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.

Mount Rainier National Park

Change Of Plans

Vancouver

My first visit to British Columbia’s largest metropolis,  as a stepping-off point to my first Alaskan cruise, offered me the opportunity to taste unique cuisines, stroll through the port’s nearby architecture, and meet west-coast Canadians.  Arriving midday, midsummer, and midway through my marital separation, life in Vancouver offered a glimmering escape, a chance to window shop without children in tow, and  a long stretch of afternoon into evening as the sunlight lingered well into the evening.  Traveling with friends for the first time offered a vastly different view of travel than I had ever experienced.  No family, no car, and no planning on my part marked my second soiree into Canada and the opportunity of a lifetime.

Fifteen years later, when finally returning to the northern nation’s western shore, the early days of autumn may not have offered as late a sunset, but the spectacular city again would be the place where my cruise ship moored.  Despite the detailed planning for ninety-five percent of the vacation, Vancouver remained an open day of strolling and shopping.  Much like San Francisco, the city’s greatest growth straddled between its port and railway connection, so I knew I could find plenty of curious locations to visit in my post-cruise excursion.  At the very least, I did map out the nearest Tim Horton’s location  (see “Brock University,” January 2012) to our hotel.

The Mountain Is Calling And I Am Definitely Going To Go

Socked in by a summer haze of heat and eastern brush and forest fires, Seattle stretches its drought far past the one one-hundredths of an inch of rain received a few days prior.  As I drive south on Interstate 5 towards SeaTac, the effects of the fifty-three-day rainless stretch loom obviously as the horizon disappears into an off-color smog typically reserved for pollution-laden valleys, the industrial core beneath the Great Lakes, and the dense humidity of inland Florida.  In less than a day, I will be on my way to the clear vistas of tranquil and breathtaking Alaska as soon as I drop off this rental car and get back to my hotel for a last night of landlubber sleep.  Suddenly, with a gentle curve to the left, rising above the layer of smoky gunk, Mount Rainier appears like a massive spacecraft hovering and drifting towards Puget Sound. My jaw drops.

I walk from the rental car garage at the Seattle Airport towards the light rail station with an urgency not tapped since my vacation began more than two weeks ago.  From the time I arrive at the station until the train departs for my return trip towards the Space Needle, I busily dial the phone numbers necessary to alter my departure from the Great White North immediately upon stepping off the Norwegian Pearl.  I cancel one hotel night in Vancouver and add another night in Seattle for the following week.  I move my shuttle across the Blaine border crossing to twenty-four hours earlier.  I tap my smart phone for a one-day automobile rental for the following week, all without asking my travel companions.  I fully understand one of John Muir’s most famous quotes, “The mountains are calling and I must go.”