Atmospheric river

    It has been raining steadily for two days and nights. Is it another atmospheric river? 

    Such a great term! My son, Ela, visiting during the days of intense rain before Thanksgiving, gave it to me.

    I was immediately charmed. It sounded like something from a fairy tale, a flow from mystical regions through the sky, touching down to earth with replenishing rain, flowing and weaving and meandering like an earthly river, carrying fairies and elves riding on dragonflies, riding the currents on invisible canoes. 

    I wasn't far wrong. The atmospheric river starts in the tropics and moves towards the North Pole, sliding over the Pacific Coast into the valleys, then up and over the Cascades. It's a river of vapor, carrying more liquid than the Amazon River and treating mountains the way the Rogue River treats boulders—obstacles to flow over. 

    Since 2019, atmospheric river events have been rated, along the lines of hurricane ratings, from AR 1 (weakest) to AR 5 (strongest). AR 5 means "exceptional" or "primarily hazardous." AR 4 means "mostly hazardous, also beneficial." Damage could be from mudslides, flooding, saturated soils, windstorms, and, where I live, downed trees. That week's storm was rated between AR 4 and AR 5. 

    At that, I abandoned the fairy-tale fascination. 

     That afternoon, clothed against the rain, Ela stepped through the upstairs window to unplug my gutter. 

    "Don't get swept away in the river!" I warned.

    Unlike the Rogue River, where you could, if you wanted, stand on the shore and watch it flow past for years, an atmospheric river eventually flows past. At 4:00 that afternoon the rain stopped. Everything became quiet. Occasionally a drop of water plinked against the deck. Patches of blue showed through thinning gray mists.    

A Great Job

    One of the most exciting jobs I have ever had is to write profiles of Marshall Scholars for the Marshall Scholars Newsletter. I have met so many amazing people this way, people who have followed astonishing careers and done much good in the world. Here are a few examples:

    Terrorism studies. Audrey Cronin's career has centered on understanding terrorism and terrorists and helping governments and other groups prevent terrorist acts.

   Pharmaceuticals. Alex Oshmyansky was so angry at drug companies for their exorbitant prices that he started a Public Benefit Corporation, backed by billionaire TV personality Mark Cuban, to lower the cost of generic drugs by eliminating the middlemen of the industry whom Oshmyansky called "the worst actors…a morass of, basically, theft." 

    Music. Concert pianist Donna Stoering started a nonprofit, Listen for Life, through which she has gone around the world to preserve native music by filming and interview musicians, making their music as exciting for young people as MTV. 

    Climate change. Jennifer Mills is a scientist at a company that counters the effects of climate change by using an "enhanced weathering technique" to pull carbon out of the atmosphere. (You can imagine what a stretch that article was for me to write!)

    Literature. John Galassi became a publisher with and, finally, president of the prestigious literary publishing house Farrar Strauss and Giroux, discovering, among other writers, Lydia Davis, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jonathan Franzen, George Packer, and Alice McDermott. He is also an award-winning translator of Italian poetry.

    Journalism. Lane Greene is a business and finance correspondent for The Economist. (Another topic way outside my usual path.)

   Sports. Ahalya Lettenberger is a world champion swimmer whose physical impairment (arthrogryposis) led her not only into paralympics sports but into bioengineering studies and a search for assistant technologies for people with disabilities.

    Medicine. Geoffrey Tabin, a world-class mountain climber and one of the inventors of bungee jumping (along with other members of the Oxford University Dangerous Sports Club), has gone around the world as an ophthalmologist with the goal of eliminating treatable blindness in developing countries. He is a recipient of the Dalai Lama's Unsung Heroes of Compassion Award.

    These Marshall Scholars are also just plain brilliant. Take Alex Oshmyanski. He taught himself trigonometry and calculus when he was in grade school, graduated from the University of Denver in one year, entered medical school when he was 19 and won a Marshall Scholarship the same year, earned a Ph.D. in mathematics at Oxford and an MD from Duke, and took a year of law school as "an elaborate hobby" while he was doing a medical residency. 

    I am awed by such brilliance, but even more, I am impressed by the way so many Marshall Scholars use their brilliance to make the world a better place.

    

    

First Ski of the Season

     After days of indecision—enough snow? wet snow? good snow?—my son, Ela, and I decided suddenly at 8:00 Monday morning, the day before his return to his home in Washington, that yes! We would ski at Crater Lake.

    I slung wax on my skis and flung them into the car along with boots, poles, and ski clothes, then drove to Jacksonville and met Ela at his dad's. And then more delays: coffee, ski rental, and, at Union Creek, a bathroom break. I was anxious about getting in enough skiing without having to dive home in the snow and the dark.

    Fortuitous delays! The turn-off past Union Creek was blocked with snow, but just as we got there, a snowplow pulled up behind us. Any earlier, and our plans would have been foiled. We followed the snowplow all the way to the park entrance.

    Snow was falling. The temperature was 21 degrees. Not a single car at the trailhead. Expansive solitude.

    We parked, gathered our gear, took a quick photo,

then stomped steps into the seven-foot snowbank, snapped boots into skis, and took off. It was just after noon. Still snowing.

    Ecstatic pleasure! Perfect snow—soft and fluffy as kitten fur and unbelievably deep—gorgeous soft powder through which we sank to our knees at every step. The tips of our skis only occasionally peeked through, sliding into view like little animals. Pretty soon we were breaking trail uphill. Such hard work! And gloriously beautiful. On and on we went, Ela usually in front. I did my share of breaking trail, too

though maybe not my fair share unless you take into consideration differences in age and stamina. The sky was gray, the snow soft, the route uphill, the forest dark-trunked and white-burdened. Snow fell and fell. We pushed on and on and on through the soft, deep snow.

    After two hours, at a suitable fork in the road, we started back, skiing in our tracks at a good rhythmic pace, in a slow, steady glide. Ela was far ahead of me, skiing fast, but every once in a while he stopped and looked back before continuing. At one point a huge blast of cold wind and heavy snow obliterated him from sight altogether. The last half-mile (or more, surely!) was uphill again, and by that time I was worn out. One step, the next step, then another, and finally I saw Ela disappear down the stomped-in steps to the road. (He tried to ski it. Bad move.) We dumped skis, poles, and wet clothes into the car, climbed into the front seat, and turned on the heater.

    We had skied five and a half miles, through that glorious deep snow. It was 3:15. The temperature was still 21 degrees, but the snow had stopped. 

    Ela drove again. We stopped for a beer, then to return the rented skis, then to Ela's dad's house, where dinner was waiting. I gratefully accepted the offer to spend the night.

    I fell asleep with my body still attuned to the graceful rhythm of skis on perfect snow and the bracing sensation of cold fresh air as I followed my son up the mountain and back down. What a wonderful, wonderful day it had been!

Cataract Removal

     Thursday I had cataract surgery on the left eye, the long-distance eye. Friday I had a post-op, everything-looks-good appointment. Saturday I took a walk through the forest.
    How the world has changed! I hadn't realized how restricted my world had become. Now, I peer through the trees and can see, sharply, to the vanishing point. I can see the deep clefts in fir tree bark and the tiny, shaggy shingles of madrone bark. I can see the difference in the patterns of bark on pines, firs, cedars, and oaks. I raise my eyes to the tops of white oak trees, where individual lobes of bright yellow leaves are etched onto the sky. Colors, which I had thought bright already, have deepened and glow.

    You know how images in some modern photographs are as sharp in the distance as those in the foreground? That's how it is: an unbelievable clarity, an indescribable depth in the world around me.

    I did an interview years ago with a Marshall Scholar named Geoffrey Tabin, an ophthalmologist who provides free cataract surgery in many developing countries In a video about his work, one man says he was knocked down by a cow because he couldn't see. Another says it was so hard to get to the outhouse he stopped eating. A woman hated being a burden on her daughter, who has her own children to care for. Then the operation. Then removal of the eye patch. Then amazing joy. Such dancing! Such ululation! Such smiles!

    I wasn't running into cows before my surgery, but, yeah, I know why these people were dancing.

    Next month I'll have surgery on the other eye. Then I'll be able to read without blurred vision, too.

Such joy! Such smiles! I might even ululate.

November 2024

    Tomorrow is election day. I've already turned in my ballot. (In Oregon, all ballots are mail-in.) I urge you to exercise your civic privilege and vote (unless you're a Trumper, in which case, maybe you can just forget it this time around).

    I am writing this blog post now because I don't want to face politics at the moment, as I will have to do, for one reason or another, after tomorrow. I want to write about something beautiful or fun or wonderful.

    Like this beautiful world we live in.

   In the Appalachians, where I grew up, autumnal glory is in the mass of colors, whole mountainsides vibrating with reds, yellows, oranges, purples, pinks, umbers. In the Siskiyous, the dogwoods turn pink, or, this year, a darker red. The leaves of black oaks and white oaks turn yellow.

The broad-leaf maples turn yellow. The viney maples are sometimes yellow, sometimes fiery red. The alders and willows are light yellow. The ferns are yellow-brown, and vanilla leaf is yellow-green.  

                                                                            Photo by Margaret delll Santina

    Boring? Not at all!

    In the Siskiyous we don't say, "Wow! Look at all the colors on that mountain!" We say, "Wow! Look at that spectacular tree!"

Sun-drenched maples glow bright yellow among the dark trunks of the forest,

The delicate viney maple, leaf by leaf turns red on the edges of yellow.

                                                                            Photo by Margaret delll Santina

Nowhere are our eyes so dazzled by the colored trees that we can't appreciate the subtler beauties of the autumn forest: the carpet of madrone leaves,

the sap-tipped red scales of a new sugar pine cone,

the patterns in a manzanita trunk,

the reflections of river-bank bushes in the river.

    Oh, how I have enjoyed walking in the woods this fall!

                                               Photo by Margaret delll Santina

Taking a Moment for Vanity

    As I was getting ready for dinner at Gogi's Restaurant, in Jacksonville, I considered my wardrobe. I could dress up for Gogi's, so I chose my purple-and-blue Komarov dress, with a light, loosely-knit lavender wrap for warmth. As for shoes—always a problem. The black Mary Janes would do; I've been wearing them for fifteen years. But could I possibly, having had foot surgery, wear the elegant, soft-leather, black boots I have kept in the closet, nostalgically, all these many years? 

    The last time I wore them, I hobbled with pain and had to take them off, surreptitiously, during the concert. But the foot surgeries, last year and the year before, have meant I hike with 90% less pain. Might I be able to wear my elegant boots now, too?

    With the help of a shoe horn I got them on. I zipped them closed over my calves, stood up, and took a tentative step. 

Possible. I wore the boots in the house for the next half-hour. No problem. When it was time to leave, I put the Mary Janes in a bag to take with me. If I had to surreptitiously unzip my boots and ease my feet out of them during dinner, one of my table companions could fetch the Mary Janes from the car so I could walk out of the restaurant shod.

    I walked to my car in my boots. I walked into the restaurant. I had a delicious dinner with charming companions and never thought once about my feet. I stood up from the table after dinner and walked to the car. No limping, no hobbling, no calling for other shoes. I drove home and walked into the house, carrying my Mary Janes in the bag. 

    I am exultant. To be able to hike without pain is a matter of physical joy and a necessity for continuing my favorite activity. To be able to wear my elegant boots is a matter, I am aware, of vanity. But oh, I do enjoy wearing classy shoes again!

Nothing But Air beneath Me

     I was running towards the edge of a cliff. A man running behind me was shouting,  "Run! Run faster!"

    This was not a nightmare, and it was a dream only in the sense of my having at any time in my life dreamed of flying, which, actually, I never have. But here I was, running as fast as I could, encumbered as I was by the harness around my chest and legs, towards the edge of a cliff and the emptiness beyond. Suddenly I was the Road Runner—one moment running on the cliff, the next my feet churning on air.

    Then I was just sitting in a hammock under a gorgeous kite bearing me up through the air with my pilot, Sebastian, behind me. All I had to do was sit comfortably on my swinging chair and enjoy the amazing sensation of floating above the Alpine peaks and the chalets and streets of Grindelwald, Switzerland, as the fog revealed and then closed again blue patches of sky.

    A few days earlier, walking back to our hotel after a hike, my sister Sharon and I had paused to look up at the colorful paragliders dotting the sky like bubbles. "Did you ever want to do that?" Sharon asked dreamily.

    I shrugged. Not really; basically I like my boots on the ground. Still, it would be beautiful to see all those snowy Alpine peaks, the Eiger and the Monk and all their minions, from the sky. "Well," I added with a shrug, "if someone offered it to me, I would take it."

    It didn't occur to me that all I had to do was pay my money and I, too, could be floating in the air under a large umbrella.

     But Sharon, who has always had dreams of flying, was already thinking that maybe this was her chance. In the next few days she did some research, some thinking, some looking at her budget, and then announced that she was going to book a trip with a paraglider.

    As easy as that? If Sharon was going to take this adventure, so could I. "Sign me up, too," I said.

    It was foggy on the day of take-off. The four paragliding pilots and their passengers waited at the top of the cliff for a hole in the fog. Sharon was first in line. "Run," her pilot cried, but before they reached the take-off spot, the hole filled, and they had to step aside. I was next in line.

    Um. I thought I would watch Sharon jump off a cliff first.

    Suddenly there was a hole in the fog and I was ordered to run and Sebastian was shouting at me to run faster, and then I was floating. As easy as that.

    It was beautiful. It was dreamy. The fog obscured the tips of the Alps, but its shift and swirl made beautiful, changing pictures. The pilot turned us to the left so we could fly over the dark green forest and silver ribbon of the Milibach River flowing out of Bachalpsee, where I had been swimming a few days before. There, from my floating chair, I uncorked a small vial of my husband's ashes and watched as his spirit disappeared over the river, the forest, and the Swiss Alps.