A Day in the Woods

A fresh fruit and granola breakfast, with freshly picked berries...



... and a visit with a doe and her two fawns...



... followed by a morning spent mostly in and around the bungalow; myself up in the garden, closer to the farm house, in order to get wireless Internet access, and Ellie working with pastels indoors, making what turned out to be a very nice abstract landscape painting.

Late morning, we decided on a hike, and took the drive down to Olga again. This time we chose to drive on, past Olga’s...



... to Obstruction Pass—a place we had not visited before on either of our trips. We were delighted to have made that choice: leaving the car at the parking lot, we opted for the .9-mile walk to the beach over the .6-mile, and found ourselves climbing fairly steeply along a trail that had that wonderful soft, spongy underfoot feel created by centuries of forest entropy.




A high canopy of greenery above, and the brilliant, mottled green of moss surrounding us, covering every boulder, every fallen tree-trunk.






The previous night’s rain, as Ellie noted, had left a dampness in the air and on the ground, so that the whole environment seemed to breathe with life. This had to count as one of the loveliest hikes we have ever taken—and we have taken many in our time. And George was thrilled with this new territory to explore. A city slicker in the wilderness…




From the high point of the trail, it wound steeply down again towards the sound...




... leading us eventually down a precipitous rocky path to a pebbly beach.


We found a couple of young families there, from the camp sites at the water’s edge, but otherwise this beautiful cove was ours to enjoy its tranquil beauty. We cast about a bit to find the trailhead for the shorter way back, but failing to find it, retraced our steps on the longer one—and found, of course, that it was much longer on the return.

Driving back to Olga, we bought coffee at the smaller of the two restaurants, where we found an outdoor table to enjoy the sandwiches we had made, along with an outsize chocolate chip cookie from the deli counter.

After this late lunch, we headed back to the bungalow, passing another doe and her young fawn at the side of the road...


... and changed into fresh clothes for a different experience: a chamber concert at the local auditorium. We knew the seats had been sold out, but had been told at the box office that we’d be more than likely to get tickets if we showed up an hour and a half before the concert’s five o’clock start, because people buy blocks that they choose not to use. We showed up, then, with books to read, at three-thirty and sat in the lobby hoping for the best. Alas, this was the premiere of the two-week concert program, and everyone showed up. At the last minute, we were offered a single ticket, with the possibility of a second after the first piece if the seats had not been claimed by then. We declined.

We could have made the trip into East Sound for dinner, but there is too much left in the refrigerator to waste, so we decided instead on a kind of Cobb salad concocted of left-overs, with a glass of wine. I’m writing these notes Thursday, the morning of our last day on the island. Tonight, a blow-out at what we have heard is the best restaurant on Orcas Island, and tomorrow an early departure for the ferry back to mainland America. This travel log may be neglected for a couple of days while we get back on the road. We’ll see what opportunities arise…

Buck Mountain, Deer Harbor, and Beyond...

It was not pouring with rain when we woke, as I had feared from the weather forecast. But it is certainly overcast and very much cooler than our first few days. No matter, we were up and about in decent time, catching up with Larry, our contractor, about the possible changes to that irksome pass-through window. We’re hoping, now, to wait for our architect to return from vacation (?) and get his first-hand input at the end of this week.

Late morning, we headed out for an adventure in the Prius. Those who follow the comments on “Travels with George” will remember one from a reader, Ron, who owns property here on the island, and who invited us to visit it. Following his directions, we found ourselves ascending a steep and narrow road on the slopes of Buck Mountain, through a landscape of dense forest and occasional lakes and tarns, to what must be one of the highest points on the island. Here's the cairn that marks the approach...


From the street, we walked up to Ron’s property—as yet undeveloped—and climbed the rocky promontory...



... to enjoy the spectacular view of the sound and the many islands of which he had justly boasted. Ron, here’s the view you treasure...


Thanks for inviting us! (I'm afraid you lost a tree...)


From Buck Mountain, we doubled back through East Sound and drove on through farmlands and meadows...


(...with a stop to pick blackberries for tomorrow's breakfast...)



to Deer Harbor...


... where we spent a few days several years ago. Still a gorgeous spot. We ate fish and chips at the end of the pier, surrounded by grizzled old geezers with grey beards and weathered faces. Surprised by the sparseness of tourists, we found out that this is indeed a slow summer: it seems that there are far fewer tourist boats coming in this year to moor—a change attributed, by at least one man we spoke to, to the cost of gas. After lunch, we took George for a walk along the moorings...



... before heading back to East Sound for the second of my healing sessions with Stacy at Ama Tara. In a generous mood at the end, and wishing to share the relaxation, I treated Ellie to a session after mine before we retraced our steps to the bungalow.

I promised myself a holiday from politics this month, but I have to admit that I have been watching developments out of the corner of an eye. I have also been reading the Obama book, “The Audacity of Hope,” and wish that every voter would do the same. The Republican attempt to paint their Democratic rival as a lightweight, inexperienced neophyte with an abundance of rhetorical skills but no substance would become transparently absurd to anyone who had read just a few pages of this extraordinary book. It is rich with historical knowledge and a breadth of vision that is frankly astounding in a man so young. It also helps one understand the strength of flexibility—too often interpreted as weakness—along with the value of respecting the views of others and the meaning of compromise. It is precisely those qualities that are mindlessly attacked by his opponents that are the source of his vision and his strength.

Too bad that we Americans have such skewed ideas about what it means to be strong. Witness the posturing of John McCain. I hear he’s floating Joe Lieberman’s name as a vice-presidential choice. I hope he chooses him. I believe it will increase his chances of losing in November. The two inflexibles. If the current occupant of the White House has not taught us anything about the illusion of strength, I fear that we will never learn.

So much for politics from the Pacific Northwest. We went to sleep again to the sound of rain, and woke again to a cool morning with low clouds and sodden ground. No matter the weather, it’s a joy to be here.

Clouds...

Awoke in our little bungalow...


... to find our friends grazing outside the kitchen window. They love the green apples...



Our first concern for the day was to resolve a problem with the construction project down in Laguna. We had received pictures from our friends Brian and Mary, and had noted what seemed to us a rather smaller than expected pass-through window, where there once was a doorway leading from the kitchen to the sitting room. We checked with Mary via email, and her return note confirmed her agreement that the window seemed narrow. A worried call to our contractor, Larry, to check with him; he offered his own opinion that it was wide enough, at two feet, and that a narrow shelf extension into the sitting room from the kitchen counter might help resolve the visual anomaly. This what I myself had suggested as a possibility, so we asked Larry to make a mock-up of some kind to send us as a jpg.

This business had to be conducted in town, of course, because our phone reception out here at the farm is intermittent. So we enjoyed a cup of coffee while we were there, and made a few necessary purchases—dog food for George from the pet shop, a fresh loaf of bread from the marvelous bakery, Rose’s, for ourselves—and then were headed back to the car when we were startled by the most extraordinary sight: a cloud formation such as I have never seen in my life before. It was a rolling, curving bank of cloud reaching for miles across the sky like a thick braid, so “unnatural” as to be quite spooky.








It's worth clicking on these, to get the larger view. But the pictures, taken in sequence because of the sheer size of the phenomenon, don’t manage to do justice to this amazing spectacle that stopped everyone in their tracks and had the whole street filled with people gazing up into the sky. It looked like a UFO trail from “Close Encounters”—you almost expected an alien spaceship to be emerging from the front end of the trail and landing at the local airstrip.

With the clouds dispersing slowly, we made our way back to the bungalow to change into something warmer: the storm had brought a cold front with it, and we were shivering in summer clothes. Then on down the sound to its southernmost point at Olga’s, where we strolled out to the end of the dock...






... and returned for lunch at the famous Olga’s Café—though not with some dispute as to whether this was the famous one, or the smaller one where I remembered eating an excellent lunch last time we were here. (We were both right: the café where we ate before was indeed more “gourmet” than this one—and had purloined the name; but it had arrived and disappeared in the space of a couple of years, while this artist-run operation has survived for a long time.)

A lovely drive, next, up Mount Constitution, through the clouds, to a height of some two thousand feet.


Once at the summit parking lot, we climbed the last few feet to enjoy the stunning view out over the islands, many of them now obscured by the slow-moving banks of cloud below us.


It was cold and blustery up there, but we climbed the stone tower that crowns the summit, George charging up the steps ahead of us in his eagerness to see what was ahead. It’s one of his most endearing qualities: he is insatiably curious. Another Curious George.

(Did I ever tell you, by the way, where George got his name? Not Curious George. Not George Washington—though that might have been appropriate for this trip. And most certainly not the current occupant of the White House, who will remain unnamed. No, George got his name from George Harrison, the Beatle, who happened to be leaving this life just as our George was arriving. He returned, we like to think, “Across the Universe.”)

We were grateful to get back to the warmth of our bungalow for a nap (for me) and reading time for Ellie. I joined her with my own book—I’ve finished the excellent Alan Furst now, and am working on Barack Obama, with growing admiration—and we spent a good part of the rest of the day engrossed in our own worlds. Late afternoon, we took the computer up to the one spot on the property where I can get wi-fi connection, and spent a while working on our plans for the return trip to Los Angeles, beginning this weekend. And were joined by our host, Mark, armed with a bottle of beer for each of us, for the “cocktail hour.” A pleasant opportunity to get to know more about him, his work as a carpenter/contractor, his wonderful family, and the island he has lived on for a number of years.

Supper at home. Left-overs. A piece of chicken, a piece of salmon, a sauté of tomatoes, onions and potatoes, and nice green salad. A glass of Oregon wine. And, later, a stupid old western movie with Lee Marvin, Burt Lancaster and Jack Palance—on which I got ridiculously hooked, and got to bed too late, and couldn’t sleep for the pounding rain outside.

The Weekend...

… began with our usual cup of tea, then a drive into East Sound with George to the farmer’s market—a venue from he is usually excluded by California law. We had little to buy—just a few vegetables and some fruit—but Ellie found plenty to occupy herself with the various crafts stalls. There were many of these, a testament to the creative spirit of those who live here: jewelry, metalwork, textiles, ceramics… When interspersed with the produce, the baked goods, the sausage stands—we bought a couple to bring home for Sunday dinner—it was a gladly motley gathering, where everyone seemed mellow and grateful for a warm Saturday morning for the event. Unfortunately, though I’d had the foresight to hitch my camera bag to my belt, I was foolish enough to forget that it was there, and neglected to take a single photograph. Too bad.

I can claim that I was distracted, though, because at the market we ran into our friends Arthur and Judy from Laguna Beach, who are also up here on the island—they for two weeks, an enviable improvement on our one. We had been trying to reach other by cell phone since our arrival here, but the vagaries of connectability had prevented our meeting until this chance moment. We were delighted to see them, and more than delighted to be invited over to their place later in the day for late afternoon appetizers and dinner.

With our marketing done, we stopped by at the small theater to see if we could get tickets for the chamber concert series scheduled for next week, but discovered that they are already sold out. Cancelations are a possibility, we understand, if we wait by the ticket office to pounce before the concert. We’ll see. Back at our bungalow, we made a sandwich and spent a lazy afternoon beneath the apple trees with books until four o’clock, when we abandoned George to his own devices and drove down the road, three miles or so, to where Arthur and Judy have rented a delightful home for their stay. (We were impressed to find a fine drawing by David Ligare on the wall there—an artist Ellie showed at her gallery many years ago, and for whom I once wrote a catalogue text.)

Here’s the view from their balcony…


Arthur had grilled some excellent corn and salmon steaks, and Judy had prepared a fine, fresh salad, which we much enjoyed, along with a glass of white wine—despite the determined efforts of a squadron of yellow-jackets to spoil things for us. Good conversation, too. As a professor at UCLA, Arthur is more than well-informed about the environmental crisis that we have created for ourselves on the planet, and we learned a great deal in the course of the evening—much of it not entirely cheerful news. Mindful of George in his solitary state, we left in good time and drove home in the twilight, grateful for good friends and a lovely evening.

Sunday morning, after a light first breakfast (we have traditionally a late-morning bacon and scrambled egg breakfast on Sundays) we stopped by the gas station, where we had been told we could get a Sunday NY Times, but the papers had not yet arrived. We put our name down to hold a copy and drove on down the east side of the sound to Cascade Lake for a long hike around the perimeter.






It’s a beautiful spot, and quiet!


We met only a couple of other people on the three-mile path, until we reached the south end, where we came across a camp site and were surprised to find a delightful family with a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.


We admired their immaculate site, which looked to us a lot more comfortable than many of the motel rooms we have stayed in. George, I have to say, was his usual aloof self, but deigned to pose for a picture with Polo the dog and Chloe, a sweet little six-year old, and of course her parents. It is wonderful to have these chance encounters with genuinely friendly folk… and I always regret a little that they are so fleeting: there’s a sadness in moving on with the knowledge that we will never really get to know them.

The hike began to seem like a very long one towards the end. It felt like a lot more than the advertised mileage. And yet so refreshing to the spirit to be out in the natural world, with barely a hint of the human presence.


We paused to take pictures of late-blooming foxgloves...

... now in the their moment of entropy; and fungus growing from the roots of a felled tree.


The persistence and diversity—and the temporality—of life in all its forms.

Heading back to East Sound, we searched for a shady place to sit outside with George and at the same time hook up to the Internet in order to make changes to the plans for our return trip south. We have decided to avoid a second stop in Portland, and instead to shorten at least a couple of the driving days by adding an overnight stay in southern Washington. The Internet can prove to be a wonderfully useful tool on such occasions, and we appreciate the flexibility it affords us.

Back at the bungalow, we fried our bacon and scrambled our eggs, and sat down for a tasty breakfast followed by a quiet afternoon (under the apples trees, again!) with the NY Times and, for me, the luxury of a cigar: La Gloria Cubana. As a reformed cigarette smoker—I quit nearly twenty years ago, after too many years’ addiction to the noxious weed—I have learned to enjoy the occasional cigar on a Sunday afternoon. Cautiously, however, because I know how easily I could become addicted once again. By afternoon, the weather had begun to change: the warm sunlight and blue skies gave way to low clouds and a chill in the air. As we read the newspaper, great rolls of thunder shook the house behind us as a storm passed by, barely missing us. Fortunately, though, we had no more than a few drops of rain and I was able to complete my indulgence without getting wet.

A further indulgence: a glass of wine over the news headlines. I had read in the paper about a new British series, “Skins”—a real look, supposedly, into the lives of teenagers, which turned out to be funny for a while, but ultimately rather saddening. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, with a little anorexia thrown in for good measure. I was distressed, long before the end, to find myself chuckling at the cynical attitudes and antics of these adolescents, and switched off.

For dinner, we warmed up some good sausage, purchased at the farmers’ market yesterday, with onions, steamed squash and boiled red-skin potatoes for an excellent home-cooked meal.

Another Day...

... in paradise!




We woke this morning to a truly beautiful day on Orcas Island. Bright sun, blue skies, clear, crisp air, green everywhere around. Early on, a doe was munching happily on the grass outside out bungalow, not ten feet from where I stood, watching her.

Yesterday was our first full day on the island. Strange how it seems like we have been here for weeks already. Time slows down amongst the giant pine trees, where humans and their small, hectic activities and endeavors shrink to insignificance in the shadow of centuries of inexorable growth. We were up early for breakfast and our walk down to the pebbly beach, and spent a leisurely morning catching up with email and the blog. There, see! Even here amongst the giant pines, those man-made airwaves connect us to the Internet and the rest of the world.

We made ourselves a ham and cheese lunch, with apple, and decided it was time for George to spend a little time on his own: he has been with us constantly since we left Los Angeles, and we have been nervous about leaving him in strange environments. Here, at least, we thought, he would feel at home in our little bungalow for a couple of hours, so we left with the confidence that he would not tear the place apart, and the hope the he would not disturb others with his bark. (Inquiring later from our host and hostess, we discovered that he had behaved himself impeccably: not a sound while we were gone.)

On the way out, we dropped off some laundry to be washed for us at small expense (we’re on vacation, after all!) and we drove on into the small town of East Sound, where I showed up for the healing session I had booked with Stacy Lutz at the Ama Tara Center, and found her to be attentive to my ailments (hips, travel stress, excess weight, and so on); and at once sensitive and strong, with hands that unerringly found the parts that needed most attention and relieved much of the bodily tension that has been building up inside me. I left with that wonderful feeling of release and ease—and of course with a follow-up appointment for next week. The human touch, along with a loving understanding of the human spirit are capable of more healing than all the drugs they manufacture in their laboratories.

Following Stacy’s recommendation, I went to the organic food store next door and bought a vegetable juice—beet and carrot—which I much enjoyed, while Ellie splurged for a Chai latte, and we returned to our lodgings to find George happy to see us, but certainly no worse for his period of solitary confinement. A ball out on the meadow was a cure for all his problems, whatever they might be.

The afternoon was spent in the rope hammock under the apple tree, both of us reading—me, on toward the end of my excellent new Alan Furst novel. For dinner, following our successful experiment of the afternoon, we left George again and drove into town to a small restaurant where we enjoyed a pleasant, light dinner and a glass of wine at excessive expense. After dinner, a stroll around town and down to the shoreline...



(Ellie's clouds)

(My Monet!)

Driving back at sunset, we paused for the inevitable picture...


... and arrived back home for an instructive evening with Bill Moyers and his impressively intelligent guest before heading off for another early-ish night.

Orcas Island!

An evening walk out along the dock in Anacortes, before leaving for the island...



... and yes, we finally reached our northernmost destination yesterday. Orcas Island. We gave completed 1,660 miles in the Prius, at an overall gas consumption of 48.5 miles per gallon.


Great car! No hitches, no glitches, aside from that squeak or rattle that aggravates Ellie so much, but which remains inaudible to me. We did solve one squeak that I could hear: the dog crate door. A paper towel jammed in the gap took care of that one.

Before leaving for the ferry, we ate a hasty breakfast at our not-much of a motel, paid more than we had bargained for, and stopped at one of the three Starbucks in Anacortes for a New York Times Following advice to arrive there in good time, we were glad to have our copy of the paper to keep us occupied during the one and a half hour wait in line...



Once aboard the ferry, we had to stay on the vehicle level thanks to George whose canine presence was apparently unwelcome on the passenger deck.


We did take him out for a short walk, but it was cold and dark in the long tunnel that accommodates the vehicles—amazing, how many, and the size of some of them!—so we soon returned to the car.

It was a relatively short crossing, anyway—just a little more than an hour—and we were among the first to be marshaled off the boat and up the ramp onto the island. We were soon reminded how very beautiful is here, in this corner of the North West: rolling hills and farmlands, rocky inlets and coves, innumerable meadows and ponds.


We drove through the village of East Sound and, following directions, on a couple of miles to the bungalow at Buckhorn Farm, where we are booked for a week’s stay in this rural paradise.



It was good to finally unpack the car, unpack the bags, and settle in to a place where we can look forward to several days of complete relaxation.




We took a walk in the direction of the shoreline, but found it further than we had imagined and returned to our digs without having reached our goal. Then back to the village for a shared sandwich, a stroll through the streets to explore for restaurant possibilities—there are many---and a stop at the organic market for some purchases for our own kitchen. A fruit stand provided several pannets of luscious blackberries, blueberries and peaches, and I found a meditation and healing center where I booked a therapy session for today, to help recover from those 1,660 miles on the road.

We worry a bit about George. He’s is a delight whenever he’d alone with us—except for that habit of getting hysterical when one or the other of us disappears from his direct line of vision. But he is NOT good with other dogs and, particularly, with small children. I think his intention is good--to protect his clan. But he chooses a bad way to do it. If w don't watch for him, he lunges at unsuspecting passers by. He lunges at flapping edges of passing garments—a skirt or the end of a shawl—and has been known to grab on to them, much to our embarrassment. We realize that it must be in part a reflection of ourselves, our tight unit as a couple in which he has now become a third. But it saddens us that he is not more receptive to the spontaneous admiration and affection of strangers, which he constantly attracts, wherever we go. Not sure what to do about this. He’s already nearly seven years old, and change becomes increasingly difficult with age.

Back at the bungalow, we met our hostess, Stella (we had met her husband, Mark, in the handsome, light green 1954 Chevrolet pickup truck he has owned for 31 years...


... and her daughter, Sophie, separately) and learned some of the essentials—including the fact there are certain places on the acreage where telephone reception is possible, and a spot or two where I can expect to get online, thanks to their wireless connection. Late afternoon, we took a long-ish walk toward the shoreline—but once again, failed to find access to the beach, and returned to our bungalow to prepare for dinner.

City-slickers that we are, we were amazed to glance outside the window of out sitting room and see a couple of deer grazing happily just a few yards from us, by the Toyota.


Later, a stag stopped by to try his luck picking fruit from the apple tree just outside the kitchen door...

... and we saw a pair of raccoons scuttling away from the trash heap. Wild life! So exciting. We have already spotted woodpeckers—we don’t see many of those in Los Angeles!—and I have been scanning the treetops for bald eagles. So far, no sightings.

Ellie cooked up a tasty, fresh-caught salmon steak for us to share, which we enjoyed with a salad, a baked potato, and a glass of Oregon pinot gris. Then, Keith Olberman and a few minutes of Olympics: BORING! We switched off almost immediately. Can’t they show anything except gymnastics, beach volleyball, and swimming? I also find it hard to listen to the unending hyperbole. So, a book… and early to bed.

For breakfast...


... followed by a leisurely walk down to the nearest beach. Lacking a ball, George had to learn that sticks are objects that can also be chased. He was not happy about it, though. He did managed to get his paws extremely yellow, chasing through the algae.