Lee Quarnstrom, 1939-2021

In 1947 or 1948, Lee Quarnstrom somehow got his hands on one of my leather shoes as we were walking home from school.  He of course threw it into the nearest dense growth of blackberry brambles -- not out of malice, but simply because it seemed on impulse to be the thing to do.  We joked about it for the next seventy-plus years, with never an apology from Lee, despite my explaining how my mother and I had spent an hour among the blackberries, trying to find the errant shoe.

The joking has finally ended, however.  Lee passed away quietly, early yesterday morning, at his home in La Habra, California.   

The obituaries are now appearing.  They'll tell you how Lee was part of that group of followers of author Ken Kesey, called the "Merry Pranksters."  The Pranksters toured the country in a beat up bus, from which came Kesey's cryptic saying, "You're either on the bus or off the bus."  When not bussing the country, they were holed up in  a rustic cabin in the mountains above Santa Cruz, sampling the various drugs that were becoming popular with the sixties generation.  

Lee is credited as one of the originators of Kesey's "Acid Tests," and he readily conceded that, in his day, he had departed on roughly 150 acid trips -- until a final unnerving trip suggested to him that he'd had enough.  The group's experimentation with LSD was the subject of Tom Wolfe's best-selling book, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.  Inescapably, Lee was eventually the victim of a Bay Area drug bust in 1965, along with Kesey and Neal Cassady.

Lee more or less settled down with age, as most of us do, becoming first an executive editor of Larry Flynt's Hustler Magazine, and then -- more prosaically -- an editor and columnist for the San Jose Mercury News. 

In 2014, Lee looked back on his chaotic career in his memoir entitled, When I Was a Dynamiter! Or How a Nice Catholic Boy Became a Merry Prankster, a Pornographer and a Bridegroom Seven Times. His magnum opus not only was a memoir but has already become an original source material for research into the late 1960s sub-culture. The title pretty well sums it all up, although it ignores what became a rather solid and respectable journalistic career, as well as a very close and loving marriage -- yes, his seventh -- to his wife Chris for the last twenty years or so of his life.

It's all there -- in his memoir, in his writings, and in the obituaries that will be forthcoming. But beneath all the sensationalism, all the historical interest, lived a highly intelligent, witty, and thoughtful human being. After being out of touch for decades, Lee and I re-established our friendship at a gathering in our home town in 2008, after which we emailed each other two or more times a week throughout his final thirteen years.

A classmate who had known us both in elementary school commented to me recently that he couldn't imagine a friendship between two more disparate human beings. But I suppose he didn't know either of us well enough.

To me, Lee was never -- and never will be -- simply the wild guy of the legends, although he certainly was that, too. He and I were best friends from first grade through sixth grade, when his family moved back to the Washington, D.C., area. And we renewed our friendship each summer for another three years when he returned -- either with his family for the summer, or for a stay at my own family's house. When I was 14, I memorably traveled alone by train to his new home in a north Chicago suburb for a three-week visit -- the first blossoming, perhaps, of my lifetime love of travel.

During those years, through ninth grade, we spent hours poring over our stamp collections, sorting through our piles of comic books, playing lengthy and complex variations of Monopoly (did we invent hedge funds? I'm not sure), and talking endlessly about politics, philosophy, religion, and our dreams for the future. And joking hysterically about everything, as only kids of that age can.

As I've mentioned in an earlier post, we seemed to live in each other's houses and shared each other's families. He was one person around whom I never felt any social discomfort. I could discuss any subject with him, argue any point of view, indulge in any fantasy -- as could he with me -- without worrying that I sounded crazy or "weird" or uncool. We rarely reached rational conclusions, eventually piling onto our arguments increasingly baroque embellishments that led us both into some crazy joint fantasy.

Meeting him sixty years later -- after all his acid trips, journalism awards, successful career moves, and numerous marriages -- we found that little had changed. Our conversations took off from where they had trailed off, back when we were a couple of 15-year-olds.

Lee will be justifiably praised and celebrated for his amazing life. I remember him best, however, as the close boyhood friend who -- I'm convinced -- cheated routinely at Monopoly.

And we never found that damn shoe!  Never mind, Lee.  Keep it to remember me by, buddy.

Grabbing that booster

Tomorrow morning, I'm scheduled to get my Pfizer booster shot at a local pharmacy.  It's been about 7½ months since I received my second shot, and I'm relieved to be able to get the booster at this time.

I'm convinced that the Pfizer vaccine itself is safe, and I've seen no evidence or suggestion that receiving it as a booster makes it less safe.  I'm less sure of the efficacy or need for a booster -- studies seem to go both ways -- but if it's safe and if it may possibly strengthen and prolong my immunity, I'm all for it.

Looking at boosters from a global standpoint, on the other hand, I certainly admit that there are ethical and epidemiological reasons to question giving any priority to booster shots.  There's a shortage of vaccine worldwide, and, in terms of ending the pandemic, I agree that giving the basic two shots to as many people as possible is more important than giving a booster to a guy who wants to be safe not only from death or serious illness, but from any illness at all -- and even from symptom-free infection.

But in this country, we have accumulated more vaccine than we can use, because of the incredible recalcitrance of a large percentage of our population.  We are donating some of that excess to countries that want it and can use it, but we need to keep a certain excess on hand to meet unpredictable demand.  But the vaccine has a fairly short shelf-life, and if not used within that period has to be discarded.

My own physician discussed the issue with me a month ago, during my annual physical.  He disagreed with the national policy of giving booster shots at this time, but -- on the personal level -- recommended that I get the shot if I had the opportunity.  The vaccine I receive wouldn't have been shipped overseas if I didn't receive it, he pointed out.  It would be trashed.

Kant's categorical imperative might suggest to me that this argument is rather self-serving.  What would be the effect on the world if every eligible American grabbed for the vaccine as a booster, as I'm doing?  

I'll mull that troubling question over later -- like after I get my shot tomorrow. 

Symphony in a time of pandemic

Despite having maintained my subscription each season, last night was the first time I'd attended the Seattle Symphony since February 2020 -- just before the Covid-19 pandemic reached Seattle via China and Italy.  The music, as always, was excellent.  But some things had changed.

Benaroya Hall has a number of food and drink establishments on the street floor, open to the public, before one enters the auditorium proper -- excellent places for a last minute cup of coffee to keep one awake past 8 o'clock.  These were all closed, and the hall which they line was dimmed.  Instead, I found something analogous to TSA checkpoints at the airport.  I was required to show my proof of vaccination and a matching proof of identity (driver's license).  Also, one could pass no farther without wearing a mask.  Which everyone of course was doing -- classical music fans, at least in the Northwest Corner, don't tend to be anti-mask rebels.

Ticket purchasers were also required to sign a waiver of liability at the time of purchase, although I don't recall that being a requirement last winter when I paid for my own season's ticket.  

Having survived this novel -- but reassuring -- set of requirements, we proceeded further to the auditorium lobby entrance, where we presented our tickets.  Also new this time, although unrelated to the pandemic, was our ability to avoid using paper tickets, and instead use an iPhone app to present a QR code.  A minor change, important only to people like me who also became ecstatic at being able to order Starbucks coffee on an app.

The program?  Interesting, but not one of my all time favorites.  It began with a contemporary work by Natalie Dietterich entitled (in all lower case) aeolian dust.  The music was atonal, but oddly soothing.  The composer described the work:

The idea of aeolian, or atmospheric, dust could be considered an analog to the passage of time within a world where unrelated events coexist and have potential to become something bigger than itself, or perhaps simply occupy a space together with nothing to bridge them but the moment in which they occur.

Maybe.  If one concentrates enough.  In any event, the work elicited some odd sounds from the full orchestra, sounds that I didn't realize were possible.  The composer was in the audience and came to the stage and took a bow at the conclusion.  I'd like to hear more of her work.

The second number was Ives's Three Pieces in New England, (1931), also atonal at times but at other times a rambunctious interpretation of various patriotic songs from the Civil War period.  The three movements are programmatic, and reading the composer's intent in composing each movement was helpful to appreciating the work as a whole.

After the intermission came the major work of the night, Schumann's familiar Third ("Rhenish") Symphony.  A crowd-pleaser that brought the audience to its feet at the conclusion.

It was a small audience, however.  The lobby -- usually packed during intermission -- seemed oddly spacious and quiet last night.  I looked over the crowd after most of us had returned to our seats, and estimated that the auditorium -- usually at or near capacity for a Saturday night performance -- was more like twenty or thirty percent full.

I think we're all still adjusting to being comfortable in large crowds.  Even the Mariners games drew sparser than average crowds, and they were held outdoors.  But we're getting there.  My next ticket is for November 6, featuring Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto.  I suspect Pyotr's warhorse will draw a larger crowd.  

Happy days at Lake Como

"Wow, isn't it dangerous traveling to Europe during the pandemic?"

This was the response given by most people -- explicitly, or by facial expression -- when I told them about my impending trip to Italy's Lake Como.  It's a fair question, and a question that each person must answer for himself, based on his own reading of the evidence and -- especially -- his own tolerance for risk.

But I was convinced -- am convinced -- that travel to Italy is safe and reasonable.  The flight over?  Italy requires full immunization and negative Covid-19 test results, requirements enforced by the airlines.  And the U.S. also requires all passengers to be masked.  While in Italy?  Italy is now experiencing 6.9 cases per day per 100,000 population, down from 10 cases before I left for Italy.  America continues hovering in the 45 to 50 case range.  Even King County, including Seattle where I live, is experiencing 25 cases.

And there is the matter of national culture.  Italy's population is 66 percent vaccinated, compared with 55 percent in the U.S.  Italians treat masks as just another item of clothing, not a political statement.  Everyone is masked in stores, hotels, and restaurants.  Teenagers and children, less apt to be vaccinated, are commonly masked even outside while playing.  Adults usually mask up in outdoor crowds, and wear their masks on their arms otherwise, ready to be slipped on when entering a building.  Sanitizing of hands is emphasized far more than here, with hand sanitizer dispensers available everywhere.

Draw your own conclusion about the relative safety of the two nations.  I've drawn mine.

But let's talk about the trip itself.

I flew to Rome on September 8, where I spent a couple of days re-exploring some of my favorite places -- the area around Santa Maria Maggiore (where my entire family had stayed during a visit in 2001), the Borghese gardens, the Spanish steps, and, especially, the narrow, twisting streets of the Campo Marzio.  I left Rome early on Saturday, September 11, by high speed train to Milan, where I met up with my sister and our cousin.  

We had planned to rent a car in Milan, and drive that afternoon to our rental house on Lake Como.  Unfortunately, your correspondent managed to destroy the vehicle before getting it out of the parking garage -- the details reflect poorly on said correspondent, and will not be provided herein -- and so we stayed a night in Milan.  We left Milan early on Sunday for Como (city) by train, where we caught a ferry for the 2½-hour ride to Menaggio on Lake Como's west shoreline, some half way up its length.

The manager of our rental sent a taxi to Menaggio, which carried us another three or four miles northward to the village of Rezzonico, where we were escorted on foot through twisting cobblestone streets and steep stairways to what was to be our lakeside home for the week.

The ancient streets and houses of Rezzonico were apparently once included within the walls of the Castle of Rezzonico, built by the Counts Della Torre in 1363.  (The descendants of the Della Torre have been illustrious, including Pope John XXIII.)   The castle towers remain, rising high above the town, and are occupied by their owners.   The town is extremely picturesque, with narrow, cobble-stone streets winding up and down the hillside.

Our house was equally picturesque, with views of the lake from every window, balcony, and porch area.  Built into the hillside, its four floors contained three bedrooms, one of which had a loft with additional beds.

Not having a car proved highly beneficial, forcing us to master the lake's excellent bus and ferry services.  Rezzonico has a small convenience store, but the nearest supermarket was located back in Menaggio, and we made frequent use of the bus between the two towns.  (Menaggio also had excellent gelaterias, which proved a major attraction to our group.)

Much of our time was spent in our house, preparing meals and staring at the changing moods and colors of the lake.  But we also did a six-hour, 8½-mile hike from Menaggio up into the steep hills behind the town.  Part of the trail was a rugged and somewhat precarious climb, but other parts were strolls through small villages and farmlands.  We also spent one day taking the ferry across the lake to Bellagio, a hot spot for wealthy residents and visitors.  (No, as we have replied to many inquiries -- we did not meet George Clooney.)  From Bellagio, we ferried to  the pretty shoreside village of Varenna, which we all agreed was -- after our own Rezzonico -- our favorite town on the lake (not that we came close to visiting them all.

Our last full day, we took a ferry from Menaggio to the far end of the lake at Colico.  As you travel northward from Menaggio, the lake becomes less and less intensely populated and visited by tourists, and we did little in Colico aside from eating lunch.  But the scenery en route -- as the lake increasingly digs its way into the Alps -- was well worth the trip.  We returned to Menaggio by hydrofoil.

I felt sad leaving Rezzonico, and hope to return to the same house some future summer.  We returned to Como by ferry, and by train to Milan where we spent one final night together before I flew home.  My two companions planned to spend several more days in Italy after I left.

This was my first visit to the Italian lakes, and I was impressed.  A beautiful area, no doubt improved by visiting during September rather than at the peak of the tourist season, and at a time when the pandemic limited the number of foreign visitors.

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Photo No. 1 (top) -- View of Lake Como from one of our several porches

Photo No. 2 -- Rezzonico Castle towers

Photo No. 3 -- View from my bedroom window

Photo No. 4 -- A street in Rezzonico

Photo No. 5 -- Hiking above Menaggio

Lago di Como

After 1,431 posts, I suppose you have to expect a certain amount of duplication.  Certain repeated themes whose posts all sound a bit the same.  One such theme is the "Soon I leave on my trip" theme.

You know what, though?  It's my blog, and I'll repeat if I want to.  Sometimes I just want to note an occasion to prompt future memories, not entertain you, my faithful readers.

So, yeah.  Wednesday, finally, I leave for Italy.  My flight to Dallas-Fort Worth leaves at 7:30 a.m., meaning I pretty much have to Uber myself to the airport at about 4 a.m.  Three hours in advance has always been recommended for international flights, but especially now when so many requirements for the flight have to be documented and verified.

Yes, I have had my vaccinations, and here is my white CDC card.  Yes, I've had my COVID-19 test (today, in fact), and it was negative; here is the lab report.  Yes, I have submitted my Passenger Locator Form, and here is the computer print-out acknowledging receipt by the Italian government. 

There are bound to be folks ahead of me in line at check-in who are horrified to discover that they are missing one or more of these documents -- as sure as there are folks ahead of you at Starbucks who can't decide whether to add caramel to their Frappuccino.   Hence, the three-hour lead time.

I haven't begun to pack, but I have drawn up a packing list.  Apparently, the list suggests, I'm moving to Italy for a year or so.  My sister advises me she is taking a dress (probably unneeded) and a pair of jeans.  My cousin is bringing a small carry-on bag, and all her clothes will be black.  We do have a washer and dryer in our rental -- I really don't need to bring a fresh ensemble for every day of the trip.  I recall my days of backpacking throughout Europe lugging a mammoth backpack; I should have learned my lesson.

My flight to DFW lasts four hours.  I have slightly over an hour to regain my poise in the airport, before leaving for Rome, a ten-hour flight.  I arrive in Rome bright and early in the morning, at 8 a.m.  Which of course is 11 p.m. and time for bed in Seattle.  My hotel has a check-in time of 2 p.m., which means a few hours of walking around the Eternal City in something of a sleep-deprived daze, melting in the Roman late-summer heat.  But I've done all that before -- and fortunately, hotels always allow early arrivals to check their bags until check-in time.

So I have most of Thursday and all of Friday to re-acquaint myself with the wonders and beauties of Rome -- I was last there two summers ago -- before taking an early morning three-hour train ride from Rome to Milan on Saturday.  My sister and cousin will have left San Francisco at about the same time I left Seattle, and will have been familiarizing themselves with the sights of Milan.  We will meet at their Milan hotel, a block from the train station, after which I'll secure my rental car, and the fun begins.

The initial fun will be trying to get out of Milan's crowded maze of streets, aided by my iPhone's GPS.  But the more substantive fun will be the drive to Menaggio on the western shore of Lake Como (henceforth, Lago di Como), and then proceeding three miles farther to the small village of Rezzonico.  Rezzonico, where our rental house awaits us --  three stories high, and overlooking the lake.

But I can say no more.  Once we arrive at our rented house, there is no further advance itinerary.  The itinerary will evolve over the coming seven days as our moods and interests dictate.  Hint -- for my own part, my moods and interests will dictate a couple days of lake exploration by the excellent village-to-village ferry system and at least one day hiking into the hills above the lake.  Our plans will be determined partly, however, by the weather: at present, there is a 50 to 60 percent chance of rain for at least four of the days we'll have our rental.  

Seven days of playing countless games of "Sorry!" as the rain pounds on the window panes?  Hopefully not.   

But all will be made clear, grasshoppers, upon my return.  Maybe even with some cool photos.  

Ciao, e fate i bravi!

Rachel Lake

Rachel Lake has to be one of the most beautiful lakes in the Northwest.  Either that, or fatigue was causing me to hallucinate the lake's virtues yesterday, as my friend Pat M. and I sat on a rocky plateau a few feet above lake level, eating lunch and taking in the view of the lake and the surrounding mountains.

The turn-off to the lake is on the east side of Snoqualmie Pass, not far beyond the Hyak ski area.  There's a bit of a drive in from the I-90 Kachess Lake exit, first on paved road and then on well-maintained gravel.  Once on gravel, there's a rather odd intersection with a number of Forest Service signs, none of which indicate the proper direction -- take the road to the right, which leads to the trailhead and a parking lot.

The trail is pleasant for some distance.  Pat and I naively remarked on how more trails should be so easy to hike.  And then it began -- long rocky patches, often steep, which made footing tricky.  When the trail wasn't rocky, it was often a mass of tree roots which had to be maneuvered through -- often threatening to grab your foot, especially as you were coming back down. 

On-line articles describe the trail as "heavily-trafficked," but on this first day of September we encountered only two other parties going up, and a few more coming back down.  Hikers may be hiked out by now, and are already looking forward to skiing.

I can offer no real advice on negotiating the difficulties of the trail, except to urge you to persevere.  The lake is large, a deep blue, and is surrounded by impressive peaks.  In most part of the country, you'd expect to hear the whine of motor boats, but Rachel Lake is well within the Alpine Lakes Wilderness Area (self-register at the beginning of the trail).  It's definitely doable as a day hike, but we saw at least one tent on the lakeshore.  

Another mile up the trail leads to Ramparts Lake, which would be fun if you still had the energy.  A good reason to camp at the lake, if you have the time.  The lake is  large enough to make a circumnavigation an interesting possibility, although the opposite shore, in places, presents a rocky cliff leading right down to lake level.  Some high level hiking would be required to work around those cliff areas.

The round trip to Rachel Lake is 8.2 miles.  The elevation gain is only about 1,600 feet, but it took us three hours to climb up, and 2 hours, 50 minutes to hike back down.  Those times reflect the difficulty and roughness of much of the trail.

But you finish the hike not only with good pictures imprinted on both your camera  and your brain, but a sense of exhausted accomplishment.