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Waking Up in Kona

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Sliding open wooden blinds to see what morning has brought 2,000 miles away and on an island in the Pacific.

Beginning of sunrise over lush mountainside, about to fill a thin slice of clear space between the mountain and cloud bank. Humid, warmth on skin previously covered by winter layers on the mainland’s Pacific Northwest.

Spot on small beach, calm salt water lagoon as my nature TV. Waves crashing over outer reef, water trickling over pond rocks. Three palm trees frame my view to the right, over lagoon. Blue sky, puffy clouds. Sun escapes its cloud lock, warms my skin to the bone. I turn my face to it like a sunflower and soak it in.

Breeze off Pacific picks up, palm frond leaves dancing like the chords inside an open-face piano. They all lean left, into direction of the wind, which will pick up later.

Breathe in air. Dry, but humid at same time. Clouds gentle, floating past the palms, collecting with fellow puffs under sun, drawn to the greater cluster inland.

Sand soft and fine, rocks and coral broken down to tiny pebbles and chunks. Lagoon’s resident fish a few Moorish idols, butterfly fish, an eel. Smaller fish darting between rocks. Tide comes in, turtles with it. Coming to feed, their fins flapping to balance as the waves recede back over reef.

This is why we leave our home nest to establish a temporary one for a week or two so we can take in all that an island has to offer – or just relax on the beach, absorbing as much vitamin D as possible for our serotonin-depleted Pacific Northwest bodies.

Anticipation of a Journey

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The mid-morning top-deck drop off. Excitement looms.

Leaving the post-snow, deep February cold of the early-morning curb, entering warm airport. Swaths of people cross our path, toting bags, checking in. Energy, pace and stress level picking up, heading to security checkpoint along with the masses.

The dance of piano keys, live music greeting on other side. Soothing for a busy airport, sending travelers to other cities, states and countries.

Pianist hands off to cellist further down the concourse. Local artist playing hand-made small cello he calls his travel version. Travelers dash by, heeding gate calls. As we plop our bags, look for outlets and settle into our boarding area we listen to his deep, soulful sounds filling the air, his bow mesmerizing as it effortlessly glides across the cello’s strings.

People filtering into gate waiting area, some with kids, retirees. All gathering in this spot – this waiting area – all of us with hopes of leaving dreary cloud-covered Portland for the sun-filled Big Island in the Hawaiian Island chain.

Hundreds of disparate lives coming together to be squeezed in a pressurized tube that will take us more than five hours and two thousand miles over the Pacific Ocean to our island destination – for sun, beach, R&R, away from to-do lists and daily responsibilities. To wear shorts, tank tops and sandals. Swimsuits and snorkel gear. For time to slow down. To wander. To explore.

Pilot strolls by, coffee in hand, heading to settle into cockpit, complete flight check. Woman walks by, tiny, shaggy black dog head popping out of dark bag.

Passenger list filled, we board and take our spaces for the next five hours, me in my favorite window seat with my partner taking it for the team in the middle seat. We hope for a nice seatmate – one that is friendly but doesn’t chat too much or take over the conversation. It can be a long, exhausting flight with the latter.

We luck out and become part of a female threesome, and post wheels-up share our travels and stories of places we’ve loved visiting. We even coordinate our bathroom run, all filtering back into our respective seats and high-fiving at the efficiency.

30,000 feet up
There’s something about being 30,000 feet in the air that soothes me, plucks me out of my daily life to a place I can think, imagine. There’s less worry of daily life stress up here – it’s like we’re suspended above the clouds, above and beyond time.

I feel lucky to live I a time in history when an airplane is like a bus in the sky, taking you to the next city, the next state or other countries. Your cash is your ticket to the world, to experiences and discovery. New places, different languages and cultures.

This is what we work for, to be up here transiting at hundreds of miles per hour to a destination far from our home.

Anticipation of Snow Day

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Temperature dropping, into range. Weather forecasts come to forefront. De-icing trucks already on routes overnight.

White sky, first small flakes barely noticeable until crossing dark backgrounds of rooftops, houses and buildings.

Peaceful, falling from the sky, then sideways with the breeze. Original creations – water molecules creating jagged edges of fluffy imperfection. All is quiet.

Light Dusting. Pavement still visible, if just for moments. Snowflakes joining forces, building in size. Snowfall picking up speed. Wonder, hope it will stick.

Snow zone temperature holding. Sand, salt trucks out keeping travel paths open, safe.

Millions of flakes accumulating to fluffy, untouched white velvet covering the ground, walkways and sidewalks. Weighing down Japanese Maple and pine tree branches, sticking to bamboo leaves and layering on parked cars.

Spiritual, touching, magical. Nature encouraging us to slow down, to notice. To not work so hard. To play.

Day’s meetings cancelled or rescheduled. Schools out. Adaptation to our white precipitation challenging transportation, plans, safety. Getting home to family, warmth of fireplace.

Montana, Northern California’s Lake Tahoe – New England – they just keep on going. Portland slows down, grinds to a halt. We have barely half the heavy snow equipment of those location – if that. The rare snow, even the forecasted 3-7 inches will keep schools closed, people home, companies shut down, public transportation challenged.

Nature getting its way. Put on soothing music and write. Appreciate just being in the moment and part of today’s nature.

Mt. Hood Snowshoe

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With such a non-spectacular winter thus far in Oregon’s Cascades, when I saw it snowed most of the week and another five inches were expected overnight, I quickly cleared my schedule and packed up my snowshoes, dog and gear to head up to the White River West Sno-Park in Mt. Hood National Forest.

It’s one of my favorite spots on the south mountain – wide open hiking next to a rushing river that flows right from Mt. Hood’s glaciers just above. At around 4,200 feet at the beginning my first breath of fresh mountain air seems heavy coming from sea level Portland, but the view quickly makes me giddy and ready to hike. Bezoar quickly interrupts, he’s barking for me to throw him snowballs.

This sno-park is usually one of the busiest on the mountain, sprouting kids with sleds on hills of various vertical angles, but it’s a weekday and we’re one of only four cars in the huge lot.

And what a treat, today’s visibility shifts from exposed mountain views to near whiteout snowfall – the mountain showing its own variable weather system. We’re following a few snowshoe tracks as we ascend from open space to the trees, winding up toward Timberline lodge. We pass the trackmakers, a retired couple having lunch near an outcrop during a sunburst. Bezoar has already sniffed out the woman’s chicken sandwich. I’m so lucky he’s not a food hound, he’s already back on trail heading higher.

About 1.5 miles up, we get to a huge hill where the tracks stop. We tromp around, sinking almost waist high in the new powder. That’s enough uphill for today. We’re at around 4,800 feet now and the exertion is tiring even if you’re in shape – the fresh air, altitude and incredible mountain view soothing my soul. I feel lucky to be able to reach such beauty within 1 1/2 hours from Portland.

Bezoar again interrupts this thought, deciding he wants more snowballs – actually he’s been wanting it all the way up but I have to ignore him or he strategically places himself in the middle of the trail so you either trip on him or push him out of the way. I throw handfuls of snow in his face – he loves that, trying to catch a bunch until his face is nearly white. He’d do this all day.

The way back we find more tracks through the trees, closer to the hillside and away from the river. Snow covered trees with fresh powder. It’s quiet away from the raging river and I hear only my snowshoes clomping down the trail. Bezoar has finally tired and stays close on my tail – literally he’s stepping on the tails of my snowshoes. I’ve already face planted once. He licks my face, concerned, but continues to trail me close all the way back.

He immediately falls asleep on his bed once the car shuts and we’re heading back to the city.

Suttle Lake Hike & Ice Flow

It’s foggy in Sisters, but again no snow on this visit so we’re on the way to another hiking trail. This one, further up the pass than yesterday’s Metolius River hike, is a quick 3-plus mile jaunt around Suttle Lake, just five miles below Santiam Pass and 13 miles west of Sisters.

It’s a beautiful gem of a place in the Deschutes National Forest that we’ve stayed and hiked before during other snow-less or low-snow trips. Today, we again feel lucky to live near Oregon’s Cascade Mountain range as we break through the fog to blue sky and pull into the lodge parking lot and head quickly to the black cinder beach.

The lake appears frozen in places, but clear under a thin layer of ice as we begin our hike on the sunny side trail. A snow-capped jagged mountain peeks out in the distance as we make our way on a well-worn trail through the pines – Ponderosa, Lodgepole, and more.

Soon, the sound of shattering glass cuts through the silence. The highway is above us on this northern side of the lake so my senses are alert.

But it’s not coming from above.

We come upon ice clusters on the shore and look just offshore to see a downed tree, branches pulling back, then popping forward. At first, we think it’s an ice-trapped fish running like when you just hook it on your line. Or maybe the work of a beaver, or two, harvesting the limbs for a dam that appears to be nearby. See what we saw below.

Then we realize it’s the lake’s current sliding ice sheets under the tree, the limbs reacting to the force as if it’s alive. We’re in awe of this simple act of nature – in all of our hiking and outdoors years we’ve never seen this before, and our timing to catch this is perfect as the sun heats up the ice and other hikers begin joining us on the trail.

We decide to double back once reaching the western side of the lake to stay in the sun and the ice marvel is over – the lake water free of its ice shield like it never happened.

Central Oregon’s Metolius River Beauty

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It’s January but it feels like spring as we reach the trailhead for Central Oregon’s Metolius River. We venture to Sisters each MLK holiday weekend usually for the dry snow and endless snowshoeing trails with our dog. On this day we have complete sun and fairly dry conditions, so we travel up highway 20, head east past Camp Sherman until we hit the fish hatchery.

As soon as we open the car doors, the sound of water roaring fills our ears and we take in the view. Tall pine trees and glacial blue water. We came here because a recent trip to New Zealand made us doubly appreciate our own state – we are so lucky to have a crystal-clear river and riverside hiking within several hours of Portland – and this is just one of thousands of beautiful rivers in Central Oregon.

We head upriver, dew droplets still in tree branches, sun filtering through huge pines. In some places the river hits series of rocks, crashing over and forcing upwells on the other side. Downed trees and mini island debris create obstacles and water parts ways, then coming back together.

In sections the roar subsides and the water is coasting – slowing until the next rapids force it to pick up speed, choosing a direction at a junction of logs downstream. A recent windstorm tore bunches of fresh pine needles to the ground, fresh bright green moss from tree trunks. Drying needles from previous storms crunch softly under our feet.

Fly fishermen and women are up ahead, casting over a deep, ultra-clear turquoise pool where the water seems to just float by. The sun hits this spot perfectly and it’s like a scene from a River Runs Through it.

Appreciating the moment and feeling lucky for this day and this place, we continue on.

Reflections on New Zealand Journey

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It’s our last few hours in our campervan after a 10-day journey around New Zealand’s South Island. We only missed two sections – Marlborough – famous for its Sauvignon Blanc wines, Abel Tasman and Nelson Lakes National Parks; and the scenic East Coast with its famous Moeraki Boulders and sea life. I make notes for our next visit, which of course we’ll add to our always-growing travel list. Continue reading Reflections on New Zealand Journey

New Zealand’s Castle Hill

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After a quiet and restful night at Jackson’s Retreat, we’re nearly the last campervan to leave the holiday park this morning. It’s a bit sad, it’s our last campervan day in New Zealand’s South Island before we check in the van back in Christchurch and have our last night in the city.

But it’s another beautiful, sunny and hot day so we “break camp” as we call it and follow our host’s suggestion to hike Castle Hill – a huge cluster of limestone rocks further down Arthur’s Pass toward Christchurch. If you’re a Lord of the Rings movie fan, you may recognize these as we did once we belatedly caught up on the trilogy. I’m pretty sure a trekking scene passed right through here – and we see why once we’re hiking among the giant boulders. There’s just something about being up close to such geologic magic – something that has been here for eons. I feel this way hiking in old-growth forests too – a sense of permanence. Continue reading New Zealand’s Castle Hill

New Zealand’s Arthur’s Pass

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It’s day 9 of our campervan trip on New Zealand’s South Island and today is our last 24 hours of our van journey. We’re leaving the teal blue Tasman Sea waters of the West Coast and headed inland, toward Arthur’s Pass National Park.

We backtrack from Punakaiki and the Pancake Rocks south to the turnoff in Kumara Junction and head into the mountains on highway 73. Like much of our trip, we could spend more days out here exploring the many hiking trails, many with above-treetop views of the snow-covered Southern Alps.

We opt for a fairly easy hike to a gorgeous waterfall, then head to Arthur’s Pass Village for a relaxing lunch and to try yet another New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc on a sunny restaurant deck. After, we try another short hike then head to our space for the night – Jackson’s Retreat Holiday Park.

The couple who runs the place toured the world by sailboat before buying and running the park, which sports a few cute ADU-type cabins, nicely-spaced plug-in campervan spots and open, grassy camping areas. Like the other holiday parks we’ve visited in New Zealand, it sports nice and clean shower facilities, a comfortable cooking and eating area and some supplies you’ll need on your journey far away from cities and stores. They even have a few glow worm dells you can visit at night and a hike to a waterfall.

Set on 15 acres in a soothing valley rainforest, with views of the Alps and Taramaku River, this was no doubt our favorite spot of the trip. And, we’ve got wine to finish off with our camper-cooked sunset dinner, so we enjoy the last evening with the campervan just hanging out in our little grassy area picnic table.

New Zealand West Coast Sun Days

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After a long drive up the coast yesterday and checking out Hokitika last night we decide we’re enjoying the sunny West Coast and drive further up north than I had originally mapped out.

Further up the road is Pancake Rocks, in Punakaiki, and Paparoa National Park. We’re enjoying taking our time, windows rolled down, pulling over for snapshots of the glistening Tasman Sea from various cliff spots.

Then we them – the grouping of rocks at Dolomite Pointe where weathering has carved the limestone into layers, so they look like stacks of pancakes. We read this is through a process called stylobedding, and it’s yet another aspect of nature we’ve not seen before.

Our arrival coincides with low tide, so along the short viewing path we don’t see the blowholes this area is also know for during high tide and storms, but we’re ok with that – we’ve been lucky to seen dramatic blowholes on the Big Island of Hawaii and back home on the Oregon and California Coasts.

Our faces in the sun, we enjoy the rock geology and vegetation growing from the cliff and appreciate the last few days we have on our journey.