By Southwest Chief to Chicago

It was a short trip.  Just like last year's train trip on the California Zephyr, only more so.  I walked out my front door at 6 a.m. Monday, and returned by Uber from the airport at about midnight Wednesday.  And in that short interval, I had traveled to Los Angeles, by train to Chicago, and returned to Seattle.

It's like those dreams we sometimes have, where we find ourselves having complex adventures that require a great deal of effort to complete, and then wake up to discover, to our surprise, that we'd been asleep for less than an hour.  Will we wake up someday, and discover that our 80 or 90 years of life on earth had been a dream that occupied but an instant in some different system of time measurement?  

How did the Southwest Chief compare with the California Zephyr?  As I've noted in past posts, the trip from the West Coast to Chicago is nine hours shorter on the Chief.  And the scenery is fascinating, but less breath-taking than the mountain ranges you pass over on the Zephyr.  The short answer to my question is that, if you've taken neither train, you will probably enjoy the Zephyr more.

But what the Chief lacks in mountains, it offers instead in scenic deserts.  Or if not always scenic, at least impressively untouched by signs of human civilization, except when one encounters an occasional interstate highway, a highway whose traffic is almost 90 percent commercial trucks.

Travel in February or March has certain advantages, including the lower Amtrak fares, but winter's primary disadvantage is the far fewer hours of daylight than you will have for sightseeing than you'd have in summer.  We left Los Angeles just before darkness fell, and thereby slept through virtually the entire state of Arizona.  We entered New Mexico just as I was getting dressed and ready for breakfast.  But most of New Mexico was delightfully empty, aside from a stop for a half hour in Albuquerque at about noon.

The meals were quite good, although, subjectively, I felt they had been somewhat better prepared on the Zephyr.  But maybe I'd simply been less jaded on that earlier trip.  Interesting seat companions, including three meals with Amish tourists, many of whom seemed to occupy sleeper accommodations on this train.  I'd never seen anyone before who I identified as Amish, let alone talked to one.  I guess I thought they all traveled using horse and buggies!  The groups I talked with were well-traveled, especially fond of train travel, and sophisticated.  They were excellent dinner companions.

The train leaves New Mexico in the northeast corner of the state when it passes through the Sangre de Cristo mountains, following the old Santa Fe Trail, over Raton Pass (7,834 feet), and into Colorado.  Coming down to the plains once again, the train continues to follow the Santa Fe Trail as darkness once more encroached.  While sleeping peacefully in my roomette, the train hurdled across Kansas, and I didn't awake until we were approaching Kansas City, Missouri.  Kansas City still seemed a long distance from Chicago, but as with the Zephyr last year after leaving Denver, the mountains were all behind us, and the train hurdled across the prairie at maximum speed to Chicago.  

We headed northwest from Kansas City, crossed the Missouri river, and cut across a tiny corner of Iowa, stopping at Fort Madison on the Mississippi at about 10:45 a.m.  We then crossed into Illinois, and spent the last three hours crossing that state to the skyscrapers of Chicago.

By the time I awoke in eastern Kansas, approaching Missouri, we had definitely left the dry plains behind, and were in the world of agriculture -- wheat, corn -- for the remainder of the trip.  Less wildly spectacular scenery, but more interesting human scenery, studying the small towns and residences as we passed by.  At some point in Illinois, the municipalities became less small towns centered on agriculture, and more outer suburbs, often officially named "Villages."  And then, while still admiring the Chicago skyline -- much changed from when I'd visited as a teenager, when the Board of Trade Building had dominated the skies -- we found ourselves plunging into a tunnel leading into Union Station.

And yes, we arrived exactly on time.  In fact, by my watch, two minutes early at 2:48 p.m.

I'd been concerned that I might miss my 6:55 flight back to Seattle; the weather of the past week or so had caused many Southwest Chiefs to arrive late at their destination.  But I had plenty of time to walk two blocks south to the Clinton Street CTA station, take the hour-long transit train ride to O'Hare, and still find myself sitting around for some time waiting for my Alaska Airlines flight to take off.

In science fiction, we often read of people traveling in space ships near the speed of light, and returning a year later only to find all their family and friends to be 20 years older.  Relativity, and all that.  A trip on Amtrak is just the opposite.  I arrived home after what had seemed a long and eventful trip, and found my cats hardly aware that I'd even been gone.

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PHOTO -- Entering the hill country of northeast New Mexico  

What could go wrong?

My "Train Trip to Nowhere" begins tomorrow.  I fly from Seattle to Los Angeles at 9:10 a.m., and depart LA's Union Station on the Southwest Chief at 5:55 p.m.  I'm scheduled to arrive in Chicago two days later, on Wednesday at 2:50 p.m.  (Refer back to my February 12 post.)

I emphasize "scheduled" because the Chief has been arriving late in Chicago almost uniformly the past few weeks, during the time I've kept my eye on it.  It arrives anywhere from a negligible 20 minutes late, to -- on one occasion -- almost 24 hours late.  The cause has been primarily the unusual weather most of the nation has experienced this winter, but also the difficulty many of Amtrak's passenger trains always have in competing with freight trains for passage on tracks owned by the freight railways.

I was perhaps too trusting when I booked a flight back to Seattle from Chicago's O'Hare Airport at 6:55 p.m. -- a mere four hours after my train's scheduled arrival.  The CTA ride from Chicago's Union Station to O'Hare will itself take an hour, plus time devoted to walking to the transit station and waiting for the next train.  I calculate that I can make my flight if the Southwest Chief arrives in Chicago no more than 90 minutes late.

Most arrivals have fit within that tolerance, but many have not.

I refuse to worry.  I've tipped off my cat care lady that she may need to add another day of cat care if I miss my connection.  I've booked an inexpensive but convenient hotel near the airport for Wednesday night.  Beyond those precautions, I refuse to worry.

Except to notice that the airlines charge quite a premium on bookings made less than 24 hours before departure.   Oh well.  Some unimaginative members of my reading audience might argue that even ten bucks is too much to pay for a "Train Trip to Nowhere."

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PHOTO -- Stock photo, Amtrak train arriving in Chicago's Union Station

Let monkeys be monkeys

 

One of the post-war wonders for kids in my home town was a municipal playground built in a large park surrounding a lake.  It had the usual swings; and the line of rings for swinging along like a monkey; and bars on which you could chin yourself or, for the more proficient, perform acrobatics.  These were all of minimal interest to me and to most of my peer group.

But there were three modalities that drew our attention:

Slides.  Very tall slides, especially when looking down from the top, as well as shorter slides for younger kids.  Slides that were straight, and slides with wave-like ramps.  You could climb ladders to the top, or -- if you were crazy -- you could shimmy up the supporting poles.

Merry-go-round.  Not the carnival ride with horses, but a circular platform, like on a phonograph, that the kids could make spin by pushing it faster and faster, and then jumping on board.  There was always the danger of spinning off, from centrifugal force, and the danger of  becoming so dizzy that you vomited the entire nickel coke you had just bought from the convenient coke machine and downed in one gulp.

Jungle gym.  This was the paramount attraction of the park.  Rather than try to describe it, I show a photograph above of one that in some ways resembled it.  Note the size relative to the kids playing on it.  Note the complexity of the intersections of horizontal and vertical bars.  I recall ours as being larger in horizonal area, but maybe we were just smaller back then.

The jungle gym came to mind because of a short article in this month's Smithsonian magazine.  The article notes that the first patent for a jungle gym was awarded in 1923.  Its creator gave it the name that stuck because it was fashioned like

a kind of forest top through which a troop of children may play in a manner somewhat similar to that of a troop of monkeys.

And we acted like a troop of moneys: climbing, swinging, perched at the top chattering at each other.

I remember it as a great individual and social experience.  Fun.  And scary.  It was a long way down.

A couple of decades later, I walked by the park to relive my memories of those days of preadolescent

danger and adventure.  I was dismayed to see that all three of my favorite devices had been either eliminated or shrunk, all metal surfaces being replaced by plastic, leaving a collection of brightly colored devices that would be attractive to six- and seven-year-olds -- but not to the older kids who had enjoyed the park in my day.  

Just now, looking for an illustrative photo -- which I found finally, and posted at the top of this page -- my search for photos of "jungle gyms" resulted almost entirely in such plastic travesties.  The few photos from the 1950s were invariably titled as "dangerous" jungle gyms from the distant past.

The Smithsonian article admits the potential dangers of the older, original jungle gyms, but contends:

Young primates have always invited serious injury by play-climbing and falling.  Primatologists view these behaviors as a critical means of fine-tuning fundamental motor skills.  And ... many developmental psychologists contend that risky play is essential for healthy growth and development in children, perhaps because risk-taking helps kids regulate their fears, providing a kind of blueprint for responding effectively to real-life danger.

Yeah!  I couldn't have said it better myself!

Mr. Mole 1; Cats 0

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.  ...  It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on  the floor, said, "Bother!" and "O blow!" and also "Hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat.  Something  up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air.  So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and the he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "Up we go!  Up we go!" till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.

"This is fine!" he said to himself.  "This is better than whitewashing!"

--Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows 

I woke up last night with a start.  Loud thumping downstairs.  Years of experience taught me what to expect -- the game was afoot, and the cats were in hot pursuit.  Whatever it is, I prayed, just dispatch it quickly and keep it downstairs. 

But the pursuit lasted all night, and most of it was conducted in my bedroom.  I got up on a number of occasions and turned on the light.  Some poor prey was hidden back in the bookcases, and the cats -- doing their upmost, lying on their sides with front legs extended behind the books as far as they could go -- were not able to bring their quarry to the ground.  

I slept in snatches.  All in all, I was probably reduced to four hours of sleep, maximum.

The cats continued following the mouse from one hidden area to another, never getting their claws on him so far as I could see. I went to lunch about 11 a.m., and returned, not sure what I would find.   Please at leaast let the corpse be intact, I prayed -- not beheaded with quantities of rodent blood flowing across a carpet.

I wasn't prepared for what confronted me in the kitchen.  A small mouse, quite alive, daintily licking water from the cats' water bowl.  Pollux was asleep on the couch.  Castor was nowhere to be seen.  The mouse totally ignored me, even as I stood inches away from him.  

The mouse?  Well, it was the size of a mouse.  But with a very short tail, and odd looking forelegs.  Even its mouth was peculiar.  Could it be a mole, I wondered?  A very tiny infant mole?  It could, and I'm sure now it was.

If it had been a fast-moving mouse or rat, I could never have captured it.  But I approached it with a bath towel, and easily scooped the sluggish little devil off the floor.  It took three tries -- he was more wiggly and resistant, once in the towel, than he had seemed at first sight, but I evacuated him to a secluded part of the backyard.  Both cats still on vacation, fortunately.

The baby mole immediately began burrowing through the grass, and eventually under the grass.  Pollux chose this time to make a dramatic appearance, like the U.S. Cavalry, and my attention was diverted by the need to grab my wily and determined cat, take him kicking and screaming back inside, and close off his cat door.  Back outside, Castor then wandered onto the scene, but he was unaware of the drama happening within feet of himself.  Sure, let's go inside and check out breakfast, he suggested.

Finally returning to the backyard, I discovered that Baby Mole had dug a little tunnel, just barely underground, and I could still locate him by watching the disturbance as he inched his way across the yard.  He was headed for the hedge area, which was probably a good idea, as the soil there is looser and easier digging.  The last time I checked the area, there was no sign of my little friend.  

The cats -- "Our work is done!" -- slept all day, and I let them back outside at dusk.

No, it never occurred to me to flush Mr. Mole down the toilet.  Yes, I realize that adult moles play havoc on carefully tended lawns, but my lawn's not that carefully tended.  And unlike some conquerors, I don't kill my enemy's children, because some day they would otherwise grow up into adult enemy soldiers.  

I'm told that, while dogs often kill moles, domesticated, well-fed cats are more likely to play with them as toys than to actually kill and eat them.  So maybe his danger was less than I feared.  But I'm glad I didn't rely on that advice.

Moles eat prodigiously, and they continue eating and surviving underground in winter.  This little fellow was uninjured, so far as I could tell, despite his war with the cats.  And he was drinking water from a bowl, suggesting that he was weaned and able to find food on his own.  

I hope he builds himself a cozy mole-cave, beneath my yard or that of a neighbor.  And I hope that the trauma of this childhood experience will not discourage him from following the example of Kenneth Grahame's Mr. Mole.  I hope that some day soon, when the air is warm, the sun is bright, and the world is fragrant with flowers and grasses and opportunities for adventure, he will screw up his courage and venture to the surface.  And that he will look around happily at the world of nature and exclaim: 

"This is fine!  This is better than whitewashing!"

Ash Wednesday 2023

 
...it seemed clear that wars were not made by generations and their special stupidities, but that wars were made instead by something ignorant in the human heart.

― John Knowles,  A Separate Peace

"Medical student's disease"

As may be apparent from my posts, I virtually live to walk.  Around my house, out in the country,  or in a foreign country --  I spend vast amounts of time walking.

So when I suddenly began experiencing mild pain, weakness, and stiffness in my legs, I was concerned.  Possibly, it was a sign of old age, I thought, laughing at the concept of "old."  Or maybe it was from an overly enthusiastic attempt to strengthen legs by standing and sitting with my legs crossed.  That effort had, in fact, pulled an upper thigh muscle, which bothered me for several days -- maybe it also caused a generalized pain throughout my legs.

Of course, I could check with my doctor, but that's like asking for directions when you're driving through an unfamiliar town.  For us guys, it's only a last resort, after all attempts of self-help have failed.

No, far better that I do a fast check of my symptoms on Wikipedia.  Wikipedia always has an answer for everything, and it had a number of possible answers for me:

Stroke

Congestive heart failure

Spinal cord damage

Pinched nerve exiting spinal cord

Muscular dystrophy

Viral nerve damage

Cancerous and non-cancerous growths in brain, spinal cord, or peripheral nerves

Long time exposure to alcohol

Diabetes

Drugs, like statins and steroids

Slipped disk

Idiopathic inflammateory myopathy

Beriberi from Vitamin B1 deficiency 

Lou Gehrig's Disease

Cauda equina syndrome

I hardly got past the "congestive heart failure." My legs were forgotten, as, with beating -- nay, racing -- heart, I read all the indications of heart failure. Yes. I exclaimed to myself! I meet the diagnosis. Just like my dad, my heart's giving out on me.

By the following morning, common sense prevailed. Whatever my problems, I definitely do not have congestive heart failure. The leg pain, meanwhile, had paled into insignificance.

Saturday, I walked about eight miles; today about seven. My legs are still a little stiff each day as I begin my walk, but the stiffness quickly wears off.

I'll survive -- both my legs and my heart will survive -- to hike another hike.

Winter walking

It was near noon.  I was sitting in a dark room -- dark at mid day  -- staring out the window at a light but steady rain.  With a cat on my lap. 

The Rule of of Feline Ownership is, of course, that -- barring a threat of imminent injury (to the cat, not to the human) --one does not move until the cat himself chooses to move.  For amusement, I had at hand my Kindle and I had my iPhone.  I grew weary of reading, so I took the photo.

Well, I can't sit here all day, I remarked to my immobile cat.  Time for a walk.  In the rain.  To clear my mind and quicken my heartbeat.  My cat rolled his eyes.

I have two basic walking routes, each of which has a few minor variations.  By some odd coincidence, the half way point on both routes happens to be a Starbucks.  I order ahead while en route, and am often greeted by name when I arrive.  But not today.  Today, I decided to reactivate a route I used to follow frequently, back in the early days of the pandemic when half the challenge of my hike was anticipating and avoiding coming within six feet of other walkers.  

But it's  good route.  A little shorter than my others, but since I hadn't done it for a while, it seemed longer.  Up onto Capitol Hill, as far south as Roy Street, back to Volunteer Park, a loop around the south and west portions of the Park, down past Seattle Prep, and then through the length of long, skinny Interlaken Park. back to my own neighborhood.  About four miles total.

It had stopped raining.  But it was still drippy under the trees.  And I'm a Northwesterner.  I love sunshine, sure.  But I experience a certain exhilaration walking in the rain.  Unless the rain's actually a downpour being driven by a strong wind into my face.  It's still mid-February, but plants were in the early stages of their spring growth.  Some early-budding trees had buds.  A few flowers were popping out -- even a few early-blooming rhododendrons.  Birds were in full activity, busy about their business.  

I approve of nature, and nature, in turn, always obligingly cheers me up.

My route took me through neighborhoods filled with large, old houses, many dating back to the early days of Seattle.  Houses with odd shapes, large bay windows, towers, impressive balconies, three or four stories in height.  Square feet sufficient to room several families,  but that don't.  

I've read protests in the local paper about Home Sections that feature architecturally interesting houses, the kind of houses I saw while walking today, houses that are obviously far beyond my ability to ever purchase.  Readers protest that reading these features, looking at their size and their beautiful architectural details -- and at scenes of apparently happy, upper middle class families enjoying their good fortune -- just infuriates them, makes them angry and depressed.  I infer that they would love to drag these happy families out onto the street, and force them to live in cheap rentals like everyone else.

Not me.  I like reading about huge old houses, and studying them as I walk by.  I enjoy them for the same reason that I love visiting (or just reading about) castles and chateaux in Europe.  It's fun to walk past Buckingham Palace in London.  I'm not enraged that the Royal Family lives inside; if anything, I fantasize about living there myself.  

I never felt the urge to drag the Queen out and make her cook her own meals like everyone else.

But these are all topics for another day.  Today, let me just say that walking -- even walking in the rain -- maybe even especially walking in a light rain -- raises my spirits.  It helps me think clearly.  My daydreams while walking give me ideas for future travel.

Walking in a light drizzle even gives me the gumption to come home and remind the cats who's boss.  Oh.  Well, now I'm exaggerating.

Confirmation

As I completed my weekly thirty minute walk and approached the church last night, I caught sight of a crowd of young people milling about the door.  Uh oh, I now recalled.  I'd forgotten that we'd been given full warning last week that a group of young people were being confirmed this evening, in case we chose to attend a different service.

I hadn't been present at a confirmation service since my own confirmation as a 20-year-old.  Everyone being confirmed along with me was a college student, so the ambience was a bit different from last night's.  Twenty-four children, together with their parents and sponsors, filled the front half of the church.  The rear half, where I settled in, was uncommonly sparsely filled.  The ages of the "confirmands" appeared to range from about eleven to fifteen -- typically, middle school age.  Most were neatly dressed, most of the boys in white shirts and red bow ties, the girls in attractive dresses.

The celebrants processed down the central aisle, the various readers and two altar boys  followed by our two parish priests.  The entire ensemble was followed by an auxiliary bishop of the archdiocese -- wearing a miter (tall headdress) and carrying a shepherd's staff, just like in the movies.  After the homily, or sermon, the young people were called to the front by name, one by one, where the bishop laid his hands on the head and applied a smear of fragrant "chrism" (oil).

Theologically, baptism of the children, usually received as babies, was thus confirmed and the child's baptismal graces were brought to completion; the Holy Spirit was called down to enter and aid each of them, analogous to the descent of the Holy Spirit on the apostles at Pentecost.  (The children were warned that they might not feel different afterwards, but they were different.)  Socially, confirmation, which follows a series of lessons and instructions, resembles a Jewish bar or bat mitzvah (without the parties and gifts!), marking the spiritual adulthood of the young person and bringing him into full membership in the congregation.  

Each child had been asked to write a short statement for the weekly church bulletin, explaining why they sought confirmation, the name of their adopted patron saint and the reason for the choice, and something personal about their own life.  The paragraphs were often touching, occasionally a bit rote, with some hoping to love and aid the marginalized more fully (St. Theresa of Calcutta, St. Francis), some hoping to be strong when persecuted (St. Sebastian, St. Joan of Arc), and one boy expressing his  love of science and astronomy (St. Dominic as patron saint of science).

As for the "something personal," we had a group of young athletes, both boys and girls, devoted to a wide variety of athletics.  Other passions were a love of music and musical instruments, and, for two kids, playing card games.  

It was a lengthier ceremony than I'd anticipated when leaving my house last night, but the church was full of happy people, young and old.  In a nation and world full of hatred and cynicism, it was a relief to spend a couple of hours watching young people optimistically sharing their hopes for their own lives and for their world.

I walked home with a lighter step than at my arrival.

By train through the desert

Déjà vu all over again.  A year ago this coming Thursday I snuggled into a comfortable Amtrak roomette and began a cross country rail trip from San Francisco to Chicago.  I called it "A Train Trip to Nowhere," because I had no earthly reason to visit Chicago while it was caught up in the icy embrace of February.

And now, three weeks from tomorrow, I repeat that trip.  But leaving from Los Angeles, not San Francisco.  On the Southwest Chief, not the California Zephyr.  

But the idea is the same.  A long train trip, cozy in my roomette, watching the changing scenery whiz by outside my window.  Occasionally -- never as much as I anticipate -- reading.  Meals in the diner (two breakfasts, two lunches, two dinners, all included in the fare).  Two restful nights sleeping, after my seats have been converted to a bed.  (Not everyone agrees that sleep on a train is restful, but this is my trip, not theirs!)

I initially expected the trip from Los Angeles to be even longer than the trip from the Bay Area, but such is not the case.  More miles, undoubtedly.  But from San Francisco, the train passes slowly over first the Sierras and then the Rockies.  Once past Denver, the miles speed by surprisingly quickly.

But from Los Angeles, the train does a southern end run around both mountain ranges, moving from California, across northern Arizona, through New Mexico, entering Colorado east of the Rockies, and speeding through Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, and into Illinois to Chicago.

Both the Chief and the Zephyr are scheduled to arrive at about the same time in Chicago.  But the Zephyr leaves Emeryville (across the Bay from San Francisco) at 9:10 a.m. while the Chief doesn't leave L.A. until 5:55 p.m.  That makes the latter approximately a nine hour shorter trip -- nine hours that I'll miss experiencing.  But to compensate I'll be seeing parts of the country I've never seen before.

So I'll fly from Seattle to LAX at 9:10 a.m. on Monday, March 6.  I'll take the "Fly Away" shuttle from the airport to Union Station in downtown Los Angeles, with about five hours to kill until my train leaves.  Fortunately, Union Station has a lounge for sleeper passengers (although I gather far less impressive than Amtrak's lounge in Chicago, not to mention airport lounges provided by airlines for their qualifying passengers.)  But I can check my small item of baggage in the lounge, and either kill time in the lounge or wander around downtown.

Although I'll have time to kill in Los Angeles, life may be a bit more hectic on arrival in Chicago. I'm scheduled to arrive at 2:50 p.m. on Wednesday, March 8, but trains are often a bit late.  Sometimes a lot late.  I was lucky last year when my Zephyr arrived about 45 minutes ahead of schedule, but one can't predict.  My flight out of O'Hare, returning to Seattle, is scheduled to leave at 6:55 p.m.  If Amtrak is within an hour (or hour and a half) of being on schedule, I'll have plenty of time to walk a couple of blocks south of the train station to the Clinton Street CTA station, and take the rapid transit to O'Hare -- about an hour's trip.

If the train appears seriously late, as we enter Illinois from Iowa, I'll reschedule my flight out of O'Hare by phone and, if necessary, also book a room at some conveniently located hotel.  One way or the other, I expect to be flying home roughly on time, barring massive snowstorms or nuclear attack.

Some people say I spend too much time considering what might go wrong.  It's a professional disability of anyone who has spent his career trying cases  in court!  The habit eventually becomes sort of fun.

And you can never anticipate every possibility of disaster.  Who knows, some people have unpreditably slipped, just emerging from a shower, and dislocated their shoulder.  But, we won't go there!
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Photo:  Southwest Chief barrels through New Mexico

Audiences of the future

I've been increasingly impressed by the number of young people who show up for regular season programs by the Seattle Symphony.  Most frequently, by "young people," I mean high school and college ages.  But last night, I was impressed by the number of pre-teens, on best behavior, accompanying their parents.

The young boy -- maybe ten or eleven -- sitting directly in front of me was dressed in a dark suit and tie.  With white sneakers, but even so he was dressed better than I was, or, for that matter, than 90 percent of the male audience.  He listened raptly to the concert, occasionally whispering a comment to his mother.

If the program had included numbers like Peter and the Wolf, the Nutcracker Suite, or the William Tell Overture, I might have understood the appeal.  But, with the exception of the ten-minute Finlandia by Sibelius, the program consisted of pieces unfamiliar to many in the audience (including me), their music often atonal and with no obvious sense (again, to me) of melody and harmony.¹

But the music was stirring and often dramatic -- and maybe something that youngsters, with no preconceptions about "classical" music, might respond to more readily than would we stodgy old codgers.

The next performance on my season's ticket comes in just two weeks, and features Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto and a tone poem by Richard Strauss.  A couple of classical "hits" for us traditionalists.  It will be interesting to consider how the demographics of the audience for that performance differs, if at all, from last night's.

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¹Benjamin Britten, Violin Concerto

Dai Fujikura, Waverly World (world premiere)

Sibelius, Symphony No. 7

Stock photo

Month of mud and cabbage

And here we are.   The first day of February.  Once more we have survived the seemingly endless days of January (alleviated for me, this year, by my brief, mid-month jaunt to Maui).

In considering a blog topic, I recalled past posts about the origins of January -- two-faced Janus and all that.  And about March, named after the Roman God of War, the month when warfare again became practical in snowbound countries.  Practical for primitive reasons that are about to be re-discovered by the armies of both Russia and Ukraine.

But February was virgin blogging terrain.  Or so I thought until a scan of my own blog revealed an extensive history of the month in 2017, just six years ago.  How confused our memories become as the years go by!

As pointed out in 2017, February was named after the Februa, the Roman ritual of purification held half way through the month.  I noted, meaningfully, that sometimes entire nations require purification, as suggested by the recent election of, well, never mind.  He Who Must Not be Named.  In addition, the Church designated February 2 as the Feast of the Purification, but purification in a different sense -- a ritual ceremony under Jewish law that women underwent forty days after birth of a child.  Or, in this case, a Child.

Our nation is no less in need of purification now than it was six years ago.  But enough.  You are subjected to sufficient political angst on TV and in the newspapers.  

Not all nations have dwelled on ethereal concepts of purification, either Roman or Christian, in naming February. Many nations are more earthy. The Ukrainians call it лютий (lyutiy), meaning the month of ice or hard frost -- a name they must find especially poignant this year. Other Eastern and Central European countries have a number of outlandish names for February, most of them focusing on aspects of snow, ice, icicles, ice floating in partially frozen rivers ... well, you get the idea. Try to picture Lower Slobbovia as portrayed in one of the old Al Capp "Li'l Abner" comics.

No, let's just focus on the good, old Anglo-Saxon terms for February. Solmonath (mud month) and Kale-monath (cabbage month). They are both down-to-earth, and descriptive. It's where we of English descent descended from -- long cold, wet winters ending in mud and meals consisting of the last of the prior summer's cabbage, as our grandparents huddled shivering in their hovels.

At least they, like us, have March -- the month of War -- to look forward to. A little bloody excitement to bring us out of our long winter tedium. Things haven't changed much.

Losing focus

“If you spend your life trying to be good at everything, you will never be great at anything.”

--Tom Rath

While in graduate school in the late 1960s, I occasionally put down the books and began doing a bit of hiking, learning to enjoy the great wilderness that surrounded me in the Pacific Northwest.  At the same time, I saw commercial and industrial threats to that wilderness, and realized that there were people and organizations that were trying to combat those threats.

As a result, in 1967, I joined the Sierra Club.  Within a few years, I had converted my annual membership to a lifetime membership, and have tried to support it ever since, to varying degrees at different times.

As I recall, in 1967, the Club had a membership of about 74,000.  You required a "nomination" from an existing member -- easy to get! -- to support your application.  Today, according to an article in today's New York Times, the Club has about a million members.  It's a mass operation.  No nomination is required to join -- just send in your dues.

Over the years, beginning decades ago, the goals of the Club became more diffuse.  Originally, I read the monthly Bulletin avidly, finding it full of information about wilderness and not-quite-wilderness areas that were worth visiting and hiking, and warnings of the threats posed to those areas.  At times, the articles emphasized the beauty and remoteness of areas, primarily those without formal protection, recalling the Club's history as a hiking club.  Other times, the articles were calls to arms, urging lobbying and other action by members, ways of persuading government officials to take action to preserve those areas.

Construction of Glen Canyon Dam, strongly opposed by the Sierra Club, was completed in 1966, the year before I joined the Club.  The tragedy of the flooding of Glen Canyon was still strongly felt, and had an emotional effect on me.  

At that time, the North Cascades was a vast undeveloped and roadless area in Washington state.  Congress debated creating a national park in some or all of the undeveloped area of the Cascades.  The issue was highly controversial.  I recall arguments that the area should be developed like the Swiss Alps, with highways, tourist lodges, and cable lifts carrying tourists high up the exposed rock peaks.  Supporters of a wilderness park were accused of wanting to "lock up" the wilderness for the exclusive use of "sturdy mountain hikers."  The public was invited to testify at Congressional hearings in Seattle; I volunteered and had the interesting experience of being grilled hostilely by the (Democratic) Chairman of what was then called the House Interior and Insular Affairs Committee.  

My point is that the Sierra Club had at that time a strong focus on protecting not only wilderness, but public lands in general -- preserving them for the general public and for future generations.  Going into the 1970s, however, I noted increasing numbers of articles in the Bulletin discussing more general questions of Environmentalism.  I appreciated the importance of these issues -- for example, toxic waste disposal, air pollution, damage to ocean life.  But these issues were already the subject of concern by other groups, and they weren't the issues that had drawn me to the Club.  I skimmed the monthly Bulletin increasingly casually, and looked more to smaller organizations such as the Wilderness Society for information about threatened lands.  

Now, reading the New York Times article referenced above, I read that the Sierra Club is consumed with controversy over racial issues.  Some of these issues seem appropriately raised -- those dealing with equity in its treatment of Black and other minority employees, and with concerns raised about "bullying behavior by senior employees."  These are issues that all organizations must confront.

More controversial, at least to my eyes, are concerns about the Club's alleged intrinsic racism, and its interactions with racism in society at large.  Claims have been made that the Club's revered founder, John Muir, was a racist.  Muir is said to have "characterized Black Americans and Native Americans as dirty and lazy," and that some of the Club's early members had been white supremacists.  A recent executive director of the Club, who has since left the Club, "disavowed" Muir, and said that the Club  must examine its "substantial role in perpetuating white supremacy."

The new executive director, Ben Jealous, himself a Black American, has taken a more moderate position.

When I look at John Muir, I see a man in the late 19th century, who talked a lot like men in the late 19th century.  The way that I grew up was really valuing him as somebody who helped preserve the most beautiful places that were the landscape of my childhood.

I agree.

But even aside from the Muir controversy and the claims of institutional racism,  Jealous agrees that the Club's mission has expanded far beyond wilderness preservation into concerns with industrial pollution, climate change, wind and solar energy, promotion of voting rights, and an attack on world poverty.  In fact, the Sierra Club's informal mission statement now appears similar to the Democratic Party platform (which I also support).

My concern is that in promoting all worthy causes, the Club loses its focus -- for its leaders, for its members, and for the general public.  There are many organizations, public and private, attempting to deal with world poverty.  There are organizations dedicated to voting rights and to combatting climate change.  I suspect that I'm not the only person who sees no particular point (or at least feels no great enthusiasm) in supporting an organization that is alarmed by everything that I'm alarmed about personally.  

That's what political parties are for.

In other words, I'd like to see the Club return to its original focus on lobbying for parks and for wilderness protection, dealing with extraneous issues only insofar as they may be obstacles to achieving those original goals in specific cases.  I can develop great enthusiasm for saving land for recreational use or for wilderness protection.  Saving the Amazon forests by eliminating South American poverty is too complicated, too problematic a goal -- maybe the forests can be saved even in the face of poverty; maybe eliminating poverty will actually increase pressure on the forests.  Both are admirable goals, but there may be conflicts between those goals that must be worked out by institutions with greater authority than that of the Sierra Club.

I remain a member of the Sierra Club.  I'm proud of its history and its accomplishments.  I'm proud of its membership.  I'm just concerned about the directions it's been choosing.

Hic sunt dracones

In high school, we learn to think of history as endless lists of dates.  Of presidential terms and royal reigns.  Of endless battles.  Of the rise and fall of one empire after another.

If, at the university, we venture further into historical studies, of course, we learn about social and economic history, of the history of science and technology.  Even  history as viewed from the perspective of agricultural development.

All of these approaches to history present as attempts to understand the lives and thoughts of peoples who lived in places and centuries other than our own.

Last night, Professor Robin Stacey gave the first of five weekly lectures, sponsored by the University of Washington Alumni Association, asking a packed auditorium to consider the world of medieval Europe as revealed by the myths, legends, folklore, and fairy tales that evolved during those centuries.  She also showed how many of the fictional persons and creatures from the medieval period have continued to speak to our own time and civilization, although often modified in ways that meet our own emotional or political needs.

Professor Stacey has presented public lectures on medieval-related subjects in the past.  I blogged on a lecture series discussing the writings of J.R.R Tolkien in 2008, and the "Medieval Antecedents of the Modern World" in 2011.  Both were interesting and well-presented series.

Last night, her topic was dragons, creatures whose Anglo-Saxon antecedents go back to the early eighth century A.D., back to the "dragon" that the hero killed (and was killed by) at the end of the poem Beowulf.  

Many other civilizations have even earlier stories and traditions about dragons.  In China, they are considered symbols of power and bringers of good luck.  (I myself was born in a Year of the Dragon, and under the sign of Aries -- for those of us so fortunate, our faults, if any, dear Reader, lie not in our stars but in ourselves.)  

In the Old Testament, dragons were used as symbols for the enemies of God, and in the New Testament, in Revelations, were specifically identified with Satan.  In Christian culture, pre-Christian stories seem to have been merged with Christian beliefs, resulting in stories such as St. George and the Dragon.  The Christian dragon has none of the favorable attributes of his Chinese cousins.  

Professor Stacey pointed out that there is a theme that runs through many stories of dragons -- portraying them as hoarders of great wealth.  The Norse story of the dragon Fafnir and his hoard of wealth, who was killed by the hero Sigurd, is told in many versions, and was incorporated by Wagner into his Siegfried opera.  When we watch Siegfried kill the dragon to stirring music, we are watching a character that has appeared in many forms, dating back far beyond Beowulf.

The Norse Fafnir also shows up under the name of Smaug in Tolkien's The Hobbit, where he is described as the greatest dragon of his day, a malevolent creature who has seized an enormous treasure from the dwarves which he hoards deep inside a mountain, a site from which he has driven the dwarves.

Stacey described vividly, and often with appropriate humor, these manifestations of the "dragon" idea in many civilizations over several millennia.  I would have enjoyed hearing in more detail how each of these occurrences of dragons in a civilization's mythology or folklore corresponded to the peculiar character of each civilization's culture.  But she covered a great amount of material in an hour's lecture.  She has written several books on medieval topics, books that might well be worth looking into.

Future lectures will discuss King Arthur, "Tales of the Greenwood," the Templars, and Joan of Arc. 

Professor Stacey concluded by joking that she had always dreamed of working the old cartographical inscription "Here be dragons" into a talk.  In her lecture today, she succeeded.

Hiking the Waihe'e Ridge Trail

I arrived home late Sunday night, following my four-night stay on Maui (plus a final night in Honolulu).  The weather was excellent, the accommodations were great, and the company was highly enjoyable.

As I mentioned in my last post, the occasion was the eightieth birthdays of two friends, Barton and Clinton (twin brothers), from undergraduate days, one of whom had later married my sister.  The celebration was organized by Barton's daughter, and was attended by Barton's two adult sons and adult daughter, as well as spouses and one of his granddaughters.  Clinton and my sister were there, but their son and granddaughter live in Thailand, and were unable to escape from school duties to make the trip.

This celebration came just four months after a week at Lake Como, Italy, with my closest graduate school friend, Jim, together with his brother and sister and their spouses, and with his own son.

Both gatherings gave me the opportunity to become acquainted -- with some, for the first time -- with the closest family members of my two closest friends from university days.  

Barton and Jim were and are quite different in many respects -- in personality and interests -- although both are now retired university professors.  Barton is more academic, and Jim is more "outdoorsy" and athletic.  I was impressed and a bit surprised, however, with the fact that both sets of family members all enjoyed -- with varying degrees of experience -- the act of hiking while on vacation.  

In Italy, we had many opportunities for hikes, both long and short, along the lake and in the neighboring hills.  On Maui, Barton's offspring decided to hike the Waihe'e Ridge Trail on the leeward side of the island, its trailhead lying somewhat north of Wailuku.  I enthusiastically joined the hike, of course.

The hike was quite steep in places, with an elevation gain of just under 1,700 feet.  After a short, initial, steep concrete-paved climb, the trail is generally broad and is surfaced with hard-packed earth.  I've read warnings that the dirt trail can become quite muddy and slippery during and after rains, but we met excellent weather -- sunny and cloudless, with little evidence of recent precipitation.

We completed the round trip to the summit in about four hours.  Some of us found the hike a bit more difficult than others, but everyone agreed that it was fairly strenuous, and everyone succeeded in reaching the top.  The scenery of the Pacific coast to the east and of the jungle-covered mountain ranges to the west were inspiring and made our labors fully worthwhile.  The scenery also provided excuses for frequent "photo stops" while we restabilized our breathing.

Hiking offers many pleasures and has many benefits.  One of those benefits is the ease with which conversations take place, overcoming any shyness that strangers or near-strangers might otherwise feel.  None of us, on either hike, were actual "strangers," but we learned more about each other's interests and personalities and coping skills than we could have in a week of sitting on the beach sipping Mai Tais.  (No disrespect intended toward that latter occupation, of course, which we also found entertaining!)

I loved Lake Como, and I've always loved Maui.  At both locations, I also enjoyed the opportunity to develop closer friendships with people whom I had known only casually in the past.

Travel is broadening.  So is hiking.  They make an excellent combination.

Eightieth birthdays on Maui

Thirty years ago, my family celebrated the eightieth birthday of my mother and her twin sister.  We encamped for a week in a low-rise hotel on Maui's Napili Bay, looking across the ocean waters at Moloka'i and Lanai islands.  And we gathered one night for the celebratory birthday dinner at the Ritz Carlton in nearby Kapalua. 

We had a great time. 

Next week, we gather again on Napili Bay to celebrate the eightieth birthday of another set of twins -- two guys who became close friends of mine as university undergraduates, and whose relationship to me and my family was cemented by the marriage of one young man to my sister.  

We will again celebrate this Big Eight-O with a dinner at the same hotel in Kapalua.

Thirty years ago, we younger folks did a day hike in Haleakala crater while the guests of honor relaxed on their deck overlooking the ocean.  They may have been thinking long thoughts about age and youth and the speedy flight of time.  If so, we young Indians (as we still viewed ourselves) were unaware, as we strode across the black sand trails of the crater.  This year?  The young Indians have all become wise and perhaps somewhat more sedentary elders.  Some of us still hike, but I've heard no suggestions that hiking is on the agenda.  Even the "kids," those invitees a generation behind us, seem more attracted to contemplation -- assisted by occasional gin and tonics -- than to strenuous trekking.

Our treks this year will probably be limited to a quarter mile morning hike to breakfast at The Gazebo (known to us, because of its profile, as The Witch's Hat) at Napili Point, on the southern end of the beach.  But, hiking aside, I anticipate a highly satisfying, if altogether too brief, vacation.  Why brief?  Because of a late start, I was able to reserve a room for only four nights -- keep in mind, you future visitors, that winter is High Season in Hawaii.  In past years, while my mother was alive, even a week felt much too brief -- I recall annoying others by my complaints: "Three days gone, only four more to go!"  

But sometimes a short visit has certain benefits.  Every moment is precious, and all the wonderful experiences feel condensed and heightened in intensity.  And so I hope it will be next week.

What can I tell you about this year's twins, this year's guests of honor?  Both were somewhat artistic when I first met them, and both seemed to flourish among the typical required courses of the undergrad liberal arts curriculum.  But one eventually became a radiology professor at Stanford's medical school, and the other became a much loved primary care physician and active member of the community in Sonoma, California.  We all stayed in touch, and skied together at Lake Tahoe for many years, until the Sonoma GP (then a resident of Berkeley) startled me by marrying my sister.

They were both pretty cool guys and good friends when I met them as undergraduates.  Their success in their careers and with their lives has been no surprise.  And now, 62 years later, we can celebrate the good times of the past, and look forward to the future, a future that is unpredictable but that we trust holds the possibility of many new satisfactions.

As the hopeful birthday wish goes, "And many more to come!"