One Great Run

Today was one of those days when everything worked the way you always hope it will. This was one cold, rain-soaked, snow-pelleted, wind-blown day and it was great. Katabatic and Memphis led with Red and Smokey making the corrections and keeping (Memphis) doing the right thing (she's always ready to go and always ready to try to turn the team around to take them home).Without Nike's confidence and enthusiasm beside her, Kat did her best - I was so proud of her again. Taku-Chinook, Zephyr-Matanuska were perfect! Whoo-hoo!

Halloween

Tonight we had Halloween!
In the past 31 years we've had 3 Trick-or-Treaters knocking on our door. But tonight (!) thanks to the recruitment efforts of "my neighbor through the back field, Peggy" we had 13!! Here are four of them...very cute!

Nothing Gold Can Stay

by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold,
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Trail 17

The Hancock/Calumet trail travels through the heart of the Copper Country range. More than three-quarters of the nation's copper came from this region of the Keweenaw Peninsula from 1843 to the 1920's. It was the only place on earth where pure copper was found so free of impurities that it could be formed into pots and pans without refining or processing.
The Mineral Range Railroad cars hauled hard-rock copper along this route throughout those years. Today this section of the rolling corridor is home to 13.4 miles of trail that also goes by the names "Jack Stevens Calumet-Hancock Rail Trail" and "Snowmobile Trail #17. It alternates between crushed stone and dirt, and as I travel on it I sail past stands of northern hardwoods, numerous ponds, wetlands, fishing spots, mine tailing piles (piles of rock brought to the surface during mining), and other relics of the copper mining era. I've spent countless hours and traveled countless miles on Trail 17 during the past 26 years. The old rails and ties were pulled up and hauled away years ago - and tonight as I ran with Cooper, I stopped to listened to the quiet, to breath in the pervasive spicy smell of the autumn forest, to study the stands of trees - most of which have given up their leaves now, and to think about the history laid down by this strand of trail.

Blind Hog Cider Press

"There are times when even a blind hog finds an acorn."
...it seemed to be a long-shot - the success of a cider press designed and built in David's shop by himself and his friend, George. Apples are bumper cropping this year apple on trees that were purposefully planted and those planted by herds of cows over the years. This was our first taste of the Blind Hog Cider Press product with the promise of more to come.

The Very Day I Wait For

AUTUMN

by Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.

Today is the tenth day of October, we've shared it with the first snow of the season. The wind started stiffly blowing early in the morning, followed by the snow which came in an assortment of forms and volume. Large, quarter-sized flakes, hard balls of corn-snow, at times horizontal blankets, tiny, floating crystalline-like bits that clung to the branches of the trees and grasses in the fields and glistened when the sun shone through the low-hung gray clouds (enlarge the pictures of the birches and you'll see what I mean) - all served to accumulate and leave a clean white ground covering that Robert Frost would have been more than pleased with.

It is this very day I wait for all year - this remarkable change in season day - from here on there'll be no question: we're on the cusp of winter. With that in mind David and I loaded a few dogs into the car - our destination wasn't mapped out - we let the roads take us where they would. We ended up at a bridge - we'd been there once before. Following the Sturgeon River Road we came to "THE BRIDGE" - it seems to lead only to a red farm house as it spans the Sturgeon River. We didn't cross it but someday I will and investigate the possibilty that the road just might reduce to a wee-small two track beyond the red farm house - and follow along the river bank.

Load 'Em Up!

There's only one thing better than a freshly painted dog truck...a freshly painted dog truck loaded with a team of ready-to-run Alaskans! :)

Just Keep Walking

Lately my sister's been teaching me a little something about how to just keep walking...

A few weeks back she sent me a book to read. I saved it for the first warm, green-grassed, sun's-ablazin' Saturday in September, took myself to my favorite chair in the field below the raspberry patch and promised not to leave that chair until I closed that book for having read it all. (I savor those time when I can wrap myself in a tiny cocoon of perfect pleasure and remain for as long as I like - and this was one of those times!)
I stayed in that chair and read until I came to the last chapter. I really didn't want the story to end and decided to save the last bit for the following morning and the big, leather chair in our living room. It was a quick read that's for certain, but the process of reflection has taken weeks...

Two Old Women is an Athabaskan folktale of two old women, Star and Chickadee bird, who must stand up and walk forward or die in cold desertion under the bow of a cedar tree. It's a story steeped in the themes of steely self determination and intense internal strength. It's a story of courage; of walking forward into the amazing potenial and gifts that lie hidden within each one of us. The sweet glaze of the story is that of ultimate forgiveness - that's the 'life' of it all; that's what makes it work.

Walking forward is a choice we make - it's a simple thing - like opening a door and saying yes to going through it. Most of the time we don't give it a lot of thought - we don't have to - it's easy. But then there's that ONE day when it all changes and it's not ordinary anymore; it isn't easy and every breath is effortful. But the choice is to 'sit under the bow of the cedar tree' and to never move again, or to get up and start walking into a place you've never been before. If we decide to stand and take steps forward, it will be to THAT place where a strength, a level of courage and giftedness we never knew existed is found.

For the past five months my sister's been walking into a place she never dreamed she'd go. It's been hard - a kind of hard I've never known.
But I do know this about my sister- no matter how deep the water, no matter how dark the place or how unsure her very next step may feel, she'll lock arms with the strength and courage she has within her and she'll keeping opening each door, walking through it and taking the next step...she'll just keep walking!

She's my sister and I love her.

Compressed Cotton Candy

It was dinner out last night - out in our back field kneeling around our field stone enclosed campfire with our two wiener dogs -Sam Houston and KirbyMagnolia - running circles in the field and through the buckwheat patch, a bag of local Vollworth's hot dogs, a bag of buns, a bag of eager-to-be-eaten ( I know things about marshmallows) marshmallows and a full, U.P. moon on the rise. I'd been waiting for this night all summer long. It was perfect - just like those marshmallows I'd carefully, quietly and with steady perseverance and diligence, roasted to gooey perfection! I ate five of those gooey blocks of what David calls compressed cotton candy.
I've had many - maybe hundreds - of roasted marshmallows in my lifetime -they're one of my favorite things - and their taste last night brought back a package of memories from the summer of 1990, when Caleb, Abby, Michaela and I gathered around the Johnston family campfire on the shores of Lake Chandos, Ontario, roasted hot dogs and buns on a stick, along with those ubiquitous blocks of compressed cotton candy by the full light of an Ontario moon on the rise.

Lake Superior

I raced home after school today to fetch David, two dogs, a camera and my boots and off we went to Lake Superior. The sun was warm and the breeze gentle. We walked down the smooth-stoned shoreline lined with cedar and aspen trees on the upland side to find only a handful of agate hunters on the water's edge.
Lake Superior is unlike any other place on earth-when I spend time with it I'm assured of that. Its cold, gray expanse lays out for what seems to be an endless, seamless stretch. This evening the waves were barely distinguishable, all water craft absent, but out in the distance we spied a set of snorkelers - a floating bobber marking their spot and every now and again their heads bobbing to the surface. They had the whole place to themselves. If you look REALLY closely you can see them in this picture!














This 65-degree autumn day was one of those warm, slightly cool around the edges kind of early fall days - the kind whose memory lingers deep into winter.
I took three stones - I threw one back into the water, put one carefully on the shore and the third I tucked into my pocket. I thought of Nike.

Who Could Ask for Anything More?

2 best buds + 2 Cuban cigars + 2 Bloody Marys + a serene September-eve = Who Could Ask for Anything More?

Muyil On a Summer's Day

There isn't A LOT going on in Muyil on any given summer's day. On our Tuesday visit we found the main street quietly laying in wait for any kind of two- or four-legged pedistrian. or perhaps a small white car. The corner school was busily receiving last minute, end-of-the-summer repairs as its doors would soon be opening for the business of uniformed students. And Michelada's was bustling with activity as captiviated soccer spectators hooped and hollared with each play made by Team Mexico viewed on the 19"-screen TV in the 90+ degree heat. I'm pretty sure we were never noticed as we loitered for but a few mintues looking to see if there might be a morsal for lunch. Three vehicles stopped on this hot summer day (did I mention is was hot?)to lend a hand to a family van (each seat filled) which had found itself inoperable. The boys gathered around, talked and looked and talked and looked for quite some time and I'll never know what came of it. Maybe this was rush hour Quitana Roo-style. The quiet life of the Mexicans in this part of the country is as slow and deliberate as it can be and truly, it seems there's not A LOT to be rushed about...a road to walk, a roof to patch, a game to watch, a car to fix. The simplicity of this life is a settling thing to me.

I bought a dress

Coba is the place to go if you're in the market for a hand-sewn Mayan dress. I went there and this woman sold me a dress. I labored over my decision - I so wanted the one with the salmon and pinkish-orange flowers. Try as I might to make it fit - she was sure it would never and had me enter her home to try it on to prove it to me. She knew her sizes all right and in the end sold a dress with multicolored flowers that I like very much - but haven't developed the love affair I had quickly formed with the one that had the salmon/pinkish-orange flowers.I would have to say that her mother was a very happy lady who spent countless hours on her machine. She laughed out loud at the antics of her grandchildren as they gathered around my camera. There is such beauty in simplicity.This little tart was the feisty sister - she giggled and grabbed and held on tight to me in an effort to have another picture taken - especially one of her doing something silly - like putting a piece of candy in her mouth and having it caught on camera. She was very pleased with herself and may have a future in pictures - but most probably will sit at the same sewing machine as her mother and grandmother to sew beautiful dresses, blouses and bags for her Mayan sisters and customers.

dama de lavandería

Chanchen, Mexico

Sometimes I think about what I may have done had I lived anywhere but here and ended up being anyone other than who I am. I rather doubt this Mayan woman ever shared that thought.

The day was Tuesday, David, Marci and I had traveled south down highway 307 to the Mayan town and ruin of Muyil. At the ruin we inspected the ancient work of proud men, met a collection of disinterested dogs, walked on a well constructed board walk through the jungle, climbed a rather precarious, termite nibbled lookout tower five stories high giving us a panoramic view of the jungle and lagoon around us, found ourselves at the lagoon and chatting with a group of optimistic Mayans hoping to take us on a boat trip across that lagoon - which didn't work outso well for them - and eating a curious piece of fruit that had fallen from a fruit tree. Having satisfied ourselves with that adventure we took up our next - which was to drive down an unknown road (without a map to guide us) to an obscure little town known as Chanchen.
While we had been entertaining ourselves with our eco-friendly tour of the jungle and countryside, the lovely woman in this picture busied herself with her day's work. Being the laundramat, as it were, in the town of Chanchen, she had her work piled high around her - along with her (from what I could count) were 10 family members, assorted dogs and numerous chickens.
The children in the yard couldn't have been more pleased as I asked to take pictures - they giggled and danced about, opening the gate for me and running to get their baby brother for his photo-op.
The house, surrounded by a stone wall, was made of sticks with a tin roof, the floor dirt, the door and windows wide open. A TV was keeping the attention of numerous adults inside as the dama de lavanderia concentrated on making the whites white and the colored tee-shirts as brilliant as possible. She was shy, but tried to smile as she showed me how she performed her skill in the shade of the tree.
She may have never pondered her fate - let alone question it - but I know she knows what tomorrow will bring for her. Her future is secure in this small town of adobe houses, small shops filled with the essentials of water, pop and chips, her Mayan Church in the center of 'town', and the most occasional tourist asking to take a photo of what she does best.

"Where the Sky is Born"

This week in Mexico has been filled with "firsts" for me, but the first of the firsts came on my...first ...day as I went to the place the Mayans call, "where the sky is born"; the Sian Ka'an Biosphere Reserve. That is what this entry is about.

Pirates came by here occasionally looking for treasures of gold and wealth, their desire to become rich kept them from discovering the true treasure of this place and experiencing what makes the people of Quintana Roo proud. In a beautiful way this reminds me of a place our ancestors Adam and Eve were banished from- rich and lush and teeming with life. The good thing is there are no apples, but 528,000 hectors of jungle, 120 kilometers of coral reef, 82 types of coral,and native inhabitants which include 90 species of bees, 103 species of mammals to name just a few. In 1987, Sian Ka'an was awarded a Natural World Heritage award site status. Getting to it was a remarkable experience in itself as we traveled in a SUB-subcompact car passing along the hotel/cabana strip on the sugar-sand coastline, through the limestone archway which marks it's point of origin and down a decomposed limestone road - surely one of the bumpiest roads on the planet - for about a mile and a half.
Once there and with our Mexican guide Miguel in tow (actually I was the one in tow!) I boarded a boat which took me to a land unlike any I have ever seen. The guided tour took me racing through the lagoon and then gingerly into the mangroves where I was told live dolphins, crocodiles, pumas, and 339 kinds of birds such as pelicans, frigate birds, pink spoonbills and white herons - some which I was able to see. Into the mangrove river I traveled, the boat driver - a 70+ year old Mayan who looked strong and leathery and every bit of 70+ yet in confident control - carefully negotiated the tight turns of this original Mayan water trading route. Looking into the deep silent water I could only imagine what must lie beneath and of the ancients who had traveled this route thousands of years before. Reaching the 1/2-way point of our travels the group deboarded onto an old wooden dock, walked down a short trail to a small Mayan temple filled with bats and outfitted with very short (4 1/2 foot) passage ways and were then told to fit ourselves with a life preserver and to "float" down the river; the boats would pick us up---somewhere---down river! This is the first of the firsts for me. Being a non-swimming person and not a real fan of water surrounded by the mangrove world (beautiful as they are) this was asking a lot of me. But, along with the rest of our party of 12, I jumped in and float I did. I tried to be graceful about it. What was in fact graceful was the current that carried me gently down the river past the habitation of the natural residents I never saw but knew were there. Arriving at the boats I boarded with a sign of relief and feeling of accomplishment and off I went down the river into the lagoon past a huge centoe (fresh water underground cave) which found its exit in the middle of the lagoon, under two bridges and to the sea for a look at the entry point to this amazing world before heading back.
Once back at the interpretation center I was greeted with a meal of fresh, local fish, rice, salad, papaya juice topped off with Mexican rum as a prelude to my saying good-bye to the ancient beauty of this mystical place.
I left a piece of paradise behind but took with me a bit of the treasure the pirates of the Caribbean missed in their day. I understand why our passionate guide Miguel loves this place so much and seems to never tire of coming here and sharing his love, respect and volumes of acquired information and tantilizing facts with folks like me from far and near.

There's a First Time for Everything

I swam in a cave - a cenote really. A cave by definition is a hollow in the earth, esp. one more or less opening horizontally into a hill or mountain, etc. A cenote is the same - with a twist. The Yucatan is largely a limestone plateau with only a few hills and even fewer rivers. The fresh water moves underground though caves - these caves have been and are the only source of fresh water to life on land. I think I heard there are hundreds of miles of submerged caves and I swam in one - well I spent time in one. The water is refreshingly cool and the depths extreme. Birds and bats fly in and around and scores of people seeking relief from the sun drenched shores and land flock in and join those birds and bats many hoping to spy curious and unsuspecting sea life. On our day at the cenote my family donned snorkels, face masks and flippers -following my dip - I took a book and hugged the rock ledges. Next time - next time? - I'll take the plunge, stay close to someone who loves me and will go the course. But for now I'm happy to say I swam in a cave - a cenote really - and enjoyed every minute of it.