Gramma Mia and Sylvan sat on the back step and shucked corn last Tuesday evening. Sylvan helped by pulling off the cornsilk. And, in honor of his Aunt Jenny, who used to do just this, he dug right into the raw corn. Yummy! Last night, when I shucked with him, he ate an entire ear of corn, raw, while I shucked the rest.
What are YOU lookin’ at?
Much to the surprise of some of our family, Chris and I chose to rent an SUV (what?!) — and they don’t make hybrids in Alaska — while we traveled north of the 60th parallel. And, boy, let me tell you, it was the right decision. Since Chris and I are — how do you say? — CHEAP, staying inside just doesn’t cross our minds. When you travel, you sleep in a tent. Right. That works well most of the time. When it’s pouring along the gravel Denali highway, and sleeping in a tent would mean setting up your flimsy nylon sack in a mud puddle while the hunters in their 25-foot motorhomes watch Dock Dogs as they put away their Sloppy Joes, it feels good to nestle into a dry sleeping bag in the Durango and fall asleep reading John McPhee. I never thought I’d come to appreciate my 18 MPG vehicle so much.
And, in full disclosure, we did actually sleep in a bed one night. Seward, Alaska has a nice, little hostel, the Moby Dick, across the street from an even nicer B&B, Ballaine House. Unfortunately, the Bed and Breakfast’s five rooms were already taken for the night. Some night, Chris and I will stay in a B&B. We’re only 34, after all. We just became adults, what, yesterday? Are you even allowed to spend the night in a B&B before you’re 35?
Look who I found in the Anchorage REI!
Yippee, the fair is fun! I like the merry-go-round, and the firetruck, and the monster truck, and the racing pigs, and the chickens, and the sheep, and the goats, and the bunnies, and the strawberry shortcake, and the lemonade, and the toddler playground, and the . . . zzzzzzzz.
This morning, Sylvan and I made a brief stop on the way to school to gaze longingly at a concrete mixer (mixah duck!) disgorging its contents into a big hole in the road. I was on my bike, and Sylvan was in the bike trailer. Four burly guys in fluorescent green vests and hardhats and boots were manhandling the concrete delivery tube and smoothing out the concrete in the hole.
Many bike trailers have triangular orange or yellow flags sprouting from their rears to alert cell-phone-wielding drivers to their presence. Ours did not come with a flag, so Julie mounted a giant plastic sunflower to the back.
As we pulled away from the construction site, we were serenaded by at least two of the aforementioned burly guys. In (possibly unintentional) harmony. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine….”
Yep, that’s where we live.
Dear Sylvan,
I just left you upstairs in your room, head buried under your “Nubian seal” (bunny) fur pillow, made from a coat of your great-great-grandmother’s by your Gramma Diana, since she didn’t think the coat would be appreciated as a coat by anyone she knew. You definitely appreciate your soft pillow. On one end, the black pillow is embroidered in gold with the word “Babcia,” Polish for “grandmother.” Your Gramma Mia had a Babcia, too; you come from a long line of kruschiki eaters.
Four weeks later, and you and I are still figuring out how to transition into naptime in your big boy bed. But there’s a rocking horse! And board books! And pillows! And a doorknob! And puzzles! And a whole room in which to run around and bump into walls. We went upstairs at 1 p.m. to quietly read some books. Then you snuggled into your bed, and
I tucked you in and patted your bum. I left, and you proceeded to rearrange the furniture. Now, it’s 2:30, and you’re asleep; you wiggled the doorknob and asked for cow milk when your exhaustion caught up with you, so, tummy full of fat and protein, you’re ready to sleep.
We’ve spent loads of time at Amazon Pool this past month, where you dump sand into the holes the big kids are digging in the sand; ask for bagels at the snack shack; sit on the bubbling fountains meant to wash off sand before you toddle into the pool; jump off the pool side into our arms, unafraid of going under; and really dig the big blue slide. I love going there with you, both because you enjoy it so much and, let’s face it, because I can read ENTIRE magazine articles while you move sand around.
This morning, at the park, another father asked, “So, does Sylvan have any big brothers or sisters?” When I said, “No,” he said he didn’t think so. You tolerate so much shoving aside, grabbing of sand shovels, and bubbles in your eyes from careless bubble flingers. I was hoping that was just because you have such a sweet disposition, but I guess it might be because you don’t have to defend yourself from the onslaught of an older sibling (I’m sorry, Aunt Jenny. I really am.). Well, it might be both. We do have toddler friends who are only children who regularly push and say “mine.” You seem to always figure that there’s another toy out there that’s even better, so you’ll just walk off to find it.
You’ve started to sing a lot recently, both with prompting and without. “Skip to my
Lou,” “This old man,” and “I’ve been working on the railroad” are all favorites, since you really enjoy songs with nonsense words. Your songs sound like this:
Lou Lou Skip (accompanied by a vigorous imitation of skipping)
Knick-knack pad-whack bone
Dee die diddy eye oh!
And speaking of nonsense words, you’ve said “wacky dacky” for months. You infuse this phrase with your own special sauce: Tabasco, mostly — nice, spicy Tabasco. Today, Nicole, who works in your classroom at school, came over while Daddy and I went to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix . You and she are going to spend a couple of days together in the next couple of weeks, so this was her chance to get acquainted with the house and your routines. After Daddy returned home, you said “wacky dacky” while you were all outside, and Daddy told Nicole that you say that a lot, but we don’t know what it means. Well, Nicole knew. Your classmate Jackie is a fragile soul who cries, well, every time Chris drops you off and every time I pick you up — and probably during the four hours in-between. Your teachers say things like, “There’s that wacky Jackie, crying again.” Wacky dacky.
When we spent a week with your cousin Hanna last June, we noticed how agreeable she is, how willing she is to nod and smile. We asked her all sorts of silly things just to see her nod and smile. You are starting to do something similar, which is either nodding or saying “Yiss,” when we ask you if there’s a rhinoceros in your diaper or 
if you went to Hogwarts after your nap. And you’ve taken it a step further, which is making up stories: “Dog over dere.” Nod, nod, nod, point to the other side of the kitchen. “What’s the dog doing, Sylvan?” Equipped to tell tales, you pant like a puppy.
You are a very contemplative responder to questions. You take your time, considering your answers. When Daddy puts you to bed, he asks about your day. Sometimes, you make things up; they are usually things that you’ve done in the past, so what difference does it make if you went to storytime today or last week? Often, you think hard and tell Daddy the details that we adults tend to overlook: the white dog smelling the bushes near the library, the brown creeper on the ponderosa trunk. Because of your thoughtfulness and attention to detail, many adults ask you questions and then either talk on top of your answer or repeat their question before you can respond. You just need a little time to formulate. I understand. You haven’t even been outside my body for 24 months and already you’re being asked to form complex sentences.
This next month before your second birthday you’ll have the opportunity to display your undeniable skill as a flexible, happy toddler. I will be gone for three weeks of the next four. First, I’m leaving for a week and a half to instruct a NOLS course, something I haven’t done since I became pregnant with you. Then, Daddy and I are heading to Alaska, sans Sylvan, to sea kayak, hike, and act as if we’re not grizzly bait. I won’t pretend I won’t miss you, but I’m VERY excited to play outside for three weeks without worrying about getting you home in time for your nap or wondering if we have enough Cheerios in your lunchbox.
I love you-
Mom
Julie, Sylvan, and I traveled up to Junction City (about ten miles north) this morning for the Scandia Run 10K. I ran a great time despite not being in shape for a speedy race. I ran the second half faster than the first half, which is always a sign of a well-paced race. It’s also more fun that way. Here are my splits for the first six miles:
6:25, 6:29, 6:23, 6:20, 6:22, 6:27
How’s that for even splits?
38:25 for six miles (6:24 per mile average): 19:16 for the first three miles, 19:09 for the second three miles.
You may notice that there is no final 10K time above. (10K is 6.2 miles.) That’s the second “almost” in the title of this post. We took a little too long to get out of the house this morning, and I arrived at the race registration desk eleven minutes before the start of the race. They wouldn’t take my money, and I didn’t blame them. You have to cut people off sometime. I’d come to race, though, and I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity for a fast, flat, road 10K, so I jumped in at the start.
That’s right, I bandited. I’d never bandited a race before. I knew that I shouldn’t cross the finish line and mess up the race results, but I hadn’t ever thought about the etiquette of being a race bandit. About two miles in, I figured out a solution that worked for me. First, I wouldn’t take any water at the water stops. Second, I’d run hard until the six mile mark, then stop. I wouldn’t worry about the last 0.2 miles. The math is always a pain anyway.
I ran six miles fast, then stopped. It was great. I did note the finish time of the guy ahead of me, whom I would have caught if I had run the last quarter mile. He ran 39:35, 6:23 per mile. I would have been 38th out of 458 runners and second out of 26 in the men’s 30-34 age group.
And that projected finish time is the first “almost.” My fastest 10K ever was three years ago at the Scandia Run, 39:04. I was only thirty seconds off of that pace, and I was training pretty hard three years ago. This year, I’m consistently running about 10-20 miles a week.
Bonus running report: I also ran some mile repeats on the bark chip trail yesterday. I ran 6:23, then 6:15, then 5:45. Fun.
I predict that we won’t post much in August. I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows last week, so that’s my excuse. Courtney told me that she started the series in January after I’d said, in response to her admission that she’d never read any Harry Potter books, “I’m sorry.” I still feel that way, so go find some used Harry Potter books, and start reading. They’re worth it.
Diamond Peak has beckoned since I arrived in Oregon. An unlikely-looking volcano, resembling a slumbering beast with its improbably long ridgeline stretching for over a mile from north to south, you can see Diamond Peak, whenever it’s not obscured by clouds, along Highway 58 from Oakridge past Willamette Pass, cloaked in snow two-thirds of the year. In my quest to climb some Cascades this summer, our friend, Larry, and I picked up some biodiesel and espresso at America’s best filling station and hit the road yesterday. Larry, with his generosity, big grin, penchant for adventure, and supply of stories is darn near a perfect traveling companion. Although he wasn’t present for any of them, Larry tells some detailed, frightening grizzly stories. Ask him about them.
We hiked in on trails 3699 and 3632 from a gravel Forest Service road on the mountain’s south side. A crew, which I believe included our friend Chandra, had worked on trail 3632 the previous day, digging drainage ditches and generally making sure the trail didn’t fall off the side of Diamond Rockpile. In a remarkably quick three miles, we reached Marie Lake, where 75 Scrambles in Oregon says to turn uphill through the trees. We did, as Chris and I had done two years ago in May 2005, but Larry and I later found out that this is not the best climbers’ route, at least not when the ground is snow-free.
Following a ridge uphill, with Diamond Peak hovering to our left, we ran into a trail that wasn’t supposed to be there. Hmm. After looking at the map, we realized that we had headed northeast instead of northwest, which is why Diamond Peak stayed to our left instead of looming ahead of us, so we took the trail northwest, the direction we wanted to head. Soon, we found a tree with a diamond-shaped metal trail marker, so we figured we’d ended up on the Pacific Crest Trail. Since we weren’t on a climbers’ trail and we knew where the PCT headed, we struck off through the trees toward the ridges to the west. In another fifteen minutes, we stumbled upon the darn PCT again as it doubled back on itself around the end of a ridge. We continued west, climbing over small ridges composed of relatively stable toaster oven-sized blocks of gray, angular igneous rocks (andesite?) and passing through shallow drainages full of basalt cinders, rust-red and full of vesicles.
We finally hit the ridge that 75 Scrambles recommends, with more of the same rock-hopping and scree-climbing. At one point, a small, light-colored bird of prey landed on top of a pine across the drainage. When it flew, we could see its square tail; because of its tail, narrow wings, and light color, I’m going to guess it was a juvenile kestrel, even though all the kestrels I’ve ever noticed have been vibrantly colored, easy to identify, and located at an elevation of around 500 feet.
When we left the mountain hemlocks and lodgepole pines behind to climb up a slope of blocks and cinders, a large patch of snow to our left, the wind suddenly blew butterflies against our faces. We stopped to look, and hundreds — no, thousands — of orange butterflies flitted, perched in the lee of rocks, and blew across the ridge, sometimes colliding with us. With a little research, I’ve decided that they were tortoiseshell butterflies, which have population explosions some years. Apparently, it’s not uncommon for the butterflies to make it two vertical miles above the ocean, either. I’ve never before encountered so many butterflies that I could HEAR their wings, even with the wind whistling enough that I feared my hat would fly down 2000 feet to the meadows below.
Larry and I climbed to the false summit, elevation 8421 feet, and lunched in the lee of a constructed rock wall. This is where Chris and I turned around two years ago. The corniced snow along the ridge, coupled with the steep windward slope that we considered walking across, proved too much for my then-pregnant sensibilities. With crampons and an ice axe, it could have been done — but maybe not by us, at least not with a 25-week-old fetus in there. But Larry and I continued on.
The first few hundred feet off the false summit narrowly skirt some bedrock pillars, so I know Chris and I decided wisely. Then the trail climbs easily another 300 feet to the actual summit, where we found a red coffee can trying to protect a broken glass jar stuffed with a full notebook, business cards, and Clif bar wrappers acting as an extended summit register. We enjoyed the panoramic view, including the Three Sisters to the north and Mount Thielsen and Mount Bailey to the south. To the northwest, clouds blanketed the sky at about 8000 feet, just below us. After snapping some photos (see below), we left the summit at 4 p.m.
We hurried down, concerned that our partners would be concerned about us. We passed two parties going up – one couple with a dog and one solo man — near the false summit; it was 4:15. With a skier’s perspective, versus a climber’s perspective, it was easier to see where all trails converged and headed down, and we followed the obvious climbers’ trail, marked with cairns and orange and pink plastic flagging tape — well, now it’s just marked with cairns. It’s a Wilderness Area, folks. Pink flagging tapes dismayed us. My hubby would have been proud (he calls flagging in wilderness “litter” and deals with it accordingly). And, let’s be fair, the trail was VERY obvious. Now here’s why we hadn’t seen it: The trail dumped us on the Pacific Crest Trail, north (yes, toward Canada) of where we’d decided to go cross-country again on the way up. So we hiked out on the PCT to its junction toward Marie Lake, then walked to the car, occasionally berated by stellar jays. We stopped along the gravel road to snap a photo of our mountain where we’d snapped one on the way in — but our mountain was gone! Clouds obscured the summit all the way down to Diamond Rockpile, elevation 5110 feet. We bought some salty chips in Oakridge and headed home, where all of our loved ones were already asleep.
For your amusement:
