Flight already gave a brilliant summary of our over-the-top dining experience at Single Thread, so I won’t devote much print (that expression is approaching dodo status…) to my version. There are a few things about our dinner I would like to add before I address the main strand weaving through and connecting all my present thoughts, namely the assessment of our journey to this point, what our trajectory looks like for the immediate future, the next few months, and ultimately the years beyond…

Before I get to that particular thread, as who knows how long I will wax poetic while I pull on that one, I wanted to bring to light a glaring omission in Flight’s recap. As with most ludicrous dining experiences (and we do have only a handful of such data points), each table is assigned a sommelier to describe the wine offerings and, more important, how each one complements the flavors of each dish. Flight opted for the “standard” (hardly) wine pairing and received an amazing taste with every course, which I believe he accurately captured. His oversight, however, was in neglecting to address my non-alcoholic pairings, to which I attribute his only enjoying a few jealously guarded sips while I was savoring each and every quaff.

The non-alcoholic beverages were beyond anything I might have imagined, which is, of course, why I don’t run such an establishment. Seriously though, what would you concoct to bring out the flavors in house-made tofu that has the consistency of burrata with an equally rich flavor (we learned the sous-chef had been perfecting that recipe for nearly a year – !!!) paired with the season’s best tomato harvest and capped with a snow of orange pepper all resting on some other goodness I can’t remember?

Um, Orange Crush and something tomatoish? At least the color would be right…

Or how about this… I mean, where do you even start?

Single Thread’s what – I don’t even know if there is an actual position responsible for such creations – is charged with this monumental task. To go with the aforementioned tofu dish (and I feel lame for referring to it as such), I was presented the perfect blend of strained fresh tomato puree, oolong tea of some variety, and hints of other earthy flavors that my inadequate palate couldn’t quite identify. Without exception, I preferred my non-alcoholic choice to Flight’s wine pairing. Whatever the exact title, they (and surely it must be a team of “they”) are very gifted at their job. I never thought I’d ever form these words together in a sentence, but my favorite drink was a turmeric margarita of sorts. ?!?!!!

Exactly. It was insanely good.

While the food and its presentation was nothing short of exceptional, the service itself involved the coordinated efforts of at least a dozen professionals outside the kitchen and it was flawless. I have to say, it felt luxuriously decadent to have one’s every need anticipated and then exceeded by a factor of ten. Although we thoroughly enjoyed our escape to living as royalty, we had much that needed our immediate attention.  Since we only had a short time without our kids who tend to derail most trains of thought when Flight and I are discussing anything from toothpaste preferences to the meaning of life, we had to make the most of our time away, most notably to get our crap together and do some planning.  I’m reminded of an article in The Onion from many years ago. Ah, would that I had such a week…

Save finding the Money Tree, which I believe must be located in the same grove as the equally elusive Time Tree, our plans to further execute our intended flight path (entirely fluid as well) are somewhat dependent on how long we can continue to pay a mortgage on a house that hasn’t yet sold while we travel the country. I know there’s got to be a calculus equation to optimize the length of time we can maintain this lifestyle, but I can’t want to bring myself to define or solve it. I really don’t want to cut this experience short for reasons I don’t yet quite understand, so I’m tempted to ignore the algorithm constantly morphing in the background and have tried instead to focus on getting into a groove and living in the present. Maybe that’s my way of trying to identify a concrete and potentially priceless variable to enter into the equation, thereby proving the value of continuing our trek even at the risk of irresponsibly ignoring the obvious financial repercussions. I don’t know…

As far as what we are learning and my appraisal of those lessons, I can lump them into general categories, namely our growing knowledge of Operations (how we plan and execute everything from meals to travel route to where we park to Flight’s work schedule, etc.), Roadschooling (educating our three delightful children wherever we move our mobile classroom), Living as a Family of Five in 280 ft² and, separately, my observations on how each of the kids has taken to this adventure. I’ll try to flesh out these notions in the coming weeks as I am able to get to them.

Ultimately, I give our Operations performance an “average,” although only just (see this post for an explanation of ratings). This lukewarm assessment is mostly based on our having made the most of some phenomenal experiences we’ve managed to enjoy thus far (e.g. exploring the UP, The Eclipse, kayaking in String Lake in Grand Teton National Park, floating the Deschutes, hiking the Cascade Trail, etc. – hurray!) that counterbalances our efforts (or dismal lack thereof – boo!) to include the whole family in our quest to see our nation. While we did a fair job of helping the kids create their respective spaces prior to getting underway, we haven’t done well with roping them into the whole experience since departing.  Frankly, we’ve botched that altogether and, now that we’ve recognized it, we’ll appropriately course correct.

Official roadschooling is just ramping up really and, as I’m still getting a feel for how that will unfold, “average” seems to be about right. You can read more about why we’re even going down this road and what my initial and potentially naive thoughts were here.   Overall, we’ve been learning throughout our entire journey, certainly beyond what our kids might learn in any classroom, however I can’t specifically define what our actual school year will look like just yet.  Nor can I possibly imagine what fruit the seeds we’re planting might produce. Since that can’t be known for years to come, I’m content just to see what our days will soon evolve into following our extended summer of travel.

Our experience living as a Family of 5 in ~280 ft² gets an “above”. Living together just so has been poignantly rich but with some associated heartache too. I guess that’s expected in any family situation, certainly, but as Flight noted I think that we tend to feel the range of emotions more acutely because there is really no escape from each other. However, this constant close proximity has necessitated that we better learn how to effectively talk things through, appropriately identify and assert our boundaries, and immediately articulate any frustrations and joys along the way, which is something (I hope) that should serve us well regardless the size of our next family living space – and beyond. There’s still so much to learn as we continue our individual and collective journeys (kinda life’s whole point), yet I can’t help but feel as though we’re solidifying something priceless as we move forward, all likely owed to these self-imposed space constraints.

So, where does that leave me in defining the algorithm?  I’m still not sure, but likely no further along.  The bottom line is this: I’m loving this deployment and all that it entails.  Sure, we can certainly do many things better, but learning how to do so as a flight may be what this particular journey is all about.  We seem to be evolving well with the growth it’s catalyzing in our family and I’m fairly certain I won’t ever be able to assign that a value.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson in planning biking excursions with our children. Nope. Ever the optimist (I have Flight to blame for that…), I thought it would be a slightly different although certainly no less grand plan to bike the other direction down the nearby trail to make a Whole Foods run, and this time enlisted Keeper’s company for the trek. Cool mother-son time, right?

Our intent was to purchase some steak to grill for dinner, and a few other assorted items. Between my not bringing a bike lock, which meant Keeper had to stand guard duty while I shopped, and Keeper’s prescription sunglasses going on walk about (they fell out of his pocket, but we retraced our route and fortunately found them), I was surprised that I actually found what I was looking for (and then some) in the butcher’s case. Still smarting from having downed yesterday’s event and threatening to have a repeat performance today, I wasn’t sure that would be feasible.

Achieving only one below for the lock situation (I wasn’t going to own my copilot’s issues), I marginally passed the event and we brought home dinner fixings. After we devoured a delicious dinner, followed by some strong puzzle work, the combination of which made for a most welcome (i.e. relatively drama free) evening, I dove into planning tomorrow’s outing in “The City,” tapping into Flight’s parents’ savvy.

Flight was landing at SFO and, since we were going to collect him, we planned to spend the afternoon and into the evening exploring The City. Our first stop was the Embarcadero, specifically the Ferry Building, to grab lunch.

If you’ve not explored this collection of foodie establishments, you are definitely missing out. After slowly circling the building to assess all the options, we settled on the familiar comforts of grilled cheese (although ridiculously appointed) and burgers and enjoyed dining out on the patio where we had a great view of the USS Essex, a sizable amphibious assault ship that was docked at a nearby pier for San Francisco’s Fleet Week. More on that next post…

I had been most intrigued by the offerings available at Humphry Slocombe Ice Cream on our pre-dining tour. Although you can enjoy ice cream at any time of the day (it’s not just for breakfast any more), Flight and I try to model “lunch first” behavior, even if it is comprised of variations (albeit tasty) of bread and cheese, which woefully appears to be our kids’ go to choice. Although Humphry Slocombe wasn’t quite on par with Salt & Straw of Portland, I was duly impressed. Check out the flavor selection:

I think Flight picked the most wisely: “Secret Breakfast” touted bourbon and corn flake goodness (!!!). Not to be outdone in selection, I chose Persian Lime & Curry, which showcased the Oaktown Spice Shop’s not so secret ingredients.

Many moons ago, Flight and I agreed that whenever we dined out (okay, maybe not necessarily observed with today’s lunch), we would lean towards menu selections that we don’t typically or easily could prepare at home. Because I also prefer to make my own ice cream when we are living in a sticks and bricks house (unfortunately the key component of our ice cream maker wouldn’t fit in Davista’s freezer), I am always on the lookout for new and different flavor combinations.   I do enjoy curry and lime paired in savory dinners, but was not sure how those flavors would come together when presented in an ice cream medium. Let’s just say it was no candy cap mushroom ice cream for sure, but was above passable. That said, I’m pretty sure I won’t be concocting my own wherever we next settle. Secret Brekkie, however, totally rocked and I’m already planning my take on the recipe.

Happily sated, we made our way to Ghirardelli Square to appease Keeper’s (and my) dark chocolate fixation. As we stepped out of the Ferry Terminal Building, Flight reminded me of one of our previous visits where we’d thought to hire a bike taxi up to Ghirardelli Square. The cyclist took one look at the five of us, minus several years of growth, and said, “Nope. I can’t get you there.” While outwardly chuckling at the memory, I fervently hoped that our kids would be more enthusiastic about the trek, especially one that included riding cable cars – and with the potential reward of a dark chocolate carrot.

We (Keeper and Flight) spent most of our (their) time in Ghirardelli engineering the best method to stack single-serving sized chocolate squares in a souvenir tin so as to maximize the number you could take home. Whenever I go to their Flagship Store, I am always curious to see what seasonal samples Ghirardelli will be handing out. Today’s taste was Pumpkin Caramel Spice, about which WoodSprite uttered this high praise, “Hey Momma, it’s SO GOOD! This is my favorite chocolate ever. Can we please, please, PLEASE get some of these?” It warmed my heart when Keeper then systematically asked everyone in the family which chocolates they preferred so he could be sure to include those in the tin’s inventory, and included several Pumpkin Caramel Spice for his youngest sister.

 

Before we departed the chocolate mecca, Firebolt was interested in watching how the chocolate was made and sidled up to the case where some variety of fruits and nuts bathed in chocolate was being poured. In reward for her curiosity and asking good questions about the process (chemistry class complete), Firebolt received a sizable sample, which she then shared with the rest of the family. I was just about sweet treated out and was eager to get away from the sugar factory and walk a little more.

 

As we ambled down Jefferson Street towards Fisherman’s Wharf, we passed a door labeled with the National Park Service emblem. “What’s this?” I wondered in a Jack Skellington sort of way and was similarly sucked into the retail space associated with the San Francisco Maritime Heritage Museum. I purchased one of the NPS stickers for my passport (yes, that’s actually a thing I first learned about in Yellowstone) and asked some questions about the museum across the street, namely whether or not there was a Junior Ranger Program for the girls to complete.

Before we stepped across the street, a lovely woman was at the register checking out. Apparently there was a deal where if you spent a certain amount of money, you were given a free gift, either an orca kite or a double-sided astronaut puzzle, options that are almost as hard to choose between as tarantulas and ponies. Because this woman had no children at home to spoil, she asked if our girls would like to be the recipients of said free gift. “Yes, please!” they replied in unison. When asked whether they would prefer the kite or the puzzle, Firebolt replied, “Puzzle” at the same time WoodSprite said, “Kite.”

Hoo boy. How’s this going to go down, I wondered…

The girls amazed me by talking it through and opted for the kite, which WoodSprite happily received and hugged closely to her chest, sporting a delighted grin. The woman behind the register said hopefully, “We can do two kites, if you’d like.” Obviously a little disappointed but working hard to be mature about this turn of events, Firebolt frankly said, “Well, I’d prefer the puzzle,” and, although I appreciated her honesty, I pulled her aside for a short discussion about being gracious and grateful for unexpected gifts. Just as we wrapped up our teaching moment, the cashier handed Firebolt an astronaut puzzle. “We can do two free gifts, just make sure you go across to the museum to check it out.”

Whoa! Although they didn’t really need any extra incentive as they were both eager to add another Junior Ranger Badge to their growing cache, we made a bee line for the museum which was approaching closing time. Understanding the time pressure, the girls moved briskly through the building, intent on achieving their mission. As we made our way from room to room, I was thrilled to learn how The City had grown (I’m a bit of a history nerd that way) from a haphazard collection of sea shanties to a “solid city of brick and stone” (Richard Henry Dana said just so in 1859).

Amazingly, most of the city’s acreage grew as a result of so many landfill operations, most notably turning Yerba Buena Cove, the original port and staging point for the Gold Rush, into the current downtown district. Periodically when renovation or other construction work has necessitated additional digging in this region, work crews have discovered random remnants of the cove’s previous life, including wholly preserved ship hulls, sleeping under San Francisco’s streets. Apparently it was easier to just fill in around any abandoned vessels than move them elsewhere.

Badges in hand after swearing in at the 11^th hour, we embarked on one more cable car ride, this time to Chinatown.

Early into our exploration of the area, Flight purchased a 3-yolk (Most Auspicious!) Moon Cake from one of the bakeries, to savor in honor of tomorrow’s Moon Festival.  As we walked along the streets and window shopped, occasionally going into some of the stores to explore, I was reminded of my brief day-long visit to Hong Kong many years ago where I saw a similar variety of shops packed even more cheek-to-jowl. Although Chinatown didn’t quite smell the same, which I attribute to finding fewer butchers’ shops per capita locally, the menus were eerily identical. And I couldn’t understand a single one, then or now.

Even with a modicum of exposure through Chinese Medicine pinyin, my grasp of Cantonese and Mandarin hardly even approaches basic understanding and the few words of English provided on the (see below) menus were meant (I think) to enlighten potential customers such as me. It did nothing of the sort. I’m not sure I know what Explosive Chili Peppers or Spicy Nummbing Kidney (not to be confused with Flaming Spicy Kidney, the next offering over) means exactly, but Firebolt’s expression captured my thoughts exactly.

Instead, we opted to go to Zachary’s for some more, wait for it, bread and cheese, this time of the Chicago Deep Dish Pizza variety. We all thoroughly enjoyed the dinner, if not the one off service, yet truthfully I was already salivating over tomorrow’s anticipated feast of justice awaiting us at Single Thread…

 

 

 

It’s a tough choice really… Upon our arrival in Alamo, Flight’s parents had reminded me that it was tarantula season in nearby Mt. Diablo State Park. They suggested an outing to check out the enormous, hideously hairy, burrow dwellers that were out and about in droves. In the recesses of my can’t-unsee-but-would-prefer-to-banish memory bank I recall seeing pictures of my niece and nephews from years ago holding same tarantulas (even the male spiders live more than a decade) against the backdrop of the Mt. Diablo. A closet arachnophobe (maybe my 8-year old self was scarred by this scene from my favorite movie?), I have the heebee jeebees even now as I type this.

Were I to be asked about touching tarantulas on purpose, “No, thank you,” would confidently escape my lips before the question’s second syllable was uttered. However, since I didn’t want to come between my children and a cool formative experience with their grandparents, I remained silent in the discourse. I deferred to the three who would potentially be picking up the wee beasties and posing with them for photo ops because I certainly wasn’t going to do it.  Unfortunately (?), our kids were also less than enthusiastic about such an undertaking and I could not want to try to talk them into going.

Sorry, Grammy and Papa, I just couldn’t.

After our Stanford tailgate, football game, and overnight on the Farm, we had a small window of opportunity for some girl-bonding time following a late lunch. I had intended to enjoy a lovely outing with our girls during this time, but instead made a debacle of the remainder of the afternoon.

Instead of stalking tarantulas, the girls and I opted to ride our bikes down the local trail to feed carrots to some of the neighbors’ ponies. Okay, so they were actually horses, but nominally downgrading the cute factor associated with our chosen activity doesn’t really change the story. Flight’s parents live along a lovely paved hiking/biking trail that runs for miles, connecting several of the nearby towns. Our agreed upon destination was maybe 1/17 of a mile down the trail, literally less than 100 steps away from Davista’s door.

After the horses gobbled up every last carrot the girls offered, I got an idea. An awful idea. I got a wonderful, awful idea. Encouraged by the girls’ enthusiasm to take their bikes out on the trail, I thought we could maybe ride a little farther down the path as I knew one of the houses along the trail boasted a menagerie of farm animal statues and would be a cool thing to see. Great plan, right? Unfortunately, I, um, neglected to get buy-in from either of my fellow riders before extending our excursion, which is what naval aviators would refer to as a “Below in headwork.”

That probably warrants some explanation…

While earning their wings of gold, naval aviators are graded on every aspect of a training flight, namely how well you: preflight the aircraft, can speak to the aircraft’s interconnected systems, brief the weather and its impact on choosing alternate airfields, complete your checklist items, execute any and all emergency procedures, and, of course, preflight, start, shut down, and post-flight the aircraft – and everything in between. Most critically assessed, however, is your ability to think things through while sitting in the hot seat. That overarching aspect of evaluation is called “headwork.”

When Flight and I were in our respective flight training pipelines back in the day, for each of these graded criteria you were awarded an “above (average),” an “average,” or a “below (average),” meaning you outperformed, were on par with, or deemed a total knucklehead when compared to your fellow aviators in training, respectively. Two “belows” on graded criteria in any one flight constituted an event failure or a “down,” which required a performance review board (or PRB = the opportunity for you to own your shortcomings before a host of flight instructors) and, if given the opportunity, an event refly. If you achieved two downed flights, you would be asked to find a new occupation instead of flying aircraft for the U.S. Navy. Ouch. If you chose a less than ideal alternate airfield, that wasn’t nearly as big a deal as not being able to effectively think things through, most especially in self-induced crises. Receiving a “below” in headwork was just plain bad juju.

And I earned mine today.

Selling the girls on biking over to feed the horses was one thing. Asking them to ride almost 34 times as far and uphill (both ways) appeared to go beyond the flexing capability of either sleep-deprived young lady, especially Firebolt since Flight had raised her seat higher than her confidence allowed and, lacking the proper tool, I had been unable to lower it. And I insisted she ride anyway. We’re only going to feed the horses, I had assured her.

Understandably (maybe?), upon being charged with riding further, Firebolt felt as though she had been hoodwinked and, far from tacitly accepting this change in plans, loudly complained with every pedal stroke that moved us farther down the trail and away from relaxing at Grammy and Papa’s. At one point she actually refused to cross the next road, even when I reassured her that the “farm” we were aiming for was most definitely on the next block. While I was starting to realize I had lost all street cred and thought I might never find said “farm”, I truly didn’t understand her misgivings about our quest – I mean who wouldn’t want to see Shawn the Sheep, right?

I finally managed to coax Firebolt across the street, at which point she subsequently flat out refused to move any further. Stubborn as they come, that one. No idea where she gets it… Fortuitously (?), Firebolt had dug in her heels steps away from one of the trail’s few water fountains. While Firebolt had been fighting against making any forward progress, WoodSprite’s accompanying whining harmony had been to the tune of being oh so very thirsty. I thus earned another “below” for today’s evolution, this one for failing to pre-flight and pack our provisions, which currently numbered zero. Not even sunscreen I noted with a glance to the cloudless sky. Crapitty crap, crap, crap.

WoodSprite dismounted and was helped to slake her thirst by none other than her exceptional big sister who held the bubbler valve for her while she gulped down some of the city’s best warm water. Frustrated with Firebolt’s recalcitrance (and my own inability to manage any “averages” on this event, let alone “aboves”) and well past my own tolerance for whining, I mumbled something to the effect of “I think it’s just up here, I’m going to check” and pushed forward on my bike to further investigate. I stopped only about 20 yards beyond the water fountain where the “farm” serenely awaited us, but that short separation was past the comfort level for the girls, neither of whom had heard my explanation for moving on, seemingly without them.

“At last – there it is!” I thought, much relieved, and gave thanks for having the target in sight. My gratitudes for having reached our destination were cut short, unexpectedly interrupted by caterwauling erupting from both girls as they each burst into tears. Firebolt’s angry tears were accompanied by an incredulous littany, “That’s IT?! THAT’s what we’ve come to see?! That’s not even a real farm. Those animals aren’t REAL! You didn’t say they weren’t REAL!” WoodSprite’s alarmed bawling, “Mommy, don’t leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeave… Moooommmmeeeeeee!!!” was proclaimed in a panic, as she tried desperately to get back on her bike to catch me before my presumed escape.

Strong work, TACCO, strong work.

Disgusted at having been further bamboozled, Firebolt boycotted viewing the animal statues altogether. WoodSprite, after recovering from her perceived abandonment, did venture forth to check them out, but was similarly underwhelmed by our objective. She placidly communicated her disenchantment in one long, cool, assessing look that, with the candor of the very young, spoke volumes.

I heard her loud and clear, “Three Belows. Hey Momma – that’s a down.”

After a few painful moments taking in the “farm,” all of which I spent wondering just how I had gotten us here, we remounted our rides and unceremoniously cycled back to Grammy and Papa’s, hot, tear-stained, and eager to retreat to our own corners. Exceptional execution of intended girl-bonding evolution. I think, perhaps, holding tarantulas would have been less traumatic…

I still don’t get it. I’ve been married to a Stanford grad for over 15 years now and I still don’t get the name of the Stanford team. Cardinal? Is it ever plural? And the what’s with the tree? These questions remain as unanswered today as they were when I first posed them years ago, yet, as with many such existential queries, the older I get the more at peace I have become with not knowing. Actually, let’s go back a few years to a less complicated time, shall we? Eleven years (to be exact), when Stanford and Navy had their last encounter on the football field.

We had flown down to the Bay Area from where we were living in Washington State to see the inaugural game in the new stadium.   Flight had dressed Keeper in Stanford gear and was similarly garbed. Flight’s parents joined us for the evolution, also wearing cardinal (see, it’s a color, that I get…), and I was proudly wearing my N-star letter sweater. It was a beautiful day (Flight had commented then (and now – see below) on how glorious the weather always seemed to be on football game days regardless of any monsoons in the days leading up to them). I looked around and saw that I was sitting amidst a sea of red, the hue of cardinal to be exact. Long story short, Stanford never showed up. Navy ran away with the game and the Midshipmen easily won 37-9. For Christmas that year, I framed the below pictures of Keeper for Flight to remind him of that glorious game.

Flash forward more than a decade, we are back at the Stadium, this time sporting three children, all of whom are now outfitted in Stanford gear. As am I since they are playing Arizona State, the only allegiance to which I may have is from watching Raising Arizona.

After enjoying some great eats and an excellent Stanford mini-reunion as we tailgated in style (see Flight’s post below), we meandered into the game just as the National Anthem sounded. We made our way high up behind the end zone where we cooked in the sun for the first three quarters.

Flight was generous in his summary of the kids’ perseverance in our collective incalescent state. WoodSprite, the fairest of our three, was huddled under my Navy fleece to keep the sun at bay and was sweltering in the added warmth. Flight made the first run to Davista to get some necessary (and forgotten) sunscreen. Flight and Firebolt then made the second run to get a lighter source of shade for WoodSprite and my bright red shell (really more crimson than cardinal) fit the bill nicely.

Early in the second quarter, our monkeys cried uncle and retreated beneath the redwoods guarding the area at the top of the stands. Flight and I alternated extracting ourselves from conversations to go check on our wayward three. At one point I came upon them, impressed by how kindly and respectfully they were sharing the frozen lemonade Firebolt had purchased after Flight had given her the funds to do so.

At half time, Flight’s parents absconded to the cool shadow of the home team’s side. After exchanging a few texts that assured us there were plenty of open seats nearby, we bid our friends adieu and made our way to join them. Aside from the dirty looks from the octogenarian seated in front of us (our girls were occasionally free in flailing their legs, kicking the row of seats ahead of us – one of my own pet peeves about which I most certainly spoke with them), we enjoyed the final quarter in the refreshing shade.

Stanford’s victory in hand, we retreated to Davista to enjoy some gourmet burgers with Flight’s folks before rounding up our crew for a leisurely nighttime tour of the Farm. Classes were recently back in session, which became most obvious when one of the areas we came upon we found littered with loose rows of folding tables, each one labeled with a particular student interest group or extracurricular activity, and chalk instructions for how to try out or join any number of performance groups dotting the extensive patio beneath. Although it looked a little eerie by starlight (especially without any college students present), I felt my annual autumnal draw to go back to school (more on that in a future musing…). Flight and I observed that there seemed to be far more of these options than when we were in college (or perhaps we were equally oblivious to the opportunities on our respective campuses?).

Part of our tour took us through the Quad, which is comprised of the original structures defining the university.

Although class year loyalty isn’t nearly the big deal it is at the Naval Academy, the Stanford graduating classes have each buried a time capsule in the Quad filled with items reflecting their college years.

When we first came upon the ’90 square, Flight let us know that particular one predated his undergraduate tenure by a century. !!!

I have since learned the custom started in 1896 and the earlier classes buried their defining items retroactively. I don’t know when (or even if) they’ll be unearthing the subterranean museum documenting 125+ years of Stanford student life, but I think it’s a pretty cool tradition.

We returned to Davista basking in the joy of revisiting Flight’s old stomping grounds and made ready for his early departure for work the following morning. After much discussion about how to best skin that particular cat, we decided to do another dawn patrol back to his folks’ driveway.

My voice may have been the loudest in said discussion as I had zero interest in my threading Davista through trimmed limbs, both those surrounding our tailgate spot and the ones narrowing the entrance to Flight’s parents’ house. As per norm, Flight managed it far better than I might have and, after a quick turn, he was out the door and dashing back to the airport for his next trip. I was back to fending for our family solo (no great hardship while still parked in my in-laws’ driveway) until his return two days hence.

There’s much to contemplate in the meantime… What to see locally in Flight’s absence, a date night to plan, lessons syllabi to enact (after finalizing them), sorting out where to eventually live and how to get there, fleshing out more specific plans for the likely event that our house in Maryland doesn’t sell (um, go back, yes, but how exactly and for how long?), figuring out how to felt a hat, and finishing a jigsaw puzzle just to name a few… Most importantly, I wanted to carve out some special time with the girls. Overwhelmed by needing to tend to these immense planning evolutions, each requiring my undivided attention, I resolved to do something spontaneous with Firebolt and WoodSprite for some much needed girl-bonding time just as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Just wait until you see how well that manifested…

Just to clarify for the East Coast peeps, that means the area surrounding the San Francisco Bay. When Flight and I were first dating some eleventy billion years ago he identified it as such and was flabbergasted when I ask to which bay he was referring.   Maybe it was his provincial LA upbringing where everything east of The 5 was considered “Back East,” but he incredulously replied, “THE Bay. The San Francisco Bay, of course. What other Bay Area is there?” Having spent “Four Years by THE Bay,” I fired back, “Well, the Chesapeake Bay for one….”

Apparently by living west of the Mississippi for most of my adult life (and being married to Flight) I have adopted this West Coast frame of reference and was newly reminded that I, too, need to specify Bay location. I recently had a text exchange with a friend still teaching at USNA. I mentioned we were heading to the Bay Area next and she asked that I let her know when we could hang out after we get here (meaning there).

Oops.

I’ll again leave the discussion of transit from Caspar Beach to Alamo to Flight as I have nothing to add (I, um, knit and wrote some more…), save taking a few pictures as we progressed through about a dozen redwood groves. I will say it felt just wrong to be lumbering through these resting giants.

So, at last we arrived in the East Bay Area (of the San Francisco variety) welcoming the opportunity to soak in some time with family and stay put for a stretch (minus a planned short diversion to overnight at Stanford following a football game). As Flight mentioned, we’ve been going, going, going and could all use a reprieve from the frenetic pace. And access to a relatively unlimited on demand hot water supply (Northern California is officially out of drought status). And flushable toilets that don’t require consequent dumping.   You know, the basic luxuries.

Upon arrival we methodically worked through laundry and noted that undertaking is a much more sizable beast when tackling it one load at a time instead of knocking out numerous loads simultaneously at whatever Laundromat is nearest. I made the opportunity to do a no kidding assessment of where we were on the homeschool front and what needed to happen now that we had all reluctantly moved into the school year in earnest. More on that in my summary at two-months in…

A quick check-in with Flight’s sister and her family of athletes told us nothing had changed for them, meaning their frenetic schedule had slowed only nanoseconds since the departure of their oldest to eat, sleep, breathe water polo (and also go to college classes) at Pepperdine. Their younger two both anchor their respective varsity teams at College Park High School with all the practice, travel, and game time that involves. Just writing about it is exhausting. Unfortunately, Flight had two work trips scheduled during our stretch in town and they had to travel for various sporting events, so we had very small windows of opportunity to let the cousins reconnect and got something on the calendar immediately. As in our next evening in town.

We joined them for a lovely dinner (they have a great outdoor space for entertaining) and our contribution was Creamy Pumpkin Prosciutto Rigatoni, another of my favorite Fall recipes.

Our first days without Flight passed in Alamo, tackling school first and then relaxing with Grammy and Papa until the evening’s sporting event.   First, our niece rocking volleyball…

I can mostly follow volleyball. After a less than stellar performance as a swimmer my freshman year in high school, I had a good friend convince me I should try out for the volleyball team (she was a rock star setter).  Frankly, team sports weren’t big for me growing up, which means I lacked (and mostly still do) the fundamentals of every single one.  While my Mom had played varsity basketball in college, I only had a dismal appearance on the middle school team where I mostly sat the bench.  I know I’m wrong envisioning her running the court in something like what’s pictured below, especially considering it predates her court time by more than half a century, but I just can’t help myself.  Maybe that’s why I never really learned to play hoops.

Or any other traditional American team sport really.  It would appear that I inherited my Dutch-Indonesian father’s lack of interest in such activities and, as a result, didn’t quite get the basic strategies of play. At the end of high school volleyball try-outs, the last spot came down to me and another sophomore who had played the previous year and, based on my cluelessness and her relative savvy, she made the team and I did not. After a couple days’ (self) pity party, I tried out for the diving team, which worked out much better for everybody involved, most especially the volleyball team.

With some (albeit it shaky and rather dated) foundation in the rules, I truly enjoy watching volleyball. At our niece’s game I was surprised to learn of a new (to me) position that was actually introduced over a decade ago. The libero is a player who wears a contrasting jersey and is strictly defensive, meaning she or he plays only in the back row, can occasionally set the ball but only from behind the 3-meter line, and rarely serves. My sister-in-law let me know that the libero is often someone who is more vertically challenged than her or his teammates. It’s too bad that position was so long in developing, that pretty much defined where I might have fit in. Ah well…

Our niece, however, is a fantastic player no matter where she is on the court. As our girls will likely never have any height advantage to speak of, I’m not sure they will have the makings of volleyball players, but they sure enjoyed watching their cousin.

The next day the kids picked an enormous bucket’s worth of apples from Grammy and Papa’s tree and we made apple sauce in the magical Instant Pot.

Following our foraging and preserving lesson for the day, we got to see our youngest nephew playing water polo.  After scoring the his third goal of the game, his sister started the cheer, “He’s a freshman!  He’s a freshman!”, letting the opposing team know they had three years of such future beatings ahead of them.

I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a water polo match in person, but the sport is just plain dirty. There is so much nastiness that goes on under water.   Sometimes the players look not unlike gators rolling their prey.  Seriously.  Furthermore, if players are really good at it, they can have an arm or two above their heads while seeming to have no notion of how the slow death roll consuming their opponent is happening.  It was tricky to follow the refs’ calls on what constituted a foul and/or who was responsible for incurring said grievance.  All I saw was flailing, followed sometimes by whistles and occasional player ejections, sometimes not.  And, truthfully, I’m not sure watching more games would help me clue in.  Having been a diver (of the springboard/tower variety and not scuba), I have many friends who played water polo and have always questioned their sanity in playing the grueling sport. After refreshing my memory of the game’s particulars, I am still convinced that those who choose to play are phenomenal athletes, without a doubt, but also certifiable.

Maybe it was too much for Firebolt. She was consumed by her latest book and couldn’t be bothered with the game. Have we mentioned she’s a bookworm?

Having seen the team uniform for female water polo players, I’m okay with that. Flight’s parents commented on the inappropriate garb for young ladies when we saw some of the high school girls’ team players departing the pool. I thought they were making it up. Or maybe said “team uniform” was a weird California thing.  Or something. Not believing that’s really what female water polo players wear in the pool, I Googled it. I will not be responsible for images you can’t unsee, so I won’t link to what I found. However, feel free to Google it yourself, if you are so inclined.

Yikes. That’s all I have to say about that…

Next up, the Cardinal take on the Sun Devils. I will tackle (I know, terrible pun) that next…

From Patrick’s Point, we headed nearly four hours south to tuck in at Caspar Beach RV Park, which is just north of Mendocino. I’ll let Flight dig into the transit because he was paying very close attention as we navigated the tiny road that wound its way along the rocky coast. I alternated between blogging and knitting, purposefully paying no attention to the steep drop-off only feet outside my window.

Aside from a few audible cues from Davista (e.g. her kicking into higher RPMs to help us descend or climb more safely) and Flight’s consequent commentary, I was blissfully unaware of the driving challenges peppering our journey’s current leg while trying to remember details from those of weeks past.   Occasionally I would glance outside to capture mental snapshots of the alluring scenery’s gradual change, but would get a little woozy every time. And thus I was repeatedly reminded that it literally serves far better for me to blindly trust in Flight’s piloting skills to keep the ginormous complex of Davista and Toad squarely on the road than to witness it first hand.

We all breathed a sigh of relief when we pulled into the RV Park, Davista included. Although the accommodations were quite tight with our neighbors, the beach just across the small access road more than made up for any feelings of confinement. As soon as we had made camp, we went across the way to explore. Ever since he found a massive stash of enormous whip-like kelp on an Oregon Beach, Keeper has been keen to play with any similar sea-ropes he finds.

Firebolt and I, however, were delighted by all the sea glass littering the beach and vowed to come back on a collection mission first thing in the morning at low tide. There was far more of this treasure than I’d seen anywhere along our journey and, believe me, I have looked.

There were some doubters in the family who didn’t think we’d get up early enough to meet low tide. I may have been one of them. Fortunately it wasn’t ludicrously early, yet despite it being earlier than most reveilles, we began our search bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to see what the ocean had left us in her retreat.

We spent two hours beach combing and returned to camp joyfully toting our spoils:

While Flight was doing this:

Our grill was not playing nicely and, with the motivation of an upcoming Stanford tailgate, that needed to be sorted ASAP.

Firebolt and I agreed we had way more fun and agreed we’d try again in the morning.

Upon seeing our gathered loot, Flight reminded me of “Glass Beach,” a place where there’s supposedly more sea glass than pebbles, but you can’t collect any. Hmmm… I vaguely remembered that Flight’s parents had spoken of this seemingly mythical land that was purported to be somewhere nearby. Upon further research, I learned that not only was Glass Beach was for real, it was located only 7.8 miles to north of our campground. My inner sea glass huntress asserted herself, “Go there, we must!”

This research also allowed me to get my facts straight. “Glass Beach” is actually a series of three beaches that boast the largest concentration of sea glass in the world. Or so say the experts at www.findseaglass.net.   One of the three beaches is an outcropping of MacKerricher State Park, but that ownership ends at the mean high water mark, meaning anything below that is fair game, and the other two treasure troves are without such constraints. WOO HOO!

Having been previously bitten by the sea glass-collecting bug (and clearly still infected), I’d already studied what factors go into making a particular beach a likely candidate for a good harvest. As you may imagine, plentiful sea glass is dependent on a glass source (a nearby garbage dump or close to shipping lanes – sad, but true) and enough routine (pounding) wave action to smooth the glass into a frosty image of its former self. For decades (1906 – 1967), the good people of Fort Bragg used this spot as an active garbage dumpsite. In the late ‘90s a massive clean up effort was initiated to undo much of the resulting environmental damage and the outcome is a beautiful rocky coast with only these treasures hinting at its unsavory past. Rather magnanimous of the ocean to take our transgressions and turn them into things of beauty…

But first to Mendocino!  It sits beautifully perched on cliffs gazing out to sea.

After the boys enjoyed a few hours in the surf while we girls relaxed by Davista, we caught the tail end of the afternoon sunshine in this great town, but it was later than most of the stores were open. Or maybe that’s just what I told myself in order to not even entertain the idea of dragging the family into every single one of the town’s great little shops. I would like to return to Mendocino at some point, but maybe with neither the hurrying presence of children nor the omnipresent space and weight constraints of our current living situation, so I may amble at my own leisurely pace and purchase at will.

We enjoyed dinner at Frankie’s in Mendocino and the pizza offerings were varied enough to appeal to our whole flight, even those who wholly resonate with Riley of Inside Out who believes that San Francisco RUINED pizza by defiling it with broccoli. My favorite Mendocino surprise was a mushroom ice cream at same Frankie’s. I saw the label among the freezer’s rows of flavors and had to ask what gives. Apparently I am not the first because the server gestured to a mason jar amply stocked with Candy Cap Mushrooms that was sitting on the ice cream freezer and told me “They taste like brown sugar.” Whaaaaaa? This I gotta try.

It was delectable – perfectly sweet, although not cloyingly so, and with a slight grit of either fungi (or brown sugar). I’ll be sampling more of the same when we come back sans children or Davista.

I glanced at my phone to get a time hack. Hmm… It’s nearly low tide. I was all over the area’s tidal ranges because the best collecting happens when the water’s at or around its lowest point. I thought to myself (just to clarify, because sometimes I think out loud), “We could totally make it to Glass Beach” before I offered that suggested destination to the family.

We raced the setting sun on our way and arrived to find many with the same plan. Or perhaps they were there to see the sunset, which threatened to be magnificent.

Our girls hunted in earnest while Keeper nimbly worked to get the best vantage point for a selfie with the wee crescent moon and the sunset.

I was still energized by the hunt for that morning’s plunder and thus refrained from retrieving every piece of sea glass I saw. Good thing, because I’d still be there.

When we could no longer discern pebble from frosted glass in the twilight, we trundled back to the Subaru with only a handful of new treasures among us, but thoroughly invigorated by the overall Glass Beach experience.

I went to bed fervently imagining what singular offerings the ocean would be working on throughout the night.

Firebolt and I headed back to Caspar Beach the next morning and were delighted yet again by our findings.

One of the best things about beaches is that they are different every day, sometimes dramatically, sometimes only just. The topography of the sand shifts in response to the ocean’s constant change and the gifts deposited at the shoreline vary equally so, which means you can’t help but be optimistic about the day’s potential cache. I knew that we had to make the most of the morning’s enterprise for today we were heading inland to park Davista in Flight’s parents’ driveway for a stretch and it would be nearly two weeks before we were back to the coast to hunt anew.

However, I have since realized I need to appropriately manage my (and Firebolt’s) expectations for such future excursions. Because Caspar Beach is just down the coast from Fort Bragg’s previous three main dumpsites, it, too, serves as quite the repository for sea glass, yet because it doesn’t get nearly the foot traffic of enthusiasts the collection possibilities are far greater for the folks who do make the trek. Bidding the beach a reverent adieu, Firebolt and I returned hand-in-hand treasuring our time together.

Although not wanting to relinquish our time just the two of us quite yet, we were aware that there was work to be done, and so we paused only a few moments to admire someone’s sand mermaid craftsmanship on our way back to Davista.

We had intended to help pack up camp, but the others had nearly completed getting us ready for departure in our absence. This was our welcoming committee.

A subsequent quick survey of the nearly buttoned up site begged the wry observation, “Clearly they made good time because WoodSprite was overseeing the Getting Underway Checklist“.  And, if the expression I captured above is any indication, I believe she knows it too.

Firebolt and I added our efforts and we were soon on the road to The Bay Area, basking in our treasured time together beach combing and eager to celebrate visiting with Flight’s extended family…

 

I’m usually leery of places that involve enormous cliffs and are named for people as it makes me think some tragedy must have befallen said namesake. Fortunately, Patrick’s Point was named for either the scout who discovered it (Patrick Beegan) or a homesteader who planted the area’s first apple trees (Patrick McLaughlin), depending on your source. Regardless of which Patrick it was, he picked out a beautiful place – and we were fortunate enough to find it (mostly) not shrouded in fog.

We arrived and set up camp in about three minutes (as Flight mentioned we didn’t even have to disconnect the Toad from Davista) with the press of a few buttons. Our kids popped out to explore our site while Flight set up one of the hammocks in a small grove of nearby trees. He later triple dog dared Keeper to sleep out all night. Okay, he didn’t (actually, Flight’s recollection below is dead on), but Keeper did sleep in the hammock.

All night.

In bear country, he’ll have you know. For his perseverance (and I hope he’ll offer a blog post about the experience) he stands a little taller today and that’s pretty cool to see.

We enjoyed an easy dinner of pumpkin ravioli in brown butter sage sauce and finished it off with some pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. Yes – FALL! The girls and I mixed up the dough using a (gasp) hand-mixer (I do miss my KitchenAid mixer at times, but alas, we had neither room nor weight for such a luxury…) and we baked a dozen of those heavenly cookies.

The remainder of the dough we froze. I don’t know who the brilliant woman was who came up with the concept of icebox cookies, but I have definitely put it to good use. I have prolonged many batches of various cookies by parceling out the actual baked goods and tossing them in the oven as desired. It serves our family (and my waistline) far better to bake the three-dozen cookies over a period of weeks so none of us feel compelled to eat them all at once (= damage control at its best).

I crawled into bed feeling as though we had much more room to luxuriously stretch and wished we could stay a few more days. Alas, no. Time, tide, formation, eclipses, and California State Park campsite reservations wait for no one, so shove off we must.

The next morning we made pumpkin pancakes to celebrate Fall’s arrival in earnest. After Keeper and I made the batter, we let it sit while we went to hunt for agates down at the beach. It was a perfectly beautiful morning.

Ever on the hunt, I kept my eye out for sea glass treasures, but to no avail. Maybe there’s a reason it’s called Agate Beach and not Sea Glass Beach, but I wasn’t particularly successful in locating those gems either. At least I don’t think so. Frankly, I have no idea as my gemology skills are nearly as lacking as my California geographical ones.

Are there any agates in the above picture? Anyone?  Maybe it would help if it were in better focus.  Sigh…

The kids picked up several treasures from the beach, although I suggested we only keep the ones in which no one had lived.

I thoroughly enjoyed being on the beach as the sun stretched her rays to kiss each tiny pebble. Whatever Patrick’s Point was, I think I get it now, making a most auspicious start to our six-week exploration of the California coast.

Happy Autumn!

These pictures are from our jaunt up to New England last October and beautifully captured the  season’s brilliant colors.  I love everything about Fall, especially shellacked decorative gourds.

Totally kidding (about the last part).

We only use real ones (even when we’re not in a house on wheels), and ideally those that we grow – or that I pick out at the store all by myself.

Many may appreciate Spring for being the season ripe with possibility (and it is), but I prefer the transitory phase of Autumn. I welcome this seasonal change as a time to reflect (kinda what this whole journey is about), take stock of my numerous blessings, enjoy plenty of hearty meals (I now have many such InstantPot miracles on tap), and savor the last of the garden’s fresh goodies (in previous years we have enjoyed caprese salad made from our garden tomatoes all the way until the Army-Navy game) while preserving as much of the rest as possible before hunkering down for winter.

Truth be told, I do enjoy sampling the season’s newest pumpkin-flavored snackety snacks. There are so many different ways to enjoy the flavor, which really isn’t the bland taste of the gourd itself as Keeper noted upon recently sampling some, but more so how well it can serve as a delivery mechanism for sugar, cream, and butter (and the traditional warming spices of cinnamon, allspice, cloves, ginger, and nutmeg, of course). I appreciate that the stores seem to be marketing directly to me this time of year with all the different ways pumpkin can be packaged.   On our most recent trip to Trader Joe’s I purchased several cans of organic pumpkin in anticipation of the first day of Fall, as that’s the critical ingredient for many of my favorite seasonal recipes, the most notable of which is for Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Based on a Mrs. Fields’ recipe, the dough can support 1.5 cups (combined) of anything you want to add: nuts, seeds, white chocolate chips, dried cranberries, unsweetened dried coconut, dried blueberries (Trader Joe’s are the best – far better cooked than raisins), chocolate chips, or (gag) raisins.  Although, why you’d want to ruin perfectly good cookies with cooked raisins or waste perfectly good raisins by baking them in cookies is beyond me. Sort of a purist in this regard, I prefer this taste of autumn solely enveloping Ghirardelli bittersweet chips, which truly results in a divine combination.  We’ll be making some of those tasty morsels as soon as we can manage it.

I’ll share a few more of our favorite Fall recipes as we make them, but let’s get back to the intent of this particular blog…

We made our way south from the Flarp-covered Oregon coast to be entirely underwhelmed by the campground that, despite being named Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park, had not a single stately redwood in view – at least none near the campsite where we were parked. This was as close as we got…

After wedging ourselves snugly into a spot (seriously, it was so tight we couldn’t even put our awning out for fear of damaging it or some non-redwood trees), we busted out the Instant Pot for a near-instant pot of hearty goodness (no kidding, we went from pulling frozen chicken thighs out of the freezer to white chicken chili in about 40 minutes) and spent the night.

And one night only.

Being married to a “Best Campsite” seeker has its pros and cons. Sometimes it takes longer than expected to discover said idyllic locations, but the search far more often than not pays off. Once a not-the-best campsite has been identified, however, especially if we’ve already reserved and/or are currently occupying it, the fervent search begins anew. I am pleased to be the beneficiary of such ardent quests, even though I may sometimes mock the process.

Flight’s efforts came through yet again. After a quick brekkie, we pulled chocks a day early and relocated to a much roomier Patrick’s Point State Park by way of the Redwood National Park, where we got our Redwood fix at last. I was still energized by our descent from the Cascade Mountain ridgeline where we were flanked by immense old growth trees, but I couldn’t wait to get a new energetic hit by being among the Redwoods.

We stopped by the Hiouchi Ranger Station to acquire our Junior Rangers’ latest quest books before we took a walk through The Grove. These incredible beings have been around for centuries. I loved this display at the Ranger Station showing when various events had happened throughout the life of this particular Redwood until it was cut down only decades ago.

I had thought that one of the Redwood’s most impressive engineering feats was its ability to move any requisite water from its roots to the far-reaching branches hundreds of feet above, but have since learned from Junior Ranger Firebolt (and other sources) that while the inner bark provides such a water-movement mechanism, the tree doesn’t exclusively rely on this method. Instead, Redwoods appear to have the capability to absorb water from the local environment – AND can transpire as much as 500 gallons in a day. Because they depend on living in a moist habitat, they are capable of contributing to their surrounding microclimate’s moisture content or drawing from it as necessary. Whoa!

If that wasn’t cool enough, I noticed they also tend to grow in rings around the remains of another tree. I had assumed such a growth pattern was due to the close range in which the tiny pinecones (only just larger than my thumbnail!) were dropped and then reseeded. Not so. Apparently they can clone themselves. And, as it would also appear, so can Flight. If you have seen any pictures of WoodSprite, you may have noted that, despite my having grown, incubated, and given birth to that child I seem to have contributed no genetic material to her existence. Except maybe her sass, which does seem to be a dominant trait prevalent both throughout my own family tree and having manifested in all three of our children.   So maybe the maternity test can wait…

But I digress…

Sorry, where was I? So these “faery rings” of newer trees (these were my exact thoughts upon seeing them, but learned that’s actually a valid term) that spring up surrounding an old tree are actually little clones that take advantage of the well established parent’s root system to get a leg up on the growth chart. Pretty amazing – who knew?

We parked Davista at the Ranger Station and popped across the highway (in the Suburu) to go for a walk among these colossal beings in The Grove. I had vague recollections of previously seeing these giants almost 20 years ago and wasn’t sure what I would take away from our next encounter. Sure, they were big, that much stuck with me, yet now with a few more years of being in my own body, some more traumatic than others, I was much more deeply awed by their presence. I repeatedly felt as though I should genuflect as I made my through this sanctuary. Resisting that urge, I instead let the others in our gaggle move on ahead and engaged in some qigong, surrounded by ring of Redwoods. Before I could take my shoes off to better connect with The Grove, I was “Hey Momma”-ed again. Ah, well, at least I got some decent pictures…

One of the Junior Ranger challenges was to draw a “nursery log,” the term assigned to one of the downed behemoths whose decomposition fuels the growth of other forest flora. In addition to various fungi and countless fiddlehead ferns, redwood sorrel sprouts up from all nursery logs:

And it’s edible. With a tangy lemon-flavor, it perfectly complemented the fish Flight caught. No wait, that hasn’t happened yet. Much to Keeper’s delight, I didn’t learn that redwood sorrel was edible until I am now writing about it or I’d have sampled some in the forest straight from the source.

Savoring the energy of the place, WoodSprite and I fell behind the rest of our crew. Really, you can’t rush sharing qi with a colossal being.

We took a wrong turn and ended up down by the water where we enjoyed a few minutes along side the rambling Smith River.

When we returned to the gang, the path took us between two downed soldiers. For some reason fallen trees always seem indecently exposed, no matter how long it’s been since they tumbled. Massive root complexes that no light of day should touch are disgracefully on display and most certainly should not be. I’m always torn between wanting to stare or avert my eyes. I had to take this panoramic photo so you could ride that fence with me:

I’m still scratching my head trying to figure out exactly how that happened.

Okay, one last fascinating Redwood tidbit before we retire to Patrick’s Point… Contrary to the deep network I had imagined rooting these giants in place, I learned their root system relies more on breadth than depth for stability, meaning their roots rarely dive deeper than eight feet below the surface. So manifesting great strength, yet with enough flexibility to withstand powerful winds, they epitomize the elegant yin-yang duality of the Dao.

I left The Grove feeling a tumble of frail human emotions, but mostly awestruck by these glorious beings and eager to return for my next Redwood energy fix.

Nor driftwood at Driftwood Beach, Flight informed me. Misnomers abound on the Oregon Coast, yet any of the state’s advisory notes are extremely polite in their recommendations:

Apparently in Oregon you get three warnings that the highway grade is changing – very Canadian, I thought.

Sorry, let me back up…

Despite being saddened by departing Bend, the four-hour trek to the ocean had my heart soaring. While still on the desert side of the Cascades the haze from the fire was still fairly pronounced, but it cleared as soon as we crested the pass. Within a short number of miles the flora transitioned from high altitude piney clusters to being thick with the richly moist underbrush accompanying even taller old growth trees. It was reminiscent of Washington Park in Anacortes and truly felt like going home.

We made our way to the coast in some less than optimal weather (it was raining sideways), but as Keeper observed, “My body was made for this.” Our kids continued to remind us they were born in the Pacific Northwest and assured us they needed only shells to face the treacherous weather. Perhaps it’s because we’ve often quoted REI’s tag line, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing…”, but whatever the reason I’m glad to see they’ve taken the sentiment to heart.

However, after a brief stretch on the beach in the gusting winds and accompanying stinging sand, we all cried uncle and returned to the campsite for dinner, praying the next day would welcome better weather.

And it did. Sort of – at least there were some sun breaks.  Good to dust off some Pacific NW vocabulary.  After we enjoyed a quick bite to eat, we went back to the beach for lessons in marine biology and coastal engineering. There would be plenty of time for math and reading while at the Laundromat…

One of the first things that stood out as we picked our way down to the waterline was how yesterday’s raging wind had carved the beach into small aerodynamic sand ridges behind anything larger than a Perler bead.

For those of you who don’t have elementary school aged girls, Perler beads are these plastic bitty pieces you form into shapes on a template before using an iron to melt them all together. For the record, they are almost as irritating to step on as Legos.  Trust me, no further research is needed.

While Flight led the marine biology lab, primarily with WoodSprite:

I ran a coastal engineering lab on erosion, and oversaw an ocean engineering bridge building enterprise (okay, that endeavor was pretty much Firebolt’s solo effort). There was a freshwater (I hope) run off that came down under PCH and made for the ocean. I dismissed my initial concerns about the water’s source and asked the older kids (WoodSprite was still with Flight looking at sea anemones, which I still have to look at written out in order to say properly) about their observations of the “river’s flow” and how it was carving its path.

There was a sizable slab of rock over which the water rushed in some places and not at all in others. After our initial observations Keeper plopped a large mass of sand on the slab where there was no water flowing and I first tasked Keeper (while Firebolt built her bridge) to redirect the flow to erode this newly deposited land mass. While Keeper built a drip castle on the river’s edge, I deposited a new sand mass and asked Firebolt to do the same. Using only locally available rocks (design specification), they each handily accomplished their missions. And undid their work when complete. I love that we’re raising ecologically mindful engineers.

It was still pretty early in the day when we loaded up the Suburu with our accrued dirty laundry and headed to into bustling Waldport (population at last count 2,163). While Flight and I snagged five machines to start our laundering, each of the kids broke out their math workbooks and completed their requisite exercises. During one of our runs out to the car to collect yet another laundry bag, we noticed there was a locksmith shop literally next door. This was most fortuitous as we were down to only one set of RV keys (one had gone on walk about during our recent river float – !!!) and needed to make another set. Perfect – two birds, only one confined trip in the Suburu.

Laundry cleaned, folded, and returned to the Suburu and now the proud owners of three new sets of Davista keys, we popped around the corner for a restorative lunch at Grand Central Pizza. I was happy to see so many of Bend’s best offerings on tap and hope to see Atlas’ huckleberry cider become more readily available.

ADMIN complete, we headed south along the coast to conduct Varsity Marine Biology classes. Flight was happy to pry various marine creatures from their places of residence to show them to the kids (and I was happy just to visually document the observations), after which he returned them to their homes.

Until a squall schooled us in earnest.

Fortunately we were on the way back to the car and not still straddling tide pools. Flight gathered wee WoodSprite under his shell and I ducked into a shallow cave with Keeper and Firebolt. They had identified our temporary sanctuary and made enough room for me to shelter as well – such kind children.

Flight’s recollection (below) is only partially correct, for we three who were well ensconced in the natural alcove avoided the brunt of the pelting rain. WoodSprite also faired well in Flight’s rain shadow. Flight, less so.

In only minutes the squall passed and we extricated ourselves from our hollow and our exploration was maybe more subdued, although only just because shortly thereafter I was “Hey, Momma”-ed again by WoodSprite.

I have to admit I love driftwood, especially enormous trees that have floated only heaven knows how long or far. I was blown away by this enormous piece of driftwood (perhaps it had abandoned its post at Driftwood Beach?), especially all the designs and colors.

No kidding, I want some jewelry that looks like this, although probably a little smaller.

Some of us (Flight) were more damp than others, so we called it a day and retreated to Davista’s dry warmth to fill our bellies with a hearty meal. A most productive ADMIN (and heavy STEM) day, crazy rain squalls notwithstanding.

The next morning threatened to be a beautiful day.

As had become our habit during our short time on the Oregon coast, we meandered down to Seal Rocks Beach to check it out. Not only was the “river” we’d observed two days before carving out a totally different path to the ocean (meaning we could have a different Coastal Engineering Lab EVERY DAY were we to stay longer), much of its transit was being covered by “Flarp,” the sea foamish substance cloaking the shoreline. Frankly I’m not sure Flarp is a proper noun, but it looks like it should be. Perhaps verbifying too might soon follow, but considering it’s one of Keeper’s words, I’ll let him further explain its origin and verbify away if he opts to do so.

As Flight explained, we did look it up and learned the copious amount of sea foam is mostly comprised of the by products of algae decomposition, sped along by the recent storms’ tumultuous churning in the surf zone, whereby it also trapped air in its pseudo-surfactant composition and came to resemble very dirty soap bubbles.

Sweet, a chemistry lesson too!

Regardless of how cool the scientific mechanism is behind generating its existence, Flarp is just plain gross when you get up close to it. Organic, okay maybe, murky and filthy looking, absolutely.  However, from a macro perspective, it is pretty cool just to sit and watch how it moves along the beach. Looking a lot like a malleable blanket of coffee-colored fiberglass insulation, yet more mercurial, it seemed to slither over the top of the water and travel its own path, indifferent to the water’s periodic motion beneath. It was truly mesmerizing.

Flight rallied us out of our respective trances to get on with the plan of the day. We mobilized the family to explore one more beach, this one with the intention of collecting sea glass. Just over a year ago, I went to visit a dear friend in Newport, RI, and we were strolling along a nearby beach where there was a modest amount of this treasure presenting itself at low tide. I’m embarrassed to admit my hamstrings were a little sore for my stooping so often during the arduous hunt, but I didn’t care.

I had been bitten by the sea glass-collecting bug.

Big time.

So much so that on the Monday morning after I returned home, I shanghaied the family into crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge to meet low tide just before 0700. We spent a couple hours combing the beach and I was in heaven. They must love me, at least enough to tolerate these expeditions, although truly I didn’t give them much of a choice.

Since hitting the Oregon coast, I have been reviewing on line recommendations for somewhere nearby to find sea glass hoards just awaiting my discovery. I was pleased to learn there was such a treasure trove just north of Newport. WOO HOO!   We’re going to Otter Rock!

The beauty of the morning had been swallowed up by more swollen storm clouds, but our shells were donned more to stop the wind than any rain. We got to Otter Point but couldn’t find our way to the beach that was mentioned. Bummer. Instead we checked out the Devil’s Punchbowl Arch, sporting a wicked cocktail that had its own special ingredient – FLARP!

 

We popped down some very steep stairs to reach a different beach and let the kids run out some energy.

I liked seeing what the storm had done to the sand:

A little bummed I hadn’t found THE beach, we returned to the car and Flight humored me by trying to locate it. Good man. We turned down a side road and saw another stairway, presumably to THE beach. This looked promising! At the top of the stairs, this guarded the descent:

Oops. Sorry urchins, anemones, and starfish. I swear we didn’t know.

A little chagrinned (and hungry), we abandoned our quest (mine really) and sped to Rogue Brewery for dinner. Although I enjoyed my Fruit Salad Cider, the highlight beverage (for me) was Keeper’s Root Beer. After dining, we bought several of Rogue’s sodas to ration out along our journey: the requisite Root Beer (of course), Honey Orange, and Citrus Cucumber.  And so we returned to Davista, sans ocean-aged rubbish, but happily short on fridge space.

We chanced one last trip to the Seal Rocks beach to see what the Flarp had done in our absence.

Flight and Keeper taunted the incoming tide with this stunt.

Flight emerged Flarp-free, Keeper not so much.

Looks like we’ll need another laundry day when we get to the Redwoods…

Our last day in Bend came too soon, but we made the most of it. Since we’d already done a riverside hike, we opted to check out the volcanic terrain as well. Although it was hazy due to all the fires raging north of us, the surreal landscape was spectacular nonetheless.

Having several Minecraft aficionados in the family, we noted that this particular trail could easily have been the inspiration for that particular computer game. The kids loved scrambling all over the angular rocks peppered with crevices of unknown depth. Because my sense of balance isn’t always trustworthy, being in close proximity to such places tends to make me a little uncomfortable. Watching our son rocket across them was no more enjoyable, but I heeded Flight’s observation from our previous hike and let him go. I was pleased to see that when my mother’s intuition really objected to his intended path, Flight, too, weighed in as a voice of reason discouraging any foolhardy leaps of faith.

Firebolt was a trooper. In a rush to pack up and get on the trail, I didn’t do my standard clearing turn to make sure no one’s fingers were near the hatchback before I shut it. Fortunately her hand was on the boundary of where the hatch meets the frame and only got pinched. While that was certainly uncomfortable enough, I am very thankful it wasn’t more serious. Firebolt totally rallied and was an enthusiastic hiker regardless of her throbbing finger(s).

I am vaguely concerned that we may be raising a society of narcissists. WoodSprite often loves to strike a pose and say, “Hey, Momma, can you take a picture of me?” and as soon as I move my iPhone from picture taking position, she asks, “Can I see it?” This hike alone provided me ample opportunity to make this observation.

We wove our way through the woods thick with solid lava flow and came first to a bitty lake.

After thirty minutes of mad scrambling over the lakefront’s rocks, pausing only to launch larger and larger boulders into the water to observe the ripples move out (physics lab complete), we moved on to the larger body of water on the trail, Lake Sparks.

Tarrying to match WoodSprite’s shorter strides, we rounded the last patch of trees and came upon this view:

Flight was helping Firebolt to ascend this sizable pile of rocks and Keeper was clambering across the crest. When they were nearly to the top, I asked Flight how the going was because WoodSprite really wanted to join everyone at the summit. Of course she did. I dug in past my vertigo-based apprehension and committed to climbing as well.

The views from above were stunning, but it made me quite woozy to sit atop the ridge line. I solidly grounded my lower limb proprioceptors and distracted myself by taking pictures. This vertigo business blows.

After a beautiful hike, we headed into town to sample yet another delicious dinner at 10 Barrel.

Flight and I are of like foodie mind and, in order to enjoy more items from any menu, we confer then tend share whatever we order. We opted to split the Moroccan Grilled Shrimp, Wild Alaskan Salmon Wraps, and the pizza of the day (one celebrating the local squash harvest partnered with goat cheese). This was one of our favorite meals thus far as the flavors highlighted were beautifully partnered. If you don’t believe me, check out their menu here. And, as you may imagine at one of the best brew pubs in town, the beverages were pretty rock star too.

I crawled into bed that night a little bummed we wouldn’t be staying in Bend for a few more years days. Because we’d already sacrificed precious Oregon time for a longer though certainly not regrettable stretch in Park City, we had to move on in the morning. Don’t get me wrong, I am eager to see the Oregon coast, I just don’t want to move free of Bend’s grasp just yet. So, in case I haven’t been clear, aside from the tricky commute for Flight, Bend hits all of my wickets to lavishly feed my soul for the foreseeable future.