Acro Memories from 2011

Acro Routine

Ridgetop recital. October 2012

Christmas 2011

Ah, the hawaii adventure…

As I sit here on day, um, seven—is that possible?—in the pavilion at Spencer Beach, now thankfully devoid of “ethnics” as Anya and I, much to Geoffrey’s horror, have termed the hordes of foreign-language speakers who overrun the place practically daily, I no longer feel an urgency to move on. Mornings are the best—the trees are alive with birds, the waves lap methodically against the rock and I gaze across the bay at a piece of rainbow adorning the ever-present inland clouds. My dilemma this morning is whether to run to a new beach and swim from there or run out and back and swim again from our beach. The strong urge to relocate I felt  last night as we sat cramped in the van being barraged by the repetitive beat of amplified music from the ethnics has waned. Peace and quiet has been restored to our little idyllic world and now the prospects of packing up and pressing on are less inviting.

Day one we arrived in Kona and spent a short eternity picking up the rental car (like over an hour) before heading out and over the Saddle Road to Hilo. Said road is narrow and fairly steep, taking us along the south flanks of Mauna Kea.  It wasn’t long before we hit the rain that was to be our constant companion for the next 18 hours. And not Seattle rain either: solid sheets of water dumping from the sky obscuring our vision in every direction. 

We left Spencer the day after Christmas. After being subjected to really dreadful, repetitive and amplified music by the ethnics and wind gusts that practically deprived the beach of every last grain of sand, it felt like a hasty retreat. We were banking on a lunch of fish tacos from the trailer in Kaiwehe and were sorely disappointed to find the chef was observing the day after Christmas as a holiday. Had she known the extent of our eagerness for her cooking I’m sure she would have sacrificed her day off. We settled for less, though not by much, then hopped back in Kolea and headed south.  Kona town seemed large and congested and sadly too much like every other American town with its standard array of establishments. The stretch between Spencer and Kona is stark—a lava wasteland. A ribbon of black asphalt cuts across a desert of black lava, absorbing and emitting blazing heat. White rocks spell words on the lava—the specifically Hawaiian flavor of graffiti.

South of Kona the terrain takes on a far greater appeal—lush with coffee-growing plantations and hills—yet not the rain forest of the eastern side. A wrong turn delayed our arrival at Ho’okena Park, where we found an encampment of tents on the beach reminiscent of the occupy movement. It was looking fairly ideal until we were booted from our spot and took the one remaining one, unfortunately sandwiched between the port-a-potty and the waste cans. Between potty users banging the door closed throughout the night and the guy who showed up in a truck shortly before dawn to sort the cans from the bottles--a seemingly endless racket--it was not a terribly restful night.

Like Mahukona on our second night, Ho’okena is overrun by cats. It seems to have its share of dogs as well, despite signs prohibiting them, and is generally a very democratic establishment. Our togetherness took a turn for the worse when a bug flew into the van, which was determined to be a cockroach. When we were unable to kill or exile it from the vehicle, having been distracted by the very large Hawaiian man who came to check our permits, Anya glared at me accusingly and for a moment I was taken back in time to innumerable instances of willful defiance. “I am never traveling anywhere with you again,” she swore, yet again. However, this turn of events did resolve the sleeping issue, since Anya was now having no part of the van’s interior and opted for the tent. In the morning Geoffrey joined Anya in his condemnation of my “open door” policy, pointing reproachfully at the bug bites on his arm. Thank god Anya did not see the 3-inch cockroach Geoffrey encountered in the bathroom, or even its lesser cousin that greeted me. Personally I was more put off by the 5-inch centipedes, as I’d read that they are aggressive carnivores whose bites can hurt as much as a gunshot wound.

Day 2 or The Mysterious Ticking Noise

The first night was spent at Laupahoenoe Beach Park north of Hilo. I’d like to say something clever and descriptive about this place, but since it was dark when we arrived, I only know that we descended a long windy road to get to it (complete with speed humps) and it was a very rocky beach with rough surf. I recall passing out fairly quickly on the bottom bunk with Anya’s feet in my face and vice versa. It had been a long day, beginning at 2:00 a.m., followed by nine hours of plane travel, 3 hours of driving, an hour-long “orientation” on the van, drive to Hilo airport to return the rental car, then surfing around Hilo in sheets of rain looking for Safeway and wifi to send Geoffrey my latest edits of his college essay (rather, one of about three thousand).  By the time we headed out of Hilo it was dark, which surprised me. I associate warm weather with summer, which in Seattle means that daylight lasts well past 8 p.m. Not so Hawaii. By six it is dark, which meant that I was quick to discover that the dashboard lamp for the speedometer didn’t work. Knowing how fast I was going in a strange and unwieldy vehicle on a narrow, unfamiliar road in sheets of rain seemed like a relevant bit of information, so, after a call to Bud at Happy Campers who shed no light on the situation (ha-what a pun), we resorted to a flashlight to illuminate the dial.

But I digress… Day 2 took us north from Laupahoenoe post haste, as in, we literally crawled from bed into the front seat and started driving, stopping briefly at the bathrooms as we exited the park. We made the detour through H… to peer down at the Waipio valley, where we were joined by a van load of Japanese tourists all clad in identical yellow rain ponchos parading down the walkway to the lookout in twos. Perhaps had we not been in the midst of a monsoon, the hike down to the valley would have held appeal. Instead we huddled in the van and made coffee before heading out.

Once we resumed our journey we quickly became aware of a mysterious ticking noise emanating from the mid-section of the van, as though something had been trapped in the sliding door and was furiously banging against it as we drove. Not so. Instead what we discovered was that the lock on the slider was moving up and down of its own accord, as if possessed. Our various attempts to exorcise the demon were fruitless, as were Bud’s suggestions. If nothing else works, Bud counseled, read the manual to find out which fuse controls the auto door lock and pull it. Ahhh… I so relished the notion of spending my first day in Paradise reading the Westfalia Owner’s Manual. Perhaps I could spice it up a bit and tackle the German version! I like to pat myself on the back for the solution I discovered to this problem. While sitting at a picnic table surveying the feral cats at Mahukona, I spotted amidst the detritus on the ground a piece of silver duct tape. It was, of course, covered in dirt and twigs. However, as luck would have it, it was folded over onto itself, so that I managed to peel and tear off a 2x2” piece with virgin stickum. I used a piece of this to stick to the connector on the locking mechanism, thereby disabling it and exorcising the demon once and for all.

Day 12 or the enigma of the expanding party. New Year’s Eve had proved a rather uneventful day. In fact, everything following our departure from the moonscape lava field in Kalapana was an anticlimactic downhill slide into banality, with the possible exception of washing dishes in the public restroom in Pahoa.  It entailed laundry, followed by a trip to an overcrowded beach in Kona, while Geoffrey per usual remained cooped up in the hotel room with his infernal essays. We wanted to find someplace to go for dinner at least slightly less tacky than the Thai place in the strip mall, so we scouted around and found a Japanese restaurant in South Kona that had good reviews. (Teshima’s).  Anya called to make sure they would be open and to make reservations. From our side of the conversation we heard: “oh, and can we make a reservation?” … “How about 7:00?”… “Noble”… “Um, approximately four…” at which point Geoffrey and I doubled over laughing. Anya stared incredulously for much too long, then also realized just how outrageously funny that was. Somehow our trio had acquired an addition of approximately one, though we had no clue who or what it was.

Tarzan Mike

Mike appeared in Mahukona on our first day there and 2^nd day on the Island. Mahukona is definitely a pretty groovy place, and did I mention the scads of feral cats? Carl was my first friend on the island—a long-haired beardy guy who invited us to join the evening festivities of music. We could just throw something on the table to share and be included in the hippy potluck. Great, I thought—loud music into the night. We drove up the road to Kapa’a to check it out in case we needed to make a hasty escape from the noise, but it looked even less appealing, so we decided we’d take our chances. Soon after, Mike showed up. He and his accompanying female whose name we later learned was Ellen went to join the crowd by the pavilion. Mike came over to our van a couple times—to ask about the van, to invite Anya to sing along with the mandolin-playing Ellen, and then to let us know that the music jam was in Hawi that Wednesday because of Solstice.  Mike was quite chatty, and Anya noted that he was rather cute in fact, but I wasn’t particularly impressed, largely due to his copious quantity of chest hair that seemed to sway in the wind.

The next morning Mike was back. I was engrossed in my book, but he was clearly interested in talking, so we did for a bit. I learned that he resided part time in Fairbanks, had a cottage up the road without electricity, and a piece of land covered in lava in Kalapana. Again he left and we also soon packed up and headed up to Hawi to get a break from the relentless wind and some wi-fi action (are we ever on vacation truly?). Then we headed on south toward Spencer, stopping at Kaweihe for the best food we ate during the entire trip—fish tacos from a lunch cart. To our surprise, we looked up to see Mike backing out in his pick-up. He didn’t see us, but it was a sighting nonetheless.

The following afternoon Mike appeared at Spencer Beach (with Ellen) to charge batteries. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to pop up all over the place…

Manta Rays

The Sherton Hotel at Keahou Bay had few redeeming features. It was grossly overpriced, tacky, and lacked beach access altogether. The floodlight on the water which either attracts or at least illuminates the manta rays is the sole exception. Figuring out how to get to that spot, however, was tricky and involved swimming across a fairly long stretch of dark water following a difficult entry into the water over sharp, slippery and potentially urchin-festooned rocks. Saturday night would have been the time to go, but by the time our party of approximately four returned to the hotel, I wasn’t feeling terribly enthusiastic. There was one single ray doing laps in the spotlight, and the prospects of encountering it on my own were slightly too intimidating. For some reason, sleep eluded me at the hotel. Perhaps it was the stress of Geoffrey’s essays, or simply that old issue I have with hotels—they cause insomnia. I thought of the number of times I’d taken bedding to the floor and slept better there. Indeed, on the last night I removed cushions from the chairs, swiped Geoffrey’s pristine white comforter, and bedded down on the balcony. While I managed to sleep some, it still was sparse.

On the last morning I went for a run from the hotel, first north along the paved path, then across the golf course to a path lined with rocks. I have no idea whose land this is, if anyone’s, but I found a rock wall there and a small place in the trees and brush covered by a thatched roof. I then ran back to the other side of the hotel, toward the chapel and found along the shore a place that looked like a viable entry point. It wasn’t too bad, though it would be difficult to negotiate in the dark, and definitely if barefoot, as I did manage to put two cuts in my foot. It occurred to me that one could set up a tent under the small thatched roof, follow the trail back to the hotel, get into the water and swim to the rays, then shower at Kuhalu’u (sp?) beach, fill up with water and return to the tent.

Things I wish I’d brought or should consider bringing:

Binoculars

Gloves for climbing on the rocks

Underwater headlamp

Underwater camera

Places I want to visit:

Green Sand Beach

Honolina beach (sp?)

Miiloi campground

Waipio valley

Mauna Loa

Mauna Kea

Uncle Roberts

Volcano

We spent the night at the National Park’s campground (name?) after passing through Wittingdon and Black Sands. The latter was overrun with tourists and the camping there was less than mediocre—at least we couldn’t find anything but porta potties. Wittingdon was not impressive, but it was grassy and had real bathrooms.

(name) campground was a beautiful spot with towering eucalyptus trees, albeit close to the road. The evening we spent there was again devoted to college essays (was there an evening after the 24^th that wasn’t?). That night it began to rain and Anya, who was still boycotting the van because of the rogue cockroach, was barraged by gusts that quickly filled the cheap tent with its half-assed rain fly. At some point in the early morning she emerged in the van, cold and wet, and climbed into bed with Geoffrey. I retreated to the bathroom to call my sister and hear the latest saga in the Kalama Soap Opera of illegal hydraulics.

After 3 hours of attempting to dry out the tent and its contents, I finally woke the kids and left for a run. It was the most spectacular run of the trip—up to the crater rim trail and down through lush jungle to the crater floor. It was much cooler here and the run was invigorating if slightly longer than I had bargained for.  I wanted the kids to see the crater and the steam but when I returned it was alaready late in the day and they were not ready to go. So we skipped it and went on to Pahoa, stopping to pick up two young hitchhikers. They had just come down from Mauna Loa (and smelled like it) and were headed to Pahoa.

We left Spencer beach today after gale force winds nearly swept the beach away. It was time to move on. I got in another run (and a skinny dip) in the morning, followed by a swim. The wind picked up while I was swimming, making for a more arduous journey back to shore than I had anticipated. But I cannot say enough how much I enjoy swimming with "sights" beneath me. It's sort of like flying over the earth at low height (not that I've done this actually), where you see the varying terrain and wildlife beneath you. Couple that with the joy of moving effortlessly through salty buoyant water and you can imagine my delight. I've not been able to adjust to a mask and snorkel. Biting the tube feels weird and awkward and the noise of the breath in the tube is disturbing. I've resorted to my usual small goggles and find that the most enjoyable.

We are in the town of Kona now, which seems downright huge. After the cute places we've been I find it distasteful. We've stopped to refuel (van, batteries, food) and use wifi before moving on south to the Captain Cook area. Winds are not so bad here, but it feels muggier.

I've started writing about the trip, so hopefully I'll capture some of the humor and quirks. Yesterday the "pavilion" at Spencer, which houses the only electrical outlets in the park, as well as numerous picnic tables, restrooms, etc., was commandeered by "ethnics," the term Anya and I audaciously and totally politically incorrectly bestowed upon the group that was there every evening playing loud, amplified, repetitive "music" and dancing. Geoffrey was appalled at this epithet, but the most annoyed at being booted out of the pavilion for the entire day and subjected to their notion of Christmas celebration. We sought and found refuge in the visitor center of the adjacent national park, where King Kamehameha had built a temple of sorts. Oddly, it was open on Christmas, and to our great joy had power outlets and benches set up to watch the video that repeated automatically lauding the brutalities that Hawaiian warriors used to conquer ("unite") the islands, narrated by a former Green Beret who was much too enthusiastic in his description of blows with a club that could handily shatter the eye socket. Since for quite a while Geoffrey and I were the sole audience members, I--once again to his horror--found the off switch and helped myself to it. We worked on his essays (yes, the specter of college apps looms large and is a definite downer). I've become an expert at finding ways to slim down the word/character count of the various essays so that they comply with the strict requirements of their respective schools. I hope there's a calling for this talent somewhere because I'm getting eerily good at it. So that was our Christmas. I was treated to another whale siting, and if only heaven had provided me with manna in the form of a pair of binoculars, I would have been a truly happy camper.

Apparently the winds we are experiencing are unusual, though they have been more or less constant now for weeks. Not trade winds, but rather huge gusts blasting down from the mountains. My sleep was pretty fitful last night as I fully expected the tent to lift off. We had put a good deal of extra gear in it, which no doubt was all that kept it from sweeping me into to ocean in its polyurethane embrace. I contemplated retreating to the van but it's definitely crowded in there with three. As soon as I complain about it being stuffy both kids chime in with "menopause," so I don't stand a chance: I am outnumbered and marginalized in my near-ancient status.

Oh, I did figure out the origins of the "ethnics": the Marshal Islands. I only know that there is a language called Marshalese thanks to my time at the United Nations of Tukwila Municipal Court. It's a very odd sounding language spoken in what sounds like rapid fire. Anya said, "oh, didn't we do a lot of testing of atomic bombs there and practically decimate the population? I guess the ones we didn't kill or mutate got special immigration rights to the US. Nice consolation prize."

Okay, well, it's time to mosey on into Snack 'n' Save (yeah right: should be Shop 'n' Gasp--the sticker shock of this place hasn't worn off) for supplies before checking out our next digs.

Tennessee

It was Geoffrey’s rowing prowess that took me to the unlikely destination of Oak Ridge Tennessee in June. My aversion to cheap hotels and unwillingness to pay for nice ones compelled me to research the state parks into the far more attractive camping option. When I discovered one with the peculiar name of Frozen Head just 35 minutes west of Oak Ridge that boasted the added attraction of “backcountry” camping, the deal was sealed. I packed for all occasions and invested in a battery-powered fan to provide relief from the famed infernal heat of the summer south. While I did a fair amount of research into the area immediately surrounding Oak Ridge, discovering, among other gems, the largest outdoor swimming pool in the States, I had only a vague sense of the state’s overall geography. Namely, while I knew the Smoky Mountains rose up somewhere to the east, it wasn’t until I had picked up a map at a rest stop and laid it out flat that it struck me: I was within a stone’s throw of the National Park’s western gateway and from there but a few more miles to Newfound Gap, where the Appalachian Trail crosses the highway. The Appalachian Trail—made forever famous by Bill Bryson’s Walk in the Woods. The AT and the PCT—two great north-south traverses. A Mecca for backpackers. And not only that—the map proudly displayed Clingman’s Dome, highest peak in Tennessee. Right there, on my rest-stop road map. I stared at it. Google Maps advised me that it was less than two hours away. My heart pounded. The temptation was too great to resist. Now how could I squeeze that in between Geoffrey’s races? He had two races on Saturday—one in the morning and one in the early evening. While it was possible to make the drive that afternoon, I had no incentive to return from higher elevations to spend the night in a tent in the sweltering lowlands. The plan began to take shape: I would leave immediately after his second race, get there just before dark, head to the campground, get up early Sunday morning, ascend Clingman’s, take a short side trail to the AT, hike along it for some unspecified distance and be back on the road by 9:30 a.m., in plenty of time to watch Geoffrey’s final race at 12:30. Awesome plan!

I set my awesome plan into motion right on schedule: by 7:00 p.m. I was in the car heading away from the racecourse, east toward the Great Smoky Mountains. Zipping along in my Chevy Cobalt rental, feeling supremely adventurous and smugly pleased at leaving the oppressive city air behind. I made excellent time until traffic came to a screeching halt as I entered possibly the most surreal place on earth with the bizarre and unlikely name of Pigeon Forge. I crept through this uber-kitschy quasi Disneyland in a state of horrified disbelief, further annoyed by how it slowed this pilgrim’s progress. Finally relieved of any further assaults on my senses, I moved on toward the Smokies, the verdant woods lining the road now far more congruous with the Great National Park I had envisioned.

The quaint mountain town of Gatlinburg proved to be another bottleneck. Somehow I hadn’t expected to see so many people, albeit on a Saturday night in June. And the throngs never really thinned out. When I reached the visitor’s center, the parking lot was packed, though it was now 9:00 p.m. and the center itself had long since closed. A posse of rangers stood guard at the entrance, waving cars along. I pulled over to consult with one of them about the campground a few miles down the road. “That’s full for the weekend.” In response to my question about the overflowing parking lot he mentioned the something-or-other festival. It was of so little concern to me and my plans that the name barely made it past my ear’s irrelevant information filter, perhaps because what did register sounded so incongruously pagan that I immediately disregarded it. The ranger was eager to shoo me to a different, less crowded area of the park, but that would take me far away from my coveted destinations of Clingman’s Dome and the Appalachian Trail. My heels were dug in and I pressed for more information about backcountry camping (“requires a permit”) and parking at trailheads (“sure, but you can only camp in designated sites with that permit”), and ultimately persuaded him to retrieve a trail map from his truck and point out said designated campsites on the trails. The AT was out of the question – camping was allowed only in shelters and only by reservation. The nearest first-come-first-served site was about 4 miles in, but it seemed worth a try, despite the late hour. So up I drove toward the gap and into the enveloping darkness.

By the time I crossed the gap and began descending I was hungry and needed to pee. Hence the first order of business at the trailhead pull-out was a quick foray into the bushes. The temperature had dropped by about 30 degrees over the past hour by virtue of the now set sun and the 3000-foot elevation gain. I began hastily assembling my gear at the open trunk, standing in my shorts and tank top now slightly concerned that I would be cold without a sleeping bag. These concerns were very suddenly interrupted by two flashlight-wielding rangers who must have driven up in time to see me emerging from the brush. Aah! Fight or flight?! Flight wasn’t an option, nor, really was fight, so I fell back on lying when they asked me what exactly I was doing there. Or perhaps just evading their questions—a form of flight I suppose. Heading into the woods at night?! Fortunately the idea was so patently absurd that my explanation of needing to stop for a clothing adjustment and a bite to eat placated them, though not without peering suspiciously into the car and open trunk where my backpack lay in its state of half readiness.

The folly of my undertaking now hit me full force. It was dark, had just rained, I had no phone service and no one knew exactly where I was, the rangers had my license plate number and were apparently no-nonsense with regard to the permit issue, and I, of course, had no such permit. Nor could I remember whether my headlamp took double or triple A batteries (I only had the former as spares for the camera). I got back in the car (demonstratively eating a peach in case the rangers were still watching) and, lacking any plan at all, started driving east again, away from the gap. I could continue to the opposite side of the park, where there was another campground, but that would take me further away from Clingman’s Dome and create an even longer journey back to the race site the following morning. As I mulled over my predicament and silently cursed my crazy-ass obstinate ways, I saw another trailhead parking lot. This one was far more substantial in size and had a number of lined spaces, but only one vehicle. It was in fact the official parking for the trail I had passed, the other being but a pull-off along the road. While only 100 feet or so from the actual trailhead, it seemed far enough away to thwart the nosy rangers if they came back to check up on me. My brain was busy rationalizing my hasty decisions. I resumed my frantic packing, this time switching off the trunk and dome lights to avoid detection. I threw things into my pack without much thought or order, grateful for having picked up a bottle of anti-freeze to use as fuel for my stove, so I could rehydrate the one small dried meal I’d packed. It had been a long day, which began by swimming across a reservoir in Tennessee, then hiking up a stream at Frozen Head State park, and was ending some hundred miles away in the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina with a backpack and a dubious headlamp, and on reflection I couldn’t recall having eaten anything of substance since dinner the night before. Every car that passed along the highway sent me ducking into the darkness, my heart pounding, paranoia wreaking havoc with my imagination. At last I threw my pack on and prepared to leave, regretting my lack of sleeping bag and choice of hiking footwear—sandals—as the night was cool, the grass and leaves dripping from the evening shower. I peered into the dark woods and my heart stopped. Flickering lights appeared among the trees. Rangers, patrolling the trails, were emerging with their headlamps and flashlights! A deer in the headlights, I stood glued to my spot—caught, my backpack strapped on, headlamp in place, mentally whispering apologies to my son for missing his race as I waited to be bailed out of National Park penitentiary.

As I stood there, transfixed, something truly amazing happened: the ominous lights continued to flicker, but the flickering now spread and was all around me. My senses rushed to catch up with the message the brain had registered, and my fear turned to wonderment. Fireflies. I didn’t know then what I later learned: it was mating season for this particular species of firefly—a short window in June when they produce a spectacular light show. (http://video.nytimes.com/video/2011/06/15/us/100000000866518/the-smokies-light-show.html?emc=eta1). I had no idea I was in the midst of such a rare and celebrated display, but the twinkling bugs nonetheless worked their magic to remind me why I had gone to such lengths to be there. The forest no longer appeared dark and ominous, but rather, inviting and luminous. I had now but one hurdle left to overcome—traversing the 100 or so feet along the road to the trailhead in full backpacking regalia avoiding discovery by the National Park Gestapo. My backpack is inconveniently equipped with reflective webbing, thus rendering me a beacon to every passing car, which continued with alarming frequency despite the late hour. Each time I heard the sound of tires on the wet pavement I dove for cover in the brush and tall grass along the side of the road—a soldier in the trenches seeking cover from the enemy. At long last I reached the trail and disappeared into the welcoming embrace of the nocturnal forest.

The trail I had somewhat randomly selected took me directly down at a steady grade, rapidly losing elevation and offering no remotely flat spot to pitch my small tent. Traveling by the light of my headlamp was easy going--the trail was smooth, the sky now clear and the moon bright--yet I was anxious about the battery life, hungry and ready for sleep. Naturally it was just a matter of time before the necessary flat spot appeared, nominally off the trail, where I quickly erected my tent and took the opportunity to test the antifreeze fuel to concoct my dinner. It was now 11:00. In my haste to pack I had forgotten my digital watch and phone, both of which have alarms, leaving me no reliable way to execute my pre-dawn exit plan. It also began to sink in that I had left two cameras, wallet and phone in the car at a trailhead in a crowded park. Top on my list of undesirable outcomes was missing Geoffrey’s final race the next day and once again I allowed my mind to imagine all manner of disasters that could occur during the night. Would I even need an alarm if I couldn’t sleep?

However, sleep I did, off and on, through audio hallucinations of footsteps on the trail just above me, music blaring somewhere (this was real, I swear), phantom bears… until I awoke the final time to a lighter sky and the cacophony of birds. Though I wouldn’t make it out before dawn, it was only 5:30 and there wouldn’t be many cars on the road. I hiked up the mile or so I had come down in the dark and had only now to sprint the 100 feet to the shelter of my car, hoping to find everything I had so thoughtlessly left inside it. At roughly the half-way point I heard a car and once again dove for cover in the high brush, loathe to fabricate yet another tall tale were the rangers to stop me with further interrogations. For me, lying causes a level of anxiety that no doubt shaves days if not years off my life. There seems to be a quantum leap in discomfort between being caught in the act, and being caught in a lie about the act. Suffice to say I preferred to hunker down in the wet grass than risk it.

The little Chevy Cobalt was indeed intact, its contents strewn about haphazardly, precisely as I had left them, despite the fact that in my great haste I hadn’t even actually locked the doors. Safe. All was good.

The rest of the story is almost dull.  The views from Clingman’s Dome were mediocre, a haze settling on the rather low rolling hills of the Smoky Mountains (ah, hence the name…).  The “trail” leading to the outdated space-age observation tower at its summit is… paved. I packed my stove and found a relatively nice spot along the Applachian Trail to drink my morning tea.

We in the west are accustomed to the dramatic snow-capped peaks of youthful mountain ranges; to our eyes the venerable green hills of the east appear worn and lackluster.  Still, I fulfilled my mission—stood atop the highest peak in Tennessee and got at least a taste of the Appalachian Trail--an image, a smell, a touch of my own to file alongside the myriad of tales.

I made it back to the racecourse in Oak Ridge at noon, plenty of time--by my standards--for Geoffrey’s 12:39 race.

Two additional strokes of good luck befell me that day. I discovered on Clingman’s Dome that I was missing my glasses—my expensive prescription transitional, progressive, rimless glasses, procured during an era of Cadillac vision insurance—and had to decide whether to go back and look for them on my now empty tank of gas or give them up for lost and increase my chances of making it to Gatlinburg. I chose the former, and to my great amazement I found them lying in the tall grass halfway between the trailhead and the parking lot, exactly where they had fallen in the fray of my trench warfare exercise. And I made it all the way to Pigeon Forge to refuel. Ah, another fine adventure.

Opening Day

May 14, 2011

Today marked the official start of open-water swimming season in Seattle. The celebratory event, held on the east shore of Green Lake, was open to the public--everyone was invited to take part. The majority, however, chose to express their enthusiasm from shore, showering participants with emboldening cheers (not) and incredulous stares. Paddle boat riders joined in the excitement by offering shouts of encouragement (not) and incredulous stares. Record high temperatures (for 2011) of nearly 70 brought throngs to Green Lake before the wind picked up and clouds covered the sky. The timing of this long-planned (30 minutes) and much lauded (by a select few) event was impeccable.

Here are the participants preparing for entry into the refreshing waters (note: while a temperature reading was not available, historical data indicate a likely range of 58 to 62 degrees F) of Green Lake:



And the swimmers pose for the press to the roar of on-lookers (gawkers):




And, finally, the swimmers emerge triumphant from the cross-lake swim, relieved and delighted that the wetsuit still fits:



Associated Press wishes to thank Texas for in-depth photographic coverage of the event.