Cascades
This is the path we hiked. And yes, it was that beautiful.
We climbed about 3,000 vertical feet this day; here we’re about 7 miles in and 4,500 feet above sea level.
It was HOT. And there was snow. A perfect combination for cooling at the end of a steep hike.
Pyramid Lake
Twisted trees, some over 500 years old.
Alyson commented how well her 12 year old boots were holding up and then they fell apart. Literally, the soles fell off. So she duct taped them. About 10 times during our trip; at the end they looked like moon boots.
Seattle Full to the Brim
Tiny boat. He was smoking a pipe, too.
Beer=happy
We went to a brewery and had the tasting menu x 3….meaning 15 kinds of beer. We planned to get a growler for the camping trip, so naturally we set up an overly-elaborate scoring system to determine which of the 15 we wanted in large quantity.
Round 1:
(Vetoed Alyson’s suggestion for adjectives…a little peachy with a note of sunflower and a slightly gym sock finish)
++
+
+/-
-/+
-
–
Round 2:
Among the top 5 selections from R1, a second tasting wherein each of us had a % full glass to describe our willingness to drink 1/3 growler.
Round 3:
Slug back remaining beers. Realize we don’t have the growler and that we can’t make it back before the brewery closes. Go to grocery store instead.
Alyson and I decided it’d be pretty sweet-but kind of creepy-to live here.
Happy=happy
Some people have pets…
I cannot even begin to rattle off all the questions this photo provokes. I bet this guy has an incredible story.
It’s true, our fridge is crammed.
I came home one evening to a blueberry mine field. Imagining the scenario that unfolded…Phil got ready for work as usual, then noticed he had a few spare minutes before he needed to leave. So he clicked open his computer and became engrossed in a google map of suspected remote US military bunkers. Twenty-five minutes later, he bolted off the couch and strode to the door, freaking out about being behind schedule. As he reached for the handle, he noticed the yellow post-it note I left on the door, “LUNCH.” He cursed. He didn’t want to bring the damn lunch. He didn’t want to carry an extra bag. He didn’t want to waste time making sandwiches. Fck. But if he left the stuff in the fridge any longer, he knew the bread would mold and I would get peeeeesed. Plus, he dooes get hungry. And would like to save money. He strode back. Grappling with the bag in the fridge, he yanked, frustrated by all the surrounding cartons and packages. The blueberries catapulted off the shelf, lid popping open and purple balls scattering on the floor. THIS DAMN LUNCH! He couldn’t waste more time. He had to leave. Fuck em, clean it up later. The door slammed closed and the fruit flies moved in.
Twelve hours later, I came home.
Dashing and Daring
Caroline and I rode all over New York. And some of the time, it wasn’t even our fault that we were riding into traffic!
Baby Train
Gail at her baby shower…trying to decipher the mixed-up baby words.
Gail horrified by some aspect of babydom. She recovered gracefully. Poop? I guess it’s not thaaaaat gross.
Miracles.
This is what I want to remember
I’ve been learning lately how people get confused and disoriented when they get old. Well when I’m ancient, I hope this is where I think I am.
Cabin. 75 degrees, me, mom and dad, and the best three days I’ve had this summer.
Isn’t it weird: ducks don’t have butts.
Mom’s not joking.
Looks like dad’s doing his stick hand rant again.
We made stew over the fire. Three hours of carefully adjusting the pot up or down a link on the chain to keep a consistent gurgling boil. We came out with about 10 gallons of orange carrot boats and pearl onion buoys in a brown sea of beef gravy. So good. In fact, so good that I risked my good standing with the TSA to carry some on to my flight home. Vacuum-packed and frozen so it wouldn’t show up as a liquid container of +3.2 ounces. Now carefully stored in my freezer for real moments of home sickness.
Au natural.
Cheese.
Drag me kicking and screaming back to the hot, stinky, humid city. I need to find a lake.
