Computer Guru And Cupcake Godsend

In The Panhandle And In The Basement

Since the development of photography, a subsequent, disheartening phenomenon has followed: losing one’s photos.  I’d wager this frustration first began when David Bachrach barely managed to snap a blurry shot of the sixteenth President before he finished invoking his forefathers four score and seven years prior.  Perhaps we humans thought such irritation at our inability to capture and preserve moments for our family’s posterity when the modern era converted from film to digital images.  Wrong.  A mere handful of days into my vacation, when I had strategically and deliberately saved each day’s photos to my computer to preserve coveted space on my SD card, my device unexpectedly succumbed to the crashing catastrophe of digital proportions and failed to preserve the images of my experiences to date.  Curses!  I practically can hear the shock of the photographer at Gettysburg as Lincoln takes his seat.

Surprisingly, in the quaint town of Coeur d’Alene, after coping with my mildly horrific loss for twenty-four hours, I wander past the lower level of what used to be city hall.  To my joy and delight, I spy the timely establishment of the Computer Guru, and return to fetch my ailing laptop.  Hope springs anew, but the sad truth remains that my photos will not be salvageable.  I begin to accept the fate of the lost images, and I sadly contemplate how best to drown my sorrows.  Thankfully, the adorable hamlet into which I have stumbled provides an immediate cure.  Sharing office space in the basement of the Old City Hall, a cupcake shop beckons me to release my virtual defeat and accept the solace of the moment with a bit of Guinness and chocolate baked into a paper-lined, over-sized, sweetly-frosted remedy for what ails my computer.  I acquiesce.

Of, By, And For

I accept my defeat.  I move forward.  I will let me laptop be held in repose until my return from my vacation and then I will find a solution to breathe life into its monitor.  Now that I am home, I find myself starting from scratch, hoping to be struck by lightning and illuminated into finding a computer repair source that provides me with comfort that sometimes bad things happen to good machines.  I flounder unsuccessfully, wistfully wallowing in the loss of my digital accomplice (see “My Muse” from December 2012).  Were I to find a golden pot of surprises at the end of the computer-repair rainbow, a specialty shop that could restore my faith in electronics, as well as restore my hard drive, would it ever equal the sweet magic of a computer guru juxtaposed in a cozy corner with cupcakes?  Doubtful.

Why reinvent the wheel?  Why struggle in my search for netbook nirvana when I have already identified a cosmic corner where cupcakes and computers live harmoniously adjacent to one another?  I pack my lifeless electronics into bubble wrap, hoping it will arrive at its destination, forty-seven states away from me, with enough functioning bits and pieces to be restored to its previous glory.  I do not worry needlessly.   I know my computer, once safely at its destination, will be embraced in capable hands.  That Ray, as I affectionately dub my laptop, will arrive in a familiar setting, will begin to heal to its pre-vacation stature, and that if all else fails, it will rest in peace next to the sweet smell of cupcakes.  I solemnly believe that the Computer Guru of the Panhandle, by the cupcake shop, and for the sake of my laptop, shall not perish in its efforts.

Hazy Shade Of Summer

Not A Cloud In The Sky

After discovering the secret about Jacob’s Lake (see “Jacob Lake” from January 2012), our Plan B excursion brought us to the base of the identically named Lookout Tower.  I didn’t ascend it.  Only Son #1 tackled those stairs, as I remained grounded with Son #2 (with a note to myself to go back and do that) peering upward wondering what the view must encompass.  Even from the dull seats eighty feet below, the history of the structure tickles me.  Yet again, the Civilian Conservation Corps strikes.  More than eight thousand feet above sea level, the most noteworthy quality of its height remains today, as it did in 1934 when its construction was completed, to peer across the tree tops to scout for blazes beginning in the Kaibab National Forest.

Before aircraft skimmed the skies, the eagle-eyes of the solitary individuals perched in their tower detected the first signals of smoke and then provided coordinates to those charged with its extinguishment.  The same service remains today, aided by technology, but still dependent on the eyes of the individual up in the tower.  On the day my son ascended, the clear horizon brought no urgency, sounded no alarm, and the forest slept soundly.  The view up there may have been spectacular, but the outlook at the lookout appeared dull.

Not A Sky In The Clouds

Even the sun appears a sickly shade of scintillation, covered thickly by the smoke from the Washington State fires.  For a record number of days, Seattle measures no rain, no storms pummel Puget Sound, and nearly hidden in plain sight, Mount Rainier cloaks itself in an ominous haze (see “Change of Plans,” December 2013).  The signs of smoke reach from the eastern mountains to the western shore, hovering over the city, threatening its usual summer glow, reminding me that the fire crews at our hotel in Omak wish fishing on the Columbia and sightseeing hydroelectric dams filled their days outdoors.

How different one season to the next might affect the view of the Pacific Northwest.  How tranquil a forest might be in a moist year and how devastated it may become in another.  Looking across the crystal blue sky in Northern Arizona appears in such contrast to the streaks of brown hovering between me and the light of the afternoon, planet Earth altering its best vistas into dingy, haunting reminders of its fragility.  Somewhere above the clouds of ash and smoky haze, the sky desperately attempts to peek down upon me and while I know it stretches high above me, I wonder when I might see it again.  All signs point to a long wait.

Five Routes Coming and Going

Yellowstone Part 1

The granddaddy of them all, the place that created a seismic shift in the concept of public lands, the national park that defies comparison to any other among America’s best idea, Yellowstone National Park includes bubbling mud, softly cascading creeks, wildlife and clusters of eager tourists ogling them, powerful gushes of hot water and steam forcing their way up through the earth, and contrasting flows of turquoise water tumbling into golden canyons.  If every blogger, every author, every photographer, and every artist captured its magnificence in prose or paint or print or pictures, it still would be inadequate to capture the ambiance and awestruck grandness of its beauty.  Nonetheless, we try.

Like a majestic island in the Wyoming wilderness, five entrances allow the teeming multitudes of gawkers to reach Yellowstone’s scenery.  Open year round, the northern entrance accesses its famous stone arch proclaiming the words of Teddy Roosevelt, “For the benefit and enjoyment of the people,” and at the opposite end, seasonal tourists pass smoothly between Coulter’s Hell and the Grand Tetons, but my introduction to Yellowstone National Park, while including these routes, began after scraping the sky along the Beartooth Pass, which winds its way between Montana and Wyoming through the Custer National Forest.  When aspiring to a final resting place, skip the pearly gates and ask for the Beartooth entrance to heaven.

Yellowstone Part 2

My return visit cuts through the center of the park.  In from the west, out through the east, and thereby I easily boast having experienced all five viewpoints, of which others may only see one or two.  The harder dilemma, however, the challenge of the prioritization of one view over another perplexes me.  As vastly different as the terrain and natural features encompass the overall park, each passageway offers drastically varied experiences to me.  While in Yellowstone, a single human may see a grizzly bear, may photograph a galloping buffalo, may witness the speed of a gray wolf skirting through grasses taller than the mammal itself, may hear the bugle of an elk before its presence is visible through a grove of aspens, and each creature’s presence captivates and alters the viewpoint of the visitor.

Likewise the entrances display the power of an earthquake, the grandeur of approaching cragged mountains, the tranquility of a lake leading to watersheds of the Atlantic Ocean, the statement of a visionary president, and the perilous twists and turns and gasps reaching above twelve thousand feet in the air.  Pick a portal and find your favorite; choose one or two paths into and out of the natural brilliance of Yellowstone National Park.  Be bold and tackle them in progression over years or over a summer.  Drive away from one view and promise yourself to return to another.  Above all else, get yourself to Wyoming and choose your gateway into heaven.

Volksmarching

Stein After Stein

When in Rome, as they say, one tends to follow the customs of the locals.  Turns out, when in the Rheinland, the same general principle applies.  At least we drank the beer and sipped the glüwein, even if I never really embraced the sausage and sauerkraut.  We spent our Saturdays strolling through the countryside, forking over a few marks for ten kilometers and a commemorative beer stein.  Or two.  Dozen.  We scoured the newspaper each week for the outings that included our desired prizes.  We mapped each location and determined which towns were the shortest distance from our burg to the next decanter in our collection.  We only participated in those walks that included a ceramic trophy or a glass for keeping our beer warm.  After all, when in Katzweiler...

Most volksmarches, these mini pilgrimages around our expat fatherland, even kept Son Number One with his three-year-old little legs moving briskly towards the goal.  We’d start in a little town, walk two blocks this way and three that way and we’d find ourselves parallelling farmlands, passing through forests, and seeing the backside, the inside, the hidden side of Germany up close.  We wandered down dirt paths, over rocky roads, and dodged mud puddles, or at least I avoided the mud, until we returned to the local rathaus for refreshments, nourishment, and, “Prost!”  With each metal flip cover or a symmetric pilsner pillars, the collection grew.  When in Kaiserslautern...

Solo Hike

My last volksmarch in late spring takes me to a town outside my comfort zone, not just this new town forces me to drive new roads in a new direction, but because I am hiking this one alone with minimal command of the language, and only the occasional, “‘Tag,” or “Tschüß,” to make my way through town.  It’s raining.  I’m straying from the American cores and wandering through grassy fields which might double for landing trips.  I run, and I never run.  I wear a yellow rain poncho cloaking myself like a tent, and I’ve spent the bulk of my life avoiding rain gear.  I keep a mental list of the places I pass and then repeat it aloud so as to keep a repeating list of what I have seen.  I am stepping briskly and stepping into a fuzzy new experience for myself.  But as they say, when in the Saarland…

I am nearing the end of my first solo hike.  In the years to come, I will become a seasoned pro at passing through nature and letting it penetrate me.  Sometimes winded, sometimes wiped out, sometimes wet from the rain, but always refreshed and replenished and renewed, I accept its offerings.  New experiences change us and traveling and living abroad obviously implies such alterations, but more than a change of language, or a change of environment, a subtle, lasting change affects what matters most, and as nature surrounds me, touching me permanently, I am transformed.  I reach the end of my walk, and the end of my duration in Germany, and as I accept my reward for my ten kilometer stroll, I clasp the prize in my hand, a terra cotta bird bath, marking a baptism of sorts into the next phase of my life.  When inspired...

The Maine Bridge

 

Penobscot Narrows

Horizontal

Skirting the shoreline of the northeastern edge of the United States, Son Number Two and I found ourselves easily distracted.  For him, we cross a spattering of new states and first time visits to Rhode Island, New Hampshire, and Maine requiring photo ops as I cruise the rental car past each “Welcome to…” state sign.  For both of us, being so close to the Great White North, we felt compelled to stop for a leisurely hot chocolate and a sampling of Tim Horton’s pumpkin and maple specialties (see “Brock University” from January 2012), unknowingly our last visit while still in the control of its Canadian forefathers.  Admittedly, most people frequent donut shops in the morning, but by sliding in mid afternoon, we secured a cozy spot by the fireplace and relaxed ourselves into a sugar coma.

Once we rolled back into the car and onto the road, we continued towards our final destination on Mount Desert Island, but stopped for a few choice photos near the base of the Penobscot Narrows Bridge.  Named for the river beneath it, the crossing above the waterway offered us the access point over the last geographical divide between us and a plate full of lobster.  Noticing that travel to its observatory above the hill and tree lines was possible, we focused instead on getting across its span, still marveling at its size in the rear view mirror.  What we wanted to see laid ahead of us on the stretch of road between us and Acadia National Park.  The shortest distance to hot, buttered, succulent crustacean, and an equally tempting view of the ocean, carried us flatly eastward.

Vertical

The Sunday after Labor Day the bulk of New England glues itself to the television in hopes of a victorious kickoff to the football season.  For us, the prospect of a post-summer thinning and a local population engrossed in indoor activities gives us a clean palette to explore the partially submerged rocks hovering beneath the Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse.  When we head back to the landlubbers side of the scenery, we again face the two towers of the Penobscot Narrows Bridge beckoning us to consider its height, not just its breadth.  We acquiesce, and we have the observatory to ourselves.  While lacking in maple sweetness, this private afternoon perk far exceeds the previous day’s lounge.

One of only four bridge observatories in the world, and the tallest one at that, we see the ocean we leave behind to the east, tucked just behind the top of Cadillac Mountain, upon which we stood less than twenty-four hours earlier marveling at the sunset.  To the north, Mount Katahdin rises above the horizon noting the end of the Appalachian Trail, and the end of the nation.  Westward and to the south, the entire rest of the United States awaits our return.  Carved into the stone floor, the arrows point the way, but the brilliant sunlight hidden for most of the day by the morning’s rain clouds streaks through the glass lookout and lights our way home.  The river winds through the hints of autumn in the density of trees far below us, bumping into the piers and then continuing to the sea.  We depart similarly, quickly stopping at the bridge and then heading on our way.

In Service Of Others

Not So Punny

Small through mid-size churches across the United States use their white marquees with dark letters to post one of several pieces of information: the time of Sunday services, the name of the pastor, the theme of the upcoming sermon (is that like a coming attractions notice at a theater?), or a clever little pun about religion or faith or God.  In fact, there are websites devoted to these clever phrases so that a small country church in Oregon may have the same pith as one in Vermont.  Welcome to witty religious retorts of the twenty-first century.

In truth, posting the times of the services, from my analytical perspective, ranks as brilliant.  If I am recently relocated, what better way to open the church doors and see all the people than to let passersby know what time to be here on Sunday.  As to the name of the pastor, I doubt that makes or breaks potential attendees, but what if Pastor Doe doesn’t even reach the amusement of the clever comment on the signage – does that make a difference in whether or not he is remembered or forgotten by the sporadic attendee?  If the sign out front gets a searching soul in the door, how can that spirit be retained?

What We Say Versus What We Do

Maybe I misread the banner strung between the two small trees, but I pass a sign at a neighborhood church that seems to present an entirely different take on its services.  No, the banner did not remind its congregation to be there by 9:00 or 11:00, but rather it broadcasts to the surrounding community, “Look at us!  Here is what we can do for you,” and includes a litany of support for those who seek refuge. Granted the words may have been less sensational than some cheeky play on words, but the vinyl sign, secured in each corner by rope, shared with those, like myself, who happened to be passing by, identifies what the church does for others, for its community, for its members, and for the betterment of those who step inside its doors.  Service, in its doors, is not a time, it is action.

What if this becomes the norm, rather than a clever comeback?  What if websites include less about amusing words and more about impactful actions?  Maybe such sites exist, but I see more of the former than I do of the latter and as a writer, I spend endless hours developing a clever turn of phrase, but what really affects the lives of others is a turn of heart.  After witnessing a recent automobile accident where I choose to check on the status of the driver at fault, while all other witnesses attend to the victim, I acknowledge everyone can use a helping hand rather than a quick tongue.  In service of others should be our mantra, rather than a quip on a marquee.