Why Snorkeling is Like Riding a Bike Down a Volcano

I’m fortunate enough to be in Maui on vacation. Two of the cool things I’ve done here are riding a bike down the Haneakala Volcano, and snorkeling along the northeast coast.

At first glance, it would seem that these two activities have absolutely nothing in common, not even altitude. And, yet, they are more alike than I ever imagined.

1.     They both require peculiar headgear

2.     They both result in mega bad hair days

3.     Both may involve getting wet

4.     Both may result in road rash.

5.     Both can be a little scary at times

6.     They’re both totally awesome

A Winter in Fiji

OK, so I went to Fiji, and it was frickin’ freezing It wouldn’t be so bad except that my expectations were so very different. We planned to launch our journey to Australia and New Zealand with two days baking in the Fijian sun, recovering from jet lag. Instead, we departed the airport in a fine rain that continued all day, off and on. Gamely, I plastered on sunscreen and headed out to the beach in my shorts and tee shirt. Gale force winds blew in from the sea, sending surf crashing up over the reef a short distance out. Gray clouds boiled over the horizon as resort staffers nailed up storm shutters. Before long, I had layered on a hoodie and eventually gave up and put on long pants again. It was more Lake Superior than the South Pacific.
Apparently the sun shines here sometimes. I have travel brochures to prove it.
Mind, this is nothing new for me. I’m used to traveling places and having people say, “Sheesh! This is unusual. I’ve never seen it snow this time of year!” Or, “Thank God the drought has broken.” I once went tent camping in the Painted Desert—a places that gets only 7 inches of rain a year. Two inches came down the night we camped—causing a massive hatching of Mormon crickets. As they scratched against the tent, trying to get in, I was sure we were being invaded by an army of half-drowned scorpions.
Looking for unusual weather? Tired of the same old same old? Invite me to come visit.

Uninvited Guests

Our hotel at Yulara Resort in outback Australia is beautiful—definitely a three-wastebasket facility. But I noticed an interesting information card in the bathroom. It was titled “Uninvited Guests.”             
You may notice one or two uninvited guests. Please do not be alarmed, they are native to the area and it is quite normal for them to appear throughout the resort. If, however, you are disturbed by their presence, please contact reception.           

It was unusually circumspect, like they didn’t want to frighten you by actually naming some of the uninvited guests you might encounter. However, its lack of specificity invited worrisome speculation as to what kinds of uninvited guests to expect. Sneak thieves? Freeloading relatives? Late night partiers?

Or maybe they meant intruders from the natural world. Dingoes or wallabies? Rose-breasted cockatoos, who flew in colorful and gossipy flocks from tree to tree, but which our tour guide described as pests. Cockroaches or cane toads? Deadly poisonous snakes or scorpions or spiders (we are in the Australian desert, after all.) Maybe the notice referred to the little clouds of flies we take with us everywhere?

            Or possibly they meant the three-foot long goanna lizard I encountered in the laundry room. 

Sheepish in New Zealand

We get an introduction to all things sheep at the Agrodrome, an agricultural demonstration show in Rotorua.

A mulleted host in a wifebeater comes out on stage, telling jokes as his comely assistant leads out nineteen different breeds of sheep, from Merinos to Lincolns to Romneys. I remember some of the names from my spinning and weaving days.
A sheep shearing demonstration follows. A wary ewe emerges from a doorway on stage right. After a few moments struggle, the host deftly flips her onto her back, where she sits, legs dangling foolishly in front of her. Perhaps closing her eyes and thinking of England, she allows the shearer to have his way with her. In less time than it takes me to get a haircut, the fleece is razored off and the sheep looks about half its original size.

When he asks for volunteers for milking, I impulsively raise my hand and join the other two victims on the stage. After all, I’m scheduled for a farmstay the next day, and I might need me some skills. Last time I volunteered and was called up on stage, it was for a wine-tasting. And that worked out all right.
Happily, we are milking a cow instead of a sheep. Somewhere, I’ve read tips for successful milking. Or maybe it was those lactation pamphlets I read after my sons were born.
This cow’s udder has been liberally greased up with some unknown farm substance. I don’t know if this is intended to make it harder or easier. Trying to remember the particulars, I grasp the udder firmly at the top and strip my hand downward, using my best empty toothpaste tube technique. Success! A thin stream of blueish milk splashes into the pail. The host looks mildly surprised and a little disappointed. I receive a certificate of “udderance.”
There follows sheepdog demonstrations in which one of the dogs herds several ducks back and forth across the stage and other dogs race across the backs of the mildly interested sheep in a technique called, understandably, backing. It’s kind of like a sheep mosh pit. It’s unclear whether this has any practical purpose but it makes for interesting and difficult to interpret photos.

I am convinced that nobody loves his work like a sheepdog. If they were any more alert and eager they would explode. They ought to show videos of sheepdogs at employee meetings instead of hiring motivational speakers.
The show closes with a mock fleece auction in which a reluctant Korean woman ends up owning an armload of unwashed wool redolent of lanolin. Then everyone repairs outside for a sheepdog demonstration with actual sheep.
All in all, I had a great time, but I think I have more of a future in wine-tasting.

In the Land of Second Breakfasts

Having just come off a ten-day book tour in the U.S. and Canada, I’ve learned that the wise traveler seizes any opportunity to eat, no matter how marginal the provender. When food is on offer, we furtively stuff our pockets, too, preparing against a lean future. Flying U.S. airlines these days is like visiting those inhospitable relatives who, even if you appear at mealtime, have always just eaten or make it clear they have no intention of breaking out the food and drink until you leave.
So it’s quite the shock to be traveling in the South Pacific and discovering that, around here, airline meals is one corner that’s not yet cut. Or maybe places are just so far apart they have to bring provisions.
Remember that scene in Fellowship of the Ring when hobbits Merri and Pippin are traveling with Aragorn the Ranger and realize that mealtimes are going to be few and far between. “What about second breakfast?” Pippin says plaintively. “Elevenses? High tea?”
We’ve had a spate of second breakfasts. Following experience, we eat before we get on the plane. And then they feed us on the plane. Or we eat on the plane, and then they feed us at the hotel on arrival.
The breakfasts on Air Pacific have been hearty but peculiar. Both have consisted of lamb sausage, omelet, corn, hash brown potatoes, fruit cup, and juice.
What’s the deal with the corn? My ingrained nutrition training and Yank sensibiities say, no way there should be hash browns and corn at breakfast. No corn at all unless it’s grits or muffins. I try to tie it to British heritage, but corn is a New World vegetable.
There’s also a dearth of sugar free and diet foods. Perhaps people around here move around more than we do in the States. And the diet soda vends under different names. At our hotel, Pepsi Light and Pepsi Max were both on offer. I had to read the label carefully to determine that they were both sugar-free.
On the upside, the yogurt tastes much more like yogurt than what I’ve been getting at home. More like milk and less like carageenan. And I’m loving the exotic fruit—papaya and mango each morning at breakfast.
And they have this delicious rich ice cream in New Zealand called hokey-pokey. It tastes like homemade.
Note to self: move around more.

Hanging with the Presidents

If you want to go to Australia, you pretty much have to go through LA. So we flew into Los Angeles this morning, arriving about 10:30 a.m. Unfortunately, our plane to Fiji didn’t leave until 11:30 p.m. (2:30 a.m. by my home town clock).  Fortunately, our travel agent gave us passes to the Continental President’s Club.

I’d always gazed longingly at those fancy wood-paneled doors, wondering what delights lay within. So I was practically giddy with anticipation as we pressed the little doorbell and were admitted.
OK, I’m a writer—my imagination always surpasses reality. But it was still very nice—much better than huddling in a cracked vinyl chair in the boarding area or wandering the concourses, looking for a place to plug in my power-depleted laptop.  There were work carrels with power outlets, lights, and telephones. There was wireless Internet access throughout the club. There were comfortable chair groupings with more power outlets. There was a pantry area with tea, coffee, water, and snacks including crackers and cheese and fruit.

            Did I mention there were power outlets?

            I did a last quick-edit of The Exiled Queen before sending it off to my editor using the handy wireless access. My husband updated my website with photos from the Demon King tour. I looked around at the other patrons, wondering if they were really presidents or if they’d got in on a pass like us.

            I couldn’t help thinking that it would be nice if such a lounge was made available to airline passengers if, say, their flights were cancelled or delayed through no fault of their own. Recalling my night spent sleeping on a baggage cart in Laguardia Airport (it was raining), and my night spent sleeping under a chair in Heathrow Airport (air traffic controllers strike) it would have been much more pleasant to have spent them hanging with the Presidents.

            My husband and I took photos of each other sitting in the President’s Club, because who knew if we would ever get there again.

Note from the Beach

Body Language
A woman walks by in a teeny bikini with a body that has a history—a body that has delivered children. A body that maybe has seen better days. People mutter, She should take a look in the mirror! and I wouldn’t be caught dead in that. Often these muttering people are women. I have been guilty of these judgmental thoughts myself, though I usually don’t voice them.
Those remarks almost never are targeted at men, no matter how gut-heavy they are.
My question is, Who made those rules? Who decided what kind of bodies should be put on display? Who established these standards that almost nobody can meet?

You can’t tell how good a shell is by feeling it underwater with your toes. Like as not, when you dive under and bring it up, it’s a broken bit of a seapen or a wave-worn bit of a clamshell. Except for sand dollars, and you should leave those alone.

I love the sea, and I’m afraid of the sea, and maybe that’s the way it should be.

Our condo complex is nearly filled with an extended family that has been arriving in couples and quartets for the past two days. They caravan back and forth from the beach, carrying sand toys, umbrellas, and wriggling toddlers. Yesterday an enthusiastic young woman returned over the dunes from the beach to find a latecomer sitting out on his balcony. We’ll call them Ted and Jackie.
“Ted!” Jackie said. “I didn’t know you were here. We’re all down at the beach. Come on and join us!”
Ted said, “It’s buggy down there.”
Jackie frowned, perplexed. “I haven’t noticed any bugs, not down by the water. If you stay out of the dunes, it should be all right. I have some bug spray if you need it.”
“There’s a shark alert,” Ted said. “Lots of sharks out today.”
“What?” Jackie looked over her shoulder, then back at Ted. “How do you know?”
“I Googled it.”
“Ok, well, um, I guess I’m going back,” Jackie said. “Come on down if you want. If not, we’ll be back in a little while.” And she walked back toward the boardwalk, shoulders slumping.
I always make up backstory for scenes like this. Ted never wanted to come at all. Ted wanted to go to the mountains. Ted is the Debbie Downer of family vacations.
And I thought, Next time, leave Ted home.

Dragonflies like to hang out at the beach. I don’t know why.
As if there needs to be a reason to hang out at the beach.

I can’t tell you how many people I’ve seen talking on their cell phones on the beach. I thought I was bad—I brought my work tools with me, but I leave my cell phone and my laptop in the condo. And it’s not just that I don’t want to get sand in the keyboard.
Still, people who know I’m at the beach will call me and say, “Did you get my email this morning?” and “Didn’t you get my voicemail?” And I say, well, no, I was at the beach all morning.
They always seem surprised.

A Good Beach Read

I’m spending two weeks at the beach, which naturally brings on the rains. When on vacation, I’m used to hearing the locals say, “I’ve never seen it rain like this in July,” or “Thank God, the drought is over.”

So on the one sunny day we had in the first three, I stayed out too long and got burnt. (I was the one slathering on broad-spectrum SPF70 under the beach umbrella while my dark-skinned male companions were flying kites and basking in the sun.) They got scarcely toasted; I got roasted.

So yesterday while I was sitting on the lanai, writing and gazing out at the ocean, pining for sun and sand, the significant others made a sand sculpture of The Dragon Heir. It was the talk of the beach.

Isn’t it cool?



And here I am with the artists…..

Now we just need some dragon tracks into the water….

Making My Peace with Winter

The Ranger at the Rocky Mountain National Park visitor center seemed out of place with her North Carolina drawl. “You only have a few hours, you say? Well, Trail Ridge Road is closed, you know, but the drive up to Bear Lake is real pretty,” she said. “Only we’ve had a few cars slide off the road this morning. The sand trucks just went out, so you may want to give it an hour or two before you set out.”
“That’s all right,” my husband said when we got back to the car. “An hour more or less won’t make any difference. I’ll just drive slow.”
That’s my husband. To him, weather is irrelevant. Me, I’ve never liked winter. Too many clothes, too much hassle.
So we drove up Bear Lake Road, creeping around the curves and tip-toeing over areas of black ice.
In Northeastern Ohio, where I live, we have what’s called lake effect. The weather can vary dramatically depending on the wind direction and whether you’re east or west of the lake. In RMNP, they have…mountain effect? We drove through several mini climates on our way up the road. In some places, the pavement was showing, and in others, there was solid snowpack and three foot walls of snow to either side, left there by the plows.
I knew I was in trouble when I saw the other hikers in the Bear Lake parking lot squirming into gaiters and snow pants. My husband and I were among the few people who were not strapping on snowshoes.
I’d thought I was prepared. I’d put on my brand new Spyder Thinsulate ski jacket and hat and toasty warm gloves. I wore my hiking boots and wool socks. But the brand of the day seemed to be The North Face, and with the temperature in the teens, the wind bit through my jeans with such force I looked down several times to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to put them on.
Sigh. Whether its formal dinners and weddings to hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park—I’m always underdressed.
The sign said, “Bear Lake, 250 Feet.” Even I thought I could make it that far. The path to the lake overlook had been packed down by many snowshoes. Once there, we noticed that people were snowshoeing around the lake. “Bear Lake Trail, .5 mile.” Half a mile? Hah! No problem. I walked three miles regularly at home.
At first, we seemed to be doing better in our hiking boots than our friends in their snowshoes. But the further we went, the less traffic there’d been before us, and the looser the snow. Soon, I was struggling, between the knee-deep snow and the climb. We decided to take our chances down on the ice. Surely the snow wouldn’t be as deep down there.
Wrong! The far end of the lake was piled in deep drifts over a seventeen-inch base. It was like swimming waist-deep in quicksand--for vertically-challenged me, anyway. “I can’t do this!” I gasped, and we headed back for the overlook.
From there, we took another groomed trail to Nymph Lake. I’d been there in summer, and was amazed at how different it looked. The stark skeletons of trees cast blue shadows over the snow. Pines brushed by the wind sifted snow like glitter onto the trails. Although there were a lot of people there, the sounds seemed muffled and muted, the woods robed in a cathedral hush.
On the way back down, we were swooshed several times by cross country skiers who were having way too good a time. And I thought, maybe I’ll get myself some long underwear and pull out those cross-country skis.

Maybe I’ll even get myself a pair of gaiters.

Wyoming Dreams or Where Do Writers Get Their Ideas?

I’m back from a long hiatus from the blogosphere, the consequence of a looming book deadline and vacation. We spent a week in Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. I took my laptop along and did get some editing done during long car rides and other free moments. But Internet and phone access was chancy. Yellowstone especially was very low tech. My brand new I-phone toy wouldn’t even work in most parts of the park. Must be all that geothermal activity.

Actually, I was working the whole time. No, I didn’t take the laptop on the whitewater rafting trip. But writers are collectors of characters, images, and experiences that resurface in their work. And vacations by their definition provide access to substrate not found in the everyday.

Vacations are full of characters. The National Parks, like amusement parks and the county fair, have broad appeal that draws a cross-section of people. We often encounter the Foolhardy Family, who seem to believe that the natural world is a kind of Disneyland place where nothing bad can happen. We see them climbing over fences to get that great photo, posing Grandma and little Timmy with the bison, hanging over the hot spring, and dancing on the precipice.

There are the extreme sports people, who make a living guiding whitewater trips or soaring off mountain peaks in hang gliders with tourists strapped in tandem. In Alaska, our float trip guide confessed that the first priority of a seasonal guide is to find a girlfriend with a house, to avoid sleeping in a tent all summer. He passed along other guide strategies, like how to choose a 3-day shirt (the 3-day shirt comes in dark colors, so it doesn’t show the dirt.)

Vacations are often an intense sequence of experiences, to be stored up and savored over time. Grand Teton was a landscape of extremes: Mountains jagged enough to prick yourself on. Meadows sparkling with wildflowers, even in August, the scent of sagebrush after a rain (and we had plenty). Jackson Hole—where a converted house trailer on a speck of ground might cost $1.5 million, where fringed leather jackets and tooled Western boots and silver and turquoise jewelry were so in context I wanted to buy it all. A summer so short and sweet you want to dig in your heels and slow it down. I was continually ambushed by the beauty of the place. “Oh!” I kept saying. “Oh, my!”

Yellowstone was Tolkien-esque: fuming fissures, percolating mudholes and sulfur stinking springs surrounded by the grotesque skeletons of dead lodgepole pines. Mineralized water created chalky terraces and moonscape towers. Elk and bison picked their way across thin-crusted thermal meadows, oblivious to the posted signs-- “Dangerous Ground: Keep Off.” Hot springs dumped steaming water into the clear, cold Firehole River.

We stayed on the shores of lovely Yellowstone Lake with its underwater geysers and hot springs and volcanic beaches. We hiked Uncle Tom’s Trail into the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, descending metal stairs clinging to the side of a cliff to view a waterfall aas pretty as any I’ve seen.

We listened politely to the ranger lecture on magma chambers and calderas, but I knew for a fact that under our feet was a dragon imprisoned in an underground chamber, whose angry tail caused the ground to shake, and whose breath leaked out all over the park.

OK, so how does this relate to writing? Probably the most common question I get as a writer is “Where do you get your ideas?” And I often respond with a quote from Tolkien: “One writes such a story out of the leafmold of the mind.” This leafmold is a rich, fertile mixture of all the people you’ve met, the places you’ve been, the experiences you’ve had, and your emotional history. That’s where stories grow.

But we all have experiences, and many of us have ideas for books, but we’re not all writers. What sets the writer apart? Another possible metaphor comes from my family’s tradition of quiltmaking. The materials for pieced quilts came often from chance—scraps from sewing projects, remnants from old clothes, mill ends from the local textile mill. The substrate was necessary, but not sufficient. Give two quiltmakers the same materials, and they will create totally unique masterpieces. Writers are the same. They see the story in the fragments given to them, and they create something new and better from them.

So I think would-be writers focus too much on the quest for ideas. You don’t have to find a new idea, a unique idea, a great idea. It’s not all about the ideas. It’s about what you do with them. It’s about craft. And I’ll talk about that in other postings.