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.

Where's Jack?

Your Favorite Restaurant

Everyone has a favorite restaurant – maybe even more than one.  Perhaps there is a restaurant that is perfect for a quick family meal, or the little mom-and-pop place where you take out-of-town company, or a romantic spot for an intimate dinner for two.  You might even have a favorite restaurant in another city.  Whenever travel allows, this perfect combination of menu and atmosphere always requires fitting a bistro, or a café, or even a diner into the itinerary.  For me, I crave a specific taste, a flavor that combines a splendid splash of memories, tastes, and wilted lettuce.  Yes, I admit it, I am a sucker for Jack In The Box tacos, and since the chain hosts no establishments near me, I constantly equate them with my traveling adventures.

My first taste of the low-cost, low-prep, skinny, greasy-bottomed, crunchy-topped snacks occurred at the franchise adjacent to my elementary school.  My addiction began after I left Arizona and the least-ethnic Mexican food no longer became readily available to me.  I began to plot the locations where I could find that friendly clown in other cities and towns that I frequented.  Both St. Louis and Los Angeles have outlets just at the end of the street from the rental car lots.  Heading west on Interstate 10, at the first exit inside the Texas state line, I found another branch.  Like little taco oases on the path to wherever I may be headed, Jack In The Box greeted me, welcomed me, and gave me a little moment of remembrance to my childhood and to previous expeditions, as well as a quick nibble to keep me satisfied as I hit the road.

Another Sense Of Direction

Stuck in construction traffic on the south side of Lake Tahoe, I have already added a couple hundred miles to the odometer, crossing Donner Pass, touching the waters at Sutter’s Mill, and helping push a stranded traveler out of the snow.  An adventure like this doesn’t need the hum-drum of bumper-to-bumper vehicles.  My saving grace, off the road to the left, I see my beloved Jack.  I pull in, I order the two-for-a-dollar special, and I sit with my laptop and my tasty, unhealthy treat watching for the traffic to clear.  When I landed in El Paso, (see “El Paso, El Paso,” January 2013) Jack held a position across from the airport’s entrance as I turned east.  He always knows right where to be when I need him.

Crossing from Lewiston, Idaho into Clarkston, Washington, Jack again makes an appearance.  I make a mental note, as I have just finished breakfast, and after my brief dart into Oregon (see “I Owe Oregon,” February 2013), I return to his side.  As I sit enjoying my crunchy, greasy, messy flavors, I leaf through my beautiful atlas (see “Traveling With Boys,” November 2011), I place a check-in call with my brother, who also embraces my JITB affliction, and I plot the lengthy afternoon drive up and over Lolo Pass through the Bitterroot Mountains.  With his charming ad campaigns, his bouncy, bobbing antenna toppers, and his irresistibly tempting tacos, Jack In The Box accompanies my adventures, just like my musical soundtrack, the wind in my air, and the beckoning of the open road, making taste another vibrant element of the journeys I have taken.  His low-cost corn tortilla snacks may not be the gourmet selection of more refined palettes, but I connect that taste with the memories of dozens of drives, each one of them savory and simple, but full of spice, aptly affordable, and a taste I frequently crave.

Crossing The Rivers

The Kootenai River – Idaho



 

The Tuolumne River – California

 

The Snake River – Washington

 

The Clearwater River – Idaho

 

The Lewis River – Wyoming

 

 

 

The Rivers of Idaho

There’s a Snake in My Boot

It’s summer.  It’s warm.  It’s sunny.  The river is shallow along its bank, so why not pull over, roll up my pant legs, shed my shoes and dip my toes in the water I have been paralleling most of the morning?  Jet skis zoom and inner tubes float in the middle of the water where the depth and flow may be more ideal for a fun and active afternoon, but I plan to drive for several hours, so just a quick toe in the water douses my appetite to wet my feet.  River access from a roadside park will do, so I walk barefoot over the smooth, uneven rocks to the water’s edge, and cautiously stroll into the Snake River, far upstream from its emptying point into the ocean to the west.  And as I stare at my feet in the water, this one small step doesn’t represent any of the highlights of this vacation; nonetheless I want to remember the moment.  But even more I want to get back into the car and on my way.

Through the clear water, the gently worn stones and the undisturbed sand of the river bed allow me to see my feet, but the wind’s slight rippling on the surface makes them appear even larger than their already considerable length.  These big boots at the end of my legs make me giggle when I realize the clever quote from my favorite rootin’-tootin’ cowboy.  I pull my camera out of my pocket and capture my over-sized feet and the bright reflection off the water’s surface from the midday sun and post a picture on the web with the remark, “My boots are in the Snake.”

Following the Water

Where the Snake accepts the Clearwater River’s water, the summer flow, probably more tame than the springtime snowmelt rush, marks a turning point in the geography and a turning point of the road.  From here, I spend hours following the river inward and upstream, and along each stretch, I see weekend enthusiasts splashing and sunning.  I worry that my short stint in the water does not do the climate and the scenery justice.  I stop frequently to capture the tranquil images of the flowing waterway, but I keep my feet cozily inside my footwear.  I choose to enjoy the water aesthetically.

The water merges from the Lochsa River and I follow it through the Bitterroot Mountains awing at the beauty in both the sunlight and the shadows, squinting against the sun’s blinding reflection off the water and marveling in the deep, cool colors its absence creates in the narrow valleys between the rising mountain faces.  With each bend in the rivers and my continued driving upstream, the population playing in the summer sun and warm waters thins, but the depth and breadth to which the images along these three rivers snaking through the mountains deepen their impression upon me magnifies. Even with only a few small steps in the water, I drench myself in the rivers of Idaho.