Whittoons

We traveled East for family – to pay our respects to a cousin whose big heart gave out on him and to get acquainted with a new generation of family members. We honored family past and future.

Bookings were a challenge yet we managed to find a few places. The rather high prices must be written off as an investment in our mental health. This was our first trip that included air travel and mixing with strangers on a regular basis so we needed a safe retreat at the end of the day.

Michele found this Beach Cottage gem before all rooms were booked in the region. (Everyone was finally having the weddings that they postponed during COVID.) The architectural style is classic Cape Cod. Weathered wood shingles are mandatory to achieve the look. Our space in Scituate Mass was just a block from the working waterfront and a unique coffee/breakfast-lunch spot Lucky Finn’s. Beyond the one working dock was a vast fleet of pleasure craft moored in the harbor aligned with the ocean breeze like so many seagulls on a beach facing into the wind. Tanned, privileged children, schooled in yachting and teeing off the front nine, paraded or posed along Front Street. And tourists were also sampling the life, e.g. lobster rolls at $40. They were packed in the bars and restaurants as if there was no tomorrow. (With the delta variant drifting in the breeze, maybe that is the case for some anti-vaxxers.)

The memorial service for my cousin Peter brought back memories from when my brother and Peter and his brother, Jamie, were all at college together during the Vietnam war. Protests were erupting on campuses everywhere. As a senior in a New York high school, I had commuted to school on the IRT. Early mornings in the spring of 1968, I walked under the SDS protesters led by Mark Rudd who were hanging out of windows in an occupied Columbia University building. I clutched my book bag and diligently passed by to the subway, my steps in rhythm with the cadence of angry chants. At college the next year, my cousins occupied the Administration building and I was amazed. This is what direct action meant. Engaged in the protests, I took their examples to heart and eventually became a community organizer in Seattle. Power to the People!

Brilliant Peter mellowed with age after taking some challenging paths, and became a closet Buddhist striving to help countless people on the street and crippled by addiction. After the service, and leaving Peter’s house filled with all things eclectic, a woman with tattoos on both arms jumped out of a passing van and clutched my sister, and sobbed. My sister had been gifted Peter’s walking stick and the woman recognized it. She credited Peter with saving her life. Good on Ya, Mate!

A Lions Club Fair had taken over a section of the waterfront. Each night we were treated to fireworks, which we took to be a celebration of our break-out from COVID solitary confinement and a send off for Peter.

Our next refuge was to be the Willard Inn in Burlington Vermont. I had booked the only room for miles, and did not realize the one room available had a grand bay window and view of Lake Champlain. Breakfasts are included and they were extraordinary. Presented in baskets to take to the conservatory or your room, the selection provided over the week included French toast and pancakes with a variety of ingredients and toppings, and various egg and mash blends plus muffins/scones, fruit juice, fruit and fresh coffee. Granola was available but with these options, I had to go for something to pour Vermont Maple Syrup over.

For a little bite of French culture, we returned to Leunig’s Bistro on Church Street. This spot is just a block from City Hall where Bernie held office for a few years prior to heading to Washington, D.C. Waiters wore black vests and long white aprons. A nice touch for pseudo-authenticity. People promenade on the boulevard, as well as a few very well groomed golden retrievers. What else would you expect in New England?

Joining a niece and her family for an outdoor concert in Shelburne, I indulged in two ice cream orders from the Sisters of Anarchy food truck. This was bliss. Classic rock and roll was belted out across the soccer field by grey haired musicians. Besides the amps on stage, I wonder if they bring along defibrillators. As I sang along (sotto voce so as not to embarrass anyone) with the rockers , my grand niece climbed into my lap and just stared with her blue eyes at this living breathing anachronism.

Shelburne offers other attractions including the Shelburne Museum. This is not to be missed. So you might ask, what’s too see in some musty old buildings? Plenty.

In one building, an entire NYC apartment was transported and installed complete with wood paneling and impressionist paintings. Beside Monet and Degas, they have examples of work by Grandma Moses, Andrew Wyeth and wildlife artist Carl Rungius in another building. Now this was all taken in before walking around with our grand nieces…and they had other priorities.

Our last retreat was the One of a King B&B where I had stayed six years ago in order to attend the wedding of one niece. Only one night was available and that is a good thing, since prices had gone up since the last time.

The family reunion was much needed after so much time apart. We drove my sister to the airport in Lebanon. I was a bit reluctant since the last time she was in our rental car on another trip from Maine to Vermont, a deer grazed our fender and she screamed and blamed herself for not chanting a mantra that protects animals. Each to their own belief system.

We headed for Boston…where our plane caught on fire…in the luggage compartment while still waiting for boarding. Jet Blue found another plane within an hour (with better entertainment system) and we were off. I don’t drink on planes…but I watched three movies to distract myself.

For a Seattle urbanist, wide open spaces can be intimidating. Yet I was drawn to the Palouse with its sensuous undulating hills of golden wheat cut by jagged ravines that reveal eons of history. Farmers thrive here in spite of the isolation, maybe because of it. Thresher machines were moving slowly across the fields, a pale whisp of dust trailing their whirling blades.

Our visit, though brief, was well timed during the harvest. The wheat glowed in the evening light and radiated new warmth with the morning sun. Dayton, near Walla Walla, was our destination and the Weinhard Hotel our retreat. This old brick hotel sits right on the main drag so we made sure to reserve two rooms at the back. Last time we stayed in a beautiful room up front….and heard every truck passing though the night to Lewiston, Idaho. Four poster beds are not everyone’s first choice, yet for us it added a touch of old world comfort.

Who knew that General Mills had a Jolly Green Giant asparagus canning factory here? That is until they moved the whole production to Peru, and left a lot of folks unemployed. The move was encouraged by the US to displace the drug trade, with USAID supporting the development of asparagus production.

The Giant ancient petroglyph is maintained by a few devoted fans but some in the valley would rather wipe the image off the rock face, given how they were screwed by General Mills. At one time up to 1000 migrant workers came up for the sessional production, with their kids enrolling in schools, and the families helping to support the community. Nada now.

Biking up along the local waterway, we noticed pro and con signs regarding the Touchet River Trail. Apparently some land owners are not too keen on those “recreationists” riding through their property between Dayton and Waitsburg. We tried to pedal lightly over the ground.

The Liberty Theater was playing In The Heights. We made it in time for the afternoon matinee. Though under new ownership, this small theater maintains a lovely atmosphere. The ticket taker is also the food vendor, and the show greeter giving her brief review of the movie and announcing family events in the near future. This was our first time attending a show in a movie theater since the start of COVID. Not to worry, all precautions were taken. Seating was spaced out and all wore masks inside.

Now whether the viewers could relate to anything on the screen was another question. Washington Heights in New York City is a world apart from the Palouse. I lived in Manhattan’s upper west side so was somewhat familiar with the landscape and not so disoriented but with all the singing and dancing, it was hard to suspend one’s disbelief.

Two bar/burger joints offered a fair selection for dinner on one night, but we headed into Walla Walla and reserved outdoor seating at Passatempo Taverna owned by Jim German, who used to run a bar in Waitsburg. He set up this restaurant with help from Mike Easton who owns the Corvo restaurant in Seattle. This latter spot was so hard to get into for lunch that I would wait until 15 minutes before closing (@ 3 p.m.), checking from my perch in City Hall to see if the line had dwindled. Pasta was great.

At 99 degrees, the shade of the outdoor dining was appreciated, as well as the mister that cooled the skin. Until they turned it off because most of the mist was drifting inside. It was a relief when they responded to my request to mist us again.

One museum not to miss it the Fort Walla Walla Museum. It is reminiscent of the Shelburne Museum in Vermont, though without the big donors and impressionist artworks. Old buildings have been restored and located together in a village lay-out, with log homes, a jail, tiny school house, doctor’s office and more. The focus in on the settlers, with some indoor displays recognizing the local tribes. But wheat farming is a big element of the displays.

The mules were watching my every move.

We headed to the Palouse Falls through very dry country, hoping no brush fires started along the route. Around Yakima we had just skirted a brush fire along the highway. Smoke tinted the morning sun.

Palouse Falls is spectacular…but my advice is to seek out morning light or perhaps a cool evening visit is more comfortable. It was so hot even the marmots were stretched out on the little shaded ground nearby, looking like mini bear skin rugs in the Palouse dust. One smart marmot was grazing in green grass under the spray of a rotating sprinkler.

Sleeping Lady had beckoned for years yet the timing never was perfect…and getting reservations is a challenge. We lucked out with a chance inquiry recently and managed to land an Alcove room – not one of the bigger spaces but comfortable for two, with an alcove bed suitable for a third person or…for naps for two. Many of the buildings originally housed the Civilian Conservation Corps and were brought up to code when Harriet Bullitt purchased the property.

After selling King Broadcasting, Harriet Bullitt established Sleeping Lady Mountain Retreat in 1995. Ownership was transferred to the Icicle Fund in late 2018 but the atmosphere does not seem to have been altered. The retreat space reminded us of Breitenbush in Oregon. A quiet place for regenerating your spirit.

Supposedly Sleeping Lady was fully booked, but I would never have guessed it given the peaceful aural landscape. No baggage handlers rush out to grab your gear. It is your job to move your luggage, in perfectly balanced carts, to your room.

The cabins are clustered around a rectangular open space with a wide connecting deck of recycled materials. Landscaping at these cabin clusters can vary form wooded to a pool and art sculpture. A bear proof garbage bin reminds you of your location at the edge of wilderness. (Entry to the Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area is just up Icicle River.). Workers were out raking up the pine needles as another reminder of the dangers of this proximity to the wilderness and potential fire catastrophe. Burnt forest can still be seen on some of the nearby hills from recent horrendous conflagrations.

An afternoon walk took us around the grounds (though not all 67 acres), past the dining hall, the bar with fountain cascading in the seating area , the bronze bell with salmon wrapped around the surface in bas relief, the hot pool under renovation, the theater and art school campus. Icicle River surges past below several iconic salmon statues on the property, and then at the bend transitions to a slow zen pace.

We placed a dinner order with O’Grady’s Pantry & Mercantile since the Kingfisher Restaurant and Wine Bar was closed, and sat outside in their patio as we waited…and waited. The kitchen had not received the order. In the cool breeze we managed to hunker down on a sofa yet some guys in shirt sleeves were hoping to find a way to turn on the outdoor heaters…but no luck. Only one person was staffing the bar and she had no clue. The macho men suffered with another beer in hand.

Dinner in chilled hands, we picked up the pace back to our room. The pear pizza with balsamic vinegar was worth the wait.

A full moon was to rise over the ridge, so we pulled up a couple of chairs and sat just below the dazzling Chihuly Icicle. When the moon emerged, it was not Blood Red but still striking in its brilliance.

As we settled in for the night, the overhead fan in the cathedral ceiling would not cooperate. Maintenance arrived and asked ME for the manual on the remote. I did not realize the extent of the self-help approach at Sleeping Lady. I pulled out my Leatherman (the maintenance guy did not come with tools), to help pop the remote. The front desk had no suitable batteries, but our guy located some and sure enough, with renewed energy, the fan cooperated and we could find the quiet we were searching for. Pioneer ingenuity saves us again.

Next morning the staffing had improved at O’Grady’s and we had a bountiful breakfast with heat provided by the morning sun.

Packed up, we headed up Icicle River Road for a short walk across the massive wooden bridge and the trail up to the Alpine Lakes area. When we saw three hikers carrying large backpacks (snowshoes strapped on the sides) bounding down the trail with hiking poles in their hands, we reconsidered moving any higher up the trail.

Up the road, we drove along the surging river. Climbers and kayakers were preparing for expeditions. We tried something more tame and checked out the lupine.

Plain Washington was are next rendezvous point with family for a mini-wedding at the Mountain Springs Lodge. A couple of co-workers owned cabins in Plain, so I had seen FB images of ski retreats, but I had never visited this valley. There is not much to the town of Plain – a small grocery store, one restaurant, and a hardware store that resembled the Mazama store in the Methow Valley, offering Plain arts and crafts Knick-knacks, espresso and baked goods as well as Roller Skis and boots. Yet some expensive real estate peppers the landscape, given the proximity to Lake Wenatchee and Fish Lake.

Some Mountain Springs cabins were having floors redone, so we stayed upstairs where three rooms are located and two nieces stayed in one nearby cabin, while other family members stayed a couple of miles away.

There was some tourist activity. A zip line company used the parking lot as a staging area and a fly fishing tutorial was taking place near a small pond. A sign requested that visitors not feed the fish while the lesson was going on, presumably so that the fish would bite. Not useful to the program if the fish are fat and happy.

During the brief ceremony near another pond, fish were leaping as the master of ceremonies delivered the wedding vows and declared the couple husband and wife. Irrigation sprinklers were watering the fields beyond. The property is still owned by the great grandson of W.W. Burgess who homesteaded here in 1895, after first stopping off at Orcas.

We had the lodge all to ourselves during dinner, and following the cake and a sugar rush, we headed to the room. Punching the remote fire starter and nothing but beeping. Without let up. So much for my fire starting ability. This was my manly job… and I failed. And no way we would get any sleep with the insistent alarm. The only person left in the place was the wedding planner so she got a maintenance guy on face time. The batteries needed to be changed so out came my Leatherman to unscrew the battery pack and cut the duck tape holding the thing together. With new batteries and salvaged duck tape, reassembly and reinstallation was successful. The Leatherman was folded up and we stretched out before the small fire in the huge stone fireplace. Frogs hanging out at the stocked fish pond performed an evening serenade.

OTY: The towboat season was ending, and I was jumping ship to head back to the lower 48. Getting used to the city life would be tough. At least Chicago had a large body of water to gaze across but not much else to compare to the vast wilderness where we had been. Having completed my second job as a deckhand, I was getting enamored with the water world at sea or on rivers. I was in good shape, well fed, and could drive a forklift. I had the skills though they might get a little rusty in the Second City. I was good.

OTA: Our two week river trip was coming to an end in Mandalay. Certainly this visit had been full of privileges that allowed for a comfortable experience in a place going through tremendous trials. And this guided glimpse of Myanmar and the Burmese culture was extraordinary in retrospect given the upheaval now going on in the country. My first visit to Burma as a backpacker in 1973 was too brief (due to visa restrictions). Being able to afford a second visit to this spot and share this with Michele who put up with my mad goal and sustained her strength throughout, this was all good.

For a more detailed exploration of our trip, go to my page: Myanmar aka Burma: On The Ayeyarwady.

OTY: You could catch the scent in the air before coming around the bend and passing by the cliffs. Not a pungent smell, just rich from a dense mulch of decaying matter. As we passed below the cliff face, breathing the air felt like a brief transport to a time 10,000 years ago. The University of Alaska controlled access to the site that held old mammoth bones. Trophy hunters made occasional raids to the site but it was dangerous accessing by small craft. If the cliff sloughed off, the minor tidal wave could take out a little boat. A high price to pay for a chunk of yellowed ivory.

OTA: The carved images of Buddha rested in the side of the cliff. From their individual niches they gazed out on the massive flowing river as if peacefully contemplating the passing of time. We were more than a speck on that river. Our wake washed up on the cliff face. Did we erode their foundation? Our skepticism cast doubt on their intent. When the cliff face sloughed off, the icons would settle to sediment and drift to the Andaman Sea as debris. Who was in danger when the images deteriorated with exposure? Scrutiny of sincerity was inevitable.

OTY: A couple of times we were not welcomed with open arms. Perhaps I was too sensitive to an attitude. Maybe the locals were just tired of waiting for their goods, or the were ticked off that we were the only shipping game around. The kids usually were glad to see us. After all, we were the rare road show coming to town. We did offer daredevil high-plank acts, and rolled out barrels of oil if not fun.

OTA: Our day trips often took us to villages off the typical tourist routes, so we were bound to stick out not just from our clothes but our skin color. Cell phones were popping up in local hands so strange foreigners were probably not a surprise, but a few times the reaction of some folks seemed to indicate a novel moment. One couple was mesmerized by our presence, following us around to catch our every move while Michele bought flowers. We hope they walked away with a favorable impression of these Yankees.

OTY: The Captain let me take the helm for one stretch going around a bend. Given the tremendous tonnage of the cargo and boat, you need to begin a turn much earlier than expected, and move the boat slowly through the curve. The river current makes the effort all the more challenging. The river was powerful but I had large engines to push us through. I did not run us aground, but the responsibility was nerve wracking.

OTA: The Captain of the AMAPura and I had conversations about working on a river, about the hazards of changing river channels and potential run-ins with small boats. When I came up to the bridge, he would offer a chair on the upper deck so I could track our progress. I steered vicariously as we cruised up river. I was the Captain of my fate in my own mind.

OTY: Due to some engine difficulties on another towboat, our boat had to assist. The barge needed to sit out the upstream trip, so two of us were left behind to guard the barge. We relished the hours of just doing nothing. The quiet was overwhelming. On board you get so used to the engine noise, that once removed from the boat you find the silence powerful. I was free to just take in my surroundings and live in the Huck Finn moment on our raft. The vast Alaskan wilderness under the expansive, clear sky provoked more than one thought on my purpose in being. My crewmate suggested I stop mumbling and sleep it off.

OTA: Michele took a day off from visiting the sites. She had the whole upper deck to herself as the Ayeyarwady slipped past. She had time to dream of life without illness and pain, where peace might be just around the bend in the river.

OTY: The river raider was either channeling Queequeg, counting coup or out for an afternoon suicidal joy ride. Steering a Boston Whaler skiff, the guy overtook our towboat and barge and then quite deliberately zoomed under our barge bow in bold defiance of all boating rules and regulations. We held our breath as he disappeared from view, and exhaled with relief when we saw him zip out the other side, creasing the bow wave. Fool or bold warrior, it was not for me to judge. I was in awe of his crazy nerve.

OTA: At times, we were a ship of fools. Sitting through a meal with Trumpian Republicans and listening to the arrogant pontification was a trial by firing line. My fellow voyagers were floating through a world of distress and they did not care. They had received their inoculation of the good life and were immune to the vulnerability of others. I did not have the nerve to debate absurdities and cause a rift among the happy shipmates. In these moments, I could remain sane by recalling the good works of others. My brother had visited Mandalay several times to teach critical thinking to students and teachers. With the present civil unrest in Myanmar, I like to think some of his pupils were joining the protest lines and strategizing on how to achieve a better Myanmar using some of those critical thinking skills.

OTY: The only mutinous behavior I exhibited on our boat was when I refused to descend into the barge jet fuel tanks. My resistance was not from the claustrophobic conditions, since I had tried spelunking once and was not freaked by darkness or narrow passageways. My concern was that the fumes would kill my brain cells. The company equipment looked totally inadequate for the job. The first mate took on the task. He survived the plunge into the fumes, and we kept the air supply plump from failing. He did not fire me for insubordination. I did owe him one.

OTA: Every time our group came back on board, we were greeted by the cruise manager with a squirt of hand sanitizer. This ablution was mandatory. Any grumbling and they probably would have left you on the river banks. Contagion on a ship clearly is a prime concern. (As we know too well during the COVID crisis.) Changing our shoes when we returned from expeditions was another sanitary practice, and the crew was ready to put your feet into those onboard slippers if you were showing any hesitancy. This purification ritual was a cleansing of contamination from the outside world – a bit symbolic of our isolation and detachment from the Burmese people. Reach out but then wipe away the residue.