 

A gray-haired woman spinning in a corner while dancers whirl by – her past?  A black man sipping his coffee, alone while surrounded by others - his present. Newlyweds sneaking a playful peek at a cottage encircled by gardens - their future? Every image tells a story rich with the yearning, sadness, humor, and hope of life’s phases.

            

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It was sweltering hot, and we’d spent much of the day seeking out shady spots beneath vine-laced trellises in the vegetable garden, on benches tucked beneath trained shrubs in the flower garden, and finally, on stools in the air-conditioned tasting room of the winery. The pours of Black Rabbit Red and Black Rabbit White were delicious and generous.  We lingered, chatted with our hostess, Cat, and purchased a case of wine to be shipped home before heading back out into the merciless sun. 

A refreshing dip would be divine, but the only pool - a sinuous, salty, river pool that wound beneath wrought iron bridges and between startling stalks of orange flowers and giant ferns of deep green - held water heated to 100 degrees.  Still, the mind plays powerful tricks, and that pool called to us with the smooth, silky wiles of a seductive siren.  

We donned our bathing suits and cover-ups, deciding to pass on the complimentary white robes provided in our rooms.  At poolside, we ducked our heads under trailing vines to purchase some tasty rum drinks at a diminutive hut before strolling the length of the pool. Given the heat and lush plantings, we might have been in the tropics. Oh, the water looked inviting, but even a toe-touch was intimidating.  That water was hot.  But it was, as anticipated, wet, and once we eased ever so cautiously beneath the pool’s surface, the air felt comparatively cool. 

We’d settled in a spot around the curve of a bend, just past a small island erupting in gaudy flowers and towering bronze lotus blossoms.   Laps were impossible, given the heat of the water, so we lolled languorously, sipping our drinks, and watching people come and go.  We would’ve noticed Stu under any circumstances.

Even swathed in his white robe, we could tell he was a big man, tall and sturdy.  His dark hair was shoulder length, blunt cut, and parted in the middle.  He took long, slow strides as he and his lady friend crossed the bridge and set down their drinks just down the way from us.  The four of us exchanged smiles and nods as they took off their robes. 

With curly, blond hair and the creased skin of a smoker, Pamela was slender and fit, about 50, I’d guess, and she wore her bikini well.  Stu was wearing a woman’s black two-piece bathing suit.  

While partially naked and sharing warm water in close proximity to others, things can go either of two ways: one can ignore or engage.  Dave and I always choose the latter. 

For close to two hours, as our skin turned raisin-wrinkled and the water’s temperature receded from conscious sensation, the four of us chatted about area day trips, our jobs, kids, and politics. Pamela was clearly smitten with Stu, stroking his back, nibbling his shoulder… and of course, we were fascinated.  What was their story?  

She was a nurse; Stu, a doctor. Both were Canadian and disillusioned with Trudeau; they felt he was immature and incompetent. But in that contest of leader critiques, Dave and I were pretty sure we had them beat. Yes, they had to concede, Trump was worse.

Dave and I were bursting with questions... about Trudeau and healthcare in Canada, of course, but above all we couldn’t help wondering what that bathing suit meant for this man. His name, build, and voice were masculine, as was his demeanor, yet at one point, Stu volunteered, “Imagine trying to be transgender in Toronto…”  

We could not, and Dave asked, “So, how’s that going?”

“Not so well,” was Stu’s answer, not enough of an opening, we felt, to ask more.  

But what did that matter? In restaurants, trains, ruins, and hot tubs from Florida to Thailand to Rome to Troutdale, we’ve found people to be friendly; they want to connect. There is always common ground. 

Slow Start

Clearly the bearded young man at the front of the check-in line had been there for a while by the time Dave and I arrived.  With his feet planted a full stride apart, shoulders hunched, and elbows on the desk, he looked discouraged.  It didn’t appear he was going anywhere anytime soon.  Equally discouraging was the cloud of annoyance emanating from the next person in line, a woman whose frizzy blond hair seemed a physical manifestation of her frazzled state.  These two, in turn, were discouraging for the rest of us who had hoped for a speedy room assignment. 

After a lengthy interval during which the line hitched and swayed as we all shifted weight from one foot to another, the receptionist at the desk dismissed the bearded patron with a thin smile and, “Have a nice day.” The frazzled blond strode forward, angrily asked a question I could not hear, pointed out the glass windows flanking the entrance with a finger that quivered with indignation, and said, “Not good.”

Oh dear.

Eventually the line dispersed and Dave and I wheeled our bags to the desk and gave our names to the receptionist, grateful we had confirmed reservations, confident we would soon be sipping wine in the hotel restaurant. 

The hostess tapped on keys, scrolled down, and scanned the screen. Two deep furrows creased the skin between her brows as she continued to stare at the monitor. “What is your name again? How do you spell it?”

Ack.  Never a good sign when excessive scrolling and staring occurs. 

“Might you have registered under a different name?”  No, but we gave mine anyway hoping “Eleanor” might serve where “David” failed.   It did not.  Nor did the printed confirmation my husband had had the forethought to bring. 

Dave assumed the feet-planted-wide stance I’d witnessed on those first two frustrated patrons.  He was wearing sunglasses, but I had the feeling his eyes were closed, the better to draw deep on his reservoir of patience. His response was clipped when another receptionist joined the woman staring at the computer screen and asked again, “Might you have registered under a different name?”  

Lord.  

Ultimately, we booked the room anew and had greater success rectifying whatever glitch there was from our room, by phone, with the help of a young woman in Singapore.  Honest to God. 

But, no worries!  We had a bed and we’d be on our way to Portland, Oregon the next morning after a night at the airport hotel.  Time for a drink and dinner before turning in early.

We took the elevator down and were pleased to be the only ones in line at the restaurant hostess station. We had just been seated when a pale, wraith-thin young man flew through the hotel entrance frantically waving an ink-blue arm.  He grabbed a small bucket of soapy water from the bar and sprinted to the door.  He called over his shoulder, “If any of you are doctors, there’s a kid outside in bad shape.”  

Oh no.  Two women at the table next to us rose, told the server they’d return, and followed the young man.  Dave and I drifted to the door for a peek through the floor- to-ceiling glass windows  - What’s going on?  How can we help?  In this, we could not, but the police arrived with an ambulance soon after.   Once we returned to our seats, word filtered back to the restaurant that the kid had overdosed and it didn’t look good. 

Our table offered a view of the bar and its wall-sized TV. Outlandish costumes, vivid colors, and bizarre settings filled the screen as the Cheshire cat grinned at the Mad Hatter, Johnny Depp, in pancake make-up and flaming red hair.  Alice in Wonderland.  Hmmm.  Curiouser and curiouser. 

Our meals were delicious. I’d ordered a Szechuan wok with tofu and vegetables, and Dave, pasta with marinara sauce.  The mood in the restaurant was companionable but sober over our shared concern about the crisis unfolding outside, and I fear I was poor company given my mesmerizing view of the escapades of Alice.  

Suddenly Dave said, “It’s really hot in here and I’m super tired.” Actually, it wasn’t hot in there, and Dave felt funny.  Maybe I’m too suggestible, but I began to feel funny too. Odd given our tasty and uncomplicated meals.  We paid up, thanked our server, and beat a hasty retreat to our room. 

Luckily, the bathroom was clean and well stocked with all necessary provisions. 

So, first night on our way west: mixed reviews.

     

Inner Peace by Way of British Baking

When feeling bluesy, many would whip up a pie or cupcakes to answer that inner call for comfort.  Not me.  When bored as a teenager, I’d mix brownies or chocolate chip cookies to pass the time, but baking was never my passion. While occasionally I’ll bake a Happy Winter Fudge Cake or the Decadent Chocolate Cake in the Silver Palette Cookbook, since sugar was deemed poison – curse that science! - I don’t make them often. Still, it’s blissful when heavenly aromas waft from the oven, and something delicious is rising and turning golden brown.

   

But when I’m upended, I don’t reach for a whisk. For insight and peace, I turn to writing, woods walks, prayer, and self-help books. Lately, the world is chaotic, and that spins me.  My traditional methods help, but our daughter introduced Dave and me to a wonderful new pacifier.

In the final weeks of her pregnancy, Casey was impressively ponderous and had energy for little other than what could be undertaken from a couch. Her friend Lindsay directed her to “The Great British Baking Show,” and she was hooked.  “It’s so relaxing,” she told us, a moony baby sloth smile lighting her face. 

For years, Chopped was our cooking show of choice. We still enjoy it, although I never liked the posturing and bravado of the professional chefs competing for the $10,000 prize and boasting rights.  The pace of the show is intense as contestants vie to produce flavorful, creative dishes while squeezed for time.

In contrast, as The Great British Baking Show opens, we viewers wing with the camera over sweeping bucolic scenes of the manor house, grounds, and voluminous white tent that houses the competition.  We bank and descend over sheep grazing in emerald meadows dotted with swaying buttercups. Between challenges, we sit with contestants beside the river or in front of a garden.  We zoom in on pastel spring tulips and yellow daffodils, or a dewdrop clinging to a blade of grass.  We join the judges, Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood, in their small tent for a cup of tea as they taste various bakes and discuss the bakers’ progress.  And every word rolls lyrically, those lovely English accents sonorous and soothing.  The clench in my stomach eases; my racing mind slows.    

Now, Dave and I spend many evenings unwinding with our new friends Mel and Sue, the presenters; Paul and Mary; and twelve initial contestants seeking, each season, to distinguish themselves.

Mel and Sue are charming and witty, gleefully slinging innuendos about pinching buns, the comparative size of baguettes, and the sauciness of self-saucing puddings.  Paul can be harsh, an arrogant jerk, but contestants yearn for his praise, a softening in those steely blue eyes, and his sought-after handshake.  “Don’t pay much mind to the pouty silverback,” Sue quips when a contestant slinks back to her seat after Paul decrees her entry “Awful.  Raw” after poking his finger into the cake she’s spent four hours baking and decorating with intricate fondant rosettes.   Mary Berry, a beloved veteran baker, is forthright in her comments, but like any good teacher, finds something to compliment, particularly if she feels Paul has been unkind. “But your fondant work is lovely,” she might add. 

As the competition proceeds, the howling of the world fades as our bakers pursue the perfect patisserie; stunning, flavorful breads; heavenly fillings; and spectacular cakes. In the first show of each season, Dave and I scan the line-up of hopefuls as they walk across the lawn to enter the tent. They always seem a sorry bunch; we’ve come to know the previous season’s players and we miss them.  But it doesn’t take long to find our new favorites as the contestants are introduced through quick clips of their families and professions. 

A sampling of names reflects the range of backgrounds: Nadiya, Nancy, Terry, Benjamina, Tamal, Rav, Andrew, Selasi, Iain, and Ruby. Depending on the season, by the quarterfinals, Dave and I have attachments. We love young Andrew with his red hair and self-conscious grin.  He looks like Opie or Howdy Doody; he’s self-effacing and dear; and most of his recipes were “nicked” from his dad or grandma. Nadiya, so far, is my all time favorite.  Initially she seemed foreign and subdued in her dark hijab, so separate from my experience. Once I got to know her, she was completely familiar: animated and expressive, emotional and funny, quick to doubt herself, and, when successful, giggly, teary, and exuberant.  Don’t we find that to be true most of the time?  Given the chance to go beyond appearances, more often than not, there is connection and common ground.  

Wrapped in cozy blankets on the couch, Dave and I lean forward, breath held, as Paul and Mary evaluate the shine of a mirror glaze, the spring of a sponge cake, or the fluffy marshmallow center and crisp coating on a toasted meringue.  We care about their assessment.  If one of our favorites is praised or rebuked, we cheer and cry along with them.  “I can’t believe I’m crying all the time when I watch this show,” Dave says. Yet we do.  What a relief, to lock out concern over a careening nation to weep or exult over brulees, canapés, and eclairs!  

Of course, it’s not the pastry that has us in tears (although watching a rich chocolate buttercream frosting smoothed over a moist sponge knowing I won’t be served a slice can be torment), it’s our fondness for the people. All of us are represented in the students, ministers, doctors, farmers, teachers, professionals, retirees, and stay-at-home mothers who compete; in their diverse religions, colors, ages, and sexual orientation; in their hijabs and housecoats, turbans, wrinkles, piercings, and tattoos. To all appearances, in the Baking Show tent, such differences fold together as easily as the eggs, butter, sugar, chocolate, and flour so essential to my delicious Decadent Chocolate Cake. We identify with our on-screen friends in their wish to excel, bouts of self-doubt, and exhalations of relief.  And when a berry-sweet Charlotte Russe or spectacular gingerbread dragon prompts Paul’s grin and Mary’s “sheer perfection!”  Dave and I beam in sharing the baker’s pride, light as an airy souffle. 

 Like Dave, a contestant once wiped her tears and said, “ I can’t believe I’m crying over eclairs, but I can’t help it.”  They all know this is about bread sticks, roulades, custards, and pastries, not saving the world.  But it IS about testing skills, resilience, calm under stress, learning from mistakes, and striving to be best without losing empathy for those around you.  I once read that in celebrating others’ joys, you make them your own, and the Great British Baking Show gives us weekly doses of vicarious joy. 

Each episode covers three separate challenges in the space of a weekend over the ten-week season. In that stretch (condensed thanks to Netflix), we become fond of the contestants, and they become fond of each other. Paul might be harsh in his comments sometimes, but the bakers themselves seem a team more than competitors. When the walls of Louisa’s gingerbread church tumbled, three of her opponents rushed to help prop them. When Kate ran out of time before starting her glaze, Richard grabbed a pot and spoon and said, “What do you need?” My heart melts like chocolate at these many small kindnesses. 

On the last day, former contestants, friends, and family of the three finalists gather on the grounds for a festival of games, food, and celebration as they await announcement of the winner. To cheers and applause, the bakers emerge from the tent bearing their showstopper entries to be enthusiastically consumed by all.   Soon after, Paul, Mary, Sue, and Mel join them, barely visible behind three massive bouquets.  After weeks of striving, the winner earns flowers, a cake stand, and affirmation; no prize money is given. Bestowed instead is a glorious sense of achievement in being, until next season, Britain’s Best Amateur Baker.  Dave and I beam with pride, then slump a bit, for we’ll miss our friends from that series. 

We glance at the clock. It’s not too late… 

“Wanna start the next season?”

Absolutely. Time to meet a new slew of friends.