How Old Is 81?

     In a few days I will turn 81. How old is that? Consider:

    The family car, a '49 Plymouth, had running boards. My sister Linda and I would run down the front walk when we heard Dad coming home after work and jump on the running boards to ride the rest of the way down the driveway.

    Flour came in cloth sacks. My mother made dresses for Linda and me out of flour sacks. 

    Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy were the dolls of the day. Pre-Barbie, pre-Cabbage Patch.

L to R: Linda, our sister Sharon, and me
at Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy's wedding

   The milkman left milk in glass bottles on our doorstep. In rural Kentucky, where my grandparents lived, the bread van pulled into the driveway once a week.

    Our telephone was on a party line. There was still an operator you could talk to. 

    We wore white gloves to church.

With my sister Linda, 16 months older, in matching
dresses. (Linda ia also wearing a sweater.)

    We wore crinolines under our skirts, as in this picture taken before the 7th-grade graduation prom. (There was no middle school. We went from 7th grade at Liberty Guinn Elementary School to 8th grade at Sandy Springs High School, where we were called subfreshmen.)

My date was Gary McClosky, as noted in the margin.

   At dance lessons we learned the waltz and the fox trot. Later we learned the jitterbug.

    When I worked for my father during my teen years, his secretary advised me to learn shorthand so I could take dictation from my boss when I became a career secretary. I learned Gregg shorthand, the system invented by John Gregg in 1888. I did not become a career secretary.

    When travel by air became available, while I was in college, women dressed up to fly, just as they did a century earlier to take the train.

    In my childhood, oranges were special treats, avocados and artichokes unknown. I had my first artichoke when I lived in England in my early twenties. I had my first avocado two years later, when I moved to California with the hippy movement.

    I learned to type on a manual typewriter, aa Royal, while I was in high school. Later I used an electric Olivetti, then reverted to the Royal during those many years I didn't have electricity at my house.

Royal typewriter at left, sitting on top of my treadle
sewing machine in the house I built in the early '70s

    It all seems like such a long time ago.

    

    

July 4, 2025

     It's July 4, but I'm not celebrating our country these days. Trump's crowing over his Big Beautiful Bill just about drowned out the chorus of birdsong this morning. And what did all those birds have to sing about, anyway, given the cuts in support of alternative energy and other mitigations to global warming in the BBB? 

    And that was only one of many abominations in the bill. Good for the Democratic senators who yelled "Shame!" to the Republican colleagues voting "aye."

    Thank goodness the Senate took the sell-off of public lands out of the bill. That was a close one.

    Most abominations remained, though. I worry about the cuts in Medicare. I worry about people who identify as trans and other sexualities outside the straight-and-increasingly-narrower heterosexual-marriage one. And I especially worry about immigrants. I worry about separating children and parents; I worry about depositing people in detention centers, and isn't that just another name for concentration camps and haven't "immigrants" become today's Jews? We said, "Never again," but I'm very much afraid it is happening again.

    I have a friend from Europe who has lived in this country for decades. She isn't a citizen but has permanent status. She is worried, but I don't think she needs to be, not because of her "permanent" status but because I don't think it is European immigrants Trump wants to deport. (Look for instance, at his welcome to white South Africans to immigrate here.)

    In her July 3 column, Heather Cox Richardson, who is good at giving historical context to contemporary issues, reminded us that the Declaration of Independence formed a nation based on the idea of human equality and that the Civil War was a test whether that concept could hold. Then she says, "It did, of course. …But…we are once again facing a rebellion against our founding principle as a few people seek to reshape America into a nation in which certain people are better than others."

    It's July 4. The birds are singing as beautifully as they did yesterday. I hope they can continue to sing, day after day. I hope we can continue to honor, or learn to honor, the birds and all living beings in our country. It's not too late. 

Backpacking in the Emigrant Wilderness

     Unbelievably gorgeous landscapes, swims in cold mountain lakes, rigorous hiking, challenges met and overcome, good hiking companions—everything that makes a good backpacking trip came in spades in my recent week-long trip in the Emigrant Wilderness Area, just north of Yosemite, with my friend Scott and his cousin's daughter, Erin.

Scott and Erin, my tall, long-legged hiking partners

     Scott, a Sierra Club outings leader, was looking at the route we took as a potential Sierra Club trip. When I asked, as we were walking out, how he would rate it for difficulty, he said, "A solid 4." (The Sierra Club's "most difficult" rating is 5.)

    I whole-heartedly agree. The trail was so steep in places I thought I just couldn't haul myself—and my pack—up another two-foot-high rock step in the long, beautiful, built-in-granite, rock staircases. At one point, I thought, "Diana, you're 80 years old. What do you think you're doing?" But on I went and on I went and on I went, and I did every step of the trail and loved it all. Many times I rounded a curve to find Scott and Erin waiting for me. Seeing me, satisfied that I was coming, they turned around and kept on hiking. I followed without stopping.

    We camped in glorious places. My favorite was on the granite slabs above insuperably beautiful Lake Lertora, achieved on a "black diamond, singletrack trail with a hard overall physical rating." (Agreed!) That night we watched the sunset stripe the sky and the lake with pinks and oranges; the next morning I got up at 6:00 for a swim. Yes, it was cold (7877-foot altitude), but it was so beautiful I couldn't leave the water. I swam around a large granite-based island with trees and flowers before finally pulling myself to shore. It was, Erin estimated, a 40-minute swim.

The island I swam around in Lake Lertora

    I had a swim every morning. At one campsite, while Scott was trying to catch a trout he could see holding steady in the current, I swam across the river and back. As the trout never bit, we dubbed the campsite Camp Elusive.

    There were numerous stream crossings. Each time, I watched Erin cross first to see how deep the water was. Three or four times the water was so deep I took off my shorts to cross in my underwear and let Scott carry my pack.

Crossing Wood Lake

If the current was strong Erin carried my shoes so I could use both hands unencumbered on my hiking poles. Do you see what I mean? Great hiking companions.

Scott filling water bottles at a stream crossing

    Day after day we took to the trail, climbing over logs, up steep stone staircases, through mosquito-infested marshes, across steep snowfields, and, always, through the stunning landscape of the high Sierra. One day, on an unmaintained trail, Scott's phone with its GPS died, so we had to do some trail-hunting. We didn't get to our destination that long, difficult day till 6:00 that evening. When we got there—Gem Lake—the bugs were awful. Actually, the whole trip was marked with unending mosquitoes. We wore mosquito nets over our hats most of the time and kept any exposed limbs well lubricated with bug repellent. 

    But in the high Sierra, if you have mosquitoes in June, you also have flowers. l was in seventh heaven with the spreads of pale lavender shooting stars,

bright magenta penstemon, heather almost the same color, and spreads of pink pussy paws, yellow brodiaea, and gorgeous clumps of pink and white creeping phlox among the white granite.

    Each of us had brought dinner for all of us for one night. Erin's was best—rice with three tins of mackerel, rich and fulfilling and impressively heavy to carry. I wished I had brought more cream cheese to go with the pasta I served, but, unlike Erin, I was considering the weight of my pack. 

    One night we looked at a campsite in the trees by the river, but it had an animal hole, front door and back door, which we figured was a fox's, so we camped instead on the rocks above the river. Sure enough, that night I heard the fox bark down there where we had thought to camp. 

    At Lake Lertora we were entertained for hours by nuthatches and woodpeckers flying in and out of holes in a tree facing our campsite.

We saw an occasional marmot. Lots of trout, a pileated woodpecker. No bears or deer.

    Have I talked you into hiking into the Emigrant Wilderness from Crabtree Trailhead? It ain't easy! But it's OMG gorgeous.

Mountains, Flowers, Friends, Taxis, and Bears

     I spent a few days last week camping with my son, Ela, and a group of friends at a tiny log cabin 

                                                                photo by Ela Lamblin

deep in the north Cascades, overlooking dense forests and distant snowy peaks.

    What a great group of people! We spent hours in intelligent, probing, delightful conversation, morning and evening.

Breakfast long over, we are still enjoying each other's company.   
                                                                                    Photo by Diana Coogle

We went on hikes, drank sweet water from hidden springs, looked for the lady slipper orchids, which were disappointingly not quite in bloom. The first night I lay in the hot tub, on a platform overlooking the densely forested hills, watching the stars twinkle into view one by one.  We cooked over a campfire every night,

                                                            photo by Ela Lamblin

sharing whatever each of us had brought. Ela grilled some delicious lamb chops one night; another night he and I passed around caprese hors d'oeuvres while a salmon filet cooked on the fire.
    The second day, while some guests took long mountain-bike rides, Lisa took me on a strenuous hike up and over the mountain, 

                                                            Photo by Lisa Brody

where yellow balsam root, red Indian paintbrush, and purple lupine decorated the woods, with great views of Cascade peaks. The trail was mostly a motorcycle trail; Lisa, who hadn't been on it for several years, called it "70% unhikable" because it was so steep and dust-slippery, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.   

    The last day of our visit we went back to the orchids and this time were treated to their astonishing blooms. 

Lady slipper orchids in the north Cascades. Photo by Diana Coogle

    I had a wonderful time, but I did not have a smooth trip home. The taxi I booked to get me to the train station in Tacoma never showed up. I finally took a bus, but I missed my train, had to buy another train ticket, and arrived in Eugene too late to drive home so I also missed a meeting and a booked massage on the next day. On the other hand, I found a really good little restaurant for dinner in Eugene, and the train ride from Tacoma to Eugene had been beautiful. 

Mt. Rainier through the train window. Photo by Diana Coogle

    When I got home, I discovered mysterious smears on several windows.

In spite of the reflections, you can clearly see
the bear paw prints on a downstairs window.

They had to have come from a bear, investigating the house while I was gone. One of the windows on which he left a paw print was, disconcertingly, in my upstairs bedroom. The bear had climbed a tree to get on the roof to peer in. I used to leave that window wide open every night. Not any more.

Hike by Car

     My sister Laura had so loved her visit with me last year (see post on May 29, 2024) she wanted her husband to experience this beautiful place, too. But I had taken her on one hike after another! What could I do for Jack, who suffers from severe vertigo and can no longer hike as he once did?

    What I wanted was a drive way into the mountains, a hike by car. Route 20 would be perfect, but still has too much snow. A friend suggested a route up Griffin Creek Road, which I explored with another friend. It looked pretty good. I made some adjustments and crossed my fingers that it would work.

    The day of Laura and Jack's visit, I drove them through the Applegate Valley, beautiful in itself, then up the steep Armstrong Gulch Road. At the first view of the snow-topped Siskiyou Crest, they wanted to get out and gaze, but I was disturbed by a huge clearcut in the foreground and knew what was coming, so after a quick look, I hustled them back into the car and continued up the now very rough, pot-hole-filled road, to the top of the drive, at the Anderson Ridge trailhead. I stopped the car, and we all got out to look.

    The view of the Siskiyou Crest  was stupendous. I was bubbling over with excitement. "If you walk just a tiny bit down the trail," I said encouragingly, "you'll get the scene without a road at your back." Jack grabbed his hiking poles, and we started down the trail. 

    The landscape is so incredibly beautiful! Walking was slow because we stopped again and again to look and look and look at those mountains rising all snowy and beautiful above long green slopes and, below the slopes, forested hills and, on the horizon, scallops of snowy mountains. Laura remarked on how unusual it is to have such open vistas (especially compared to the Appalachians, where she comes from, I think, but, yes, these views of the Siskiyous are pretty unique). Jack walked slowly and carefully, but Laura and I were slow, too, darting down the hillside to look at a scarlet fritillary, then stopping to gawk at the view, then stopping to smell a juniper or exclaim over a western giant puffball or figure out the name of a flower or take in the aroma of buckbrush. The three of us walked, enthralled, for half an hour before turning back.

    The drive down the other side of the mountain provided the same stunning landscapes before entering the forest, which had its own beauty—the tall Douglas firs, the madrones and buckbrush in superbloom. The road got smaller and smaller and more rutted until suddenly we came to a wide gravel road that took us back to the paved road and the rural beauty of the valley, then to the Applegate Lake, full to capacity and topped by a view of the snowy peaks of the Red Buttes. Gazing at that view, we picnicked on the asparagus sandwiches and orange-and-mascarpone tarts I had brought.

    It was a marvelously successful excursion. Jack, like Laura last year, was amazed at the beauty of the Siskiyous. They both, now, understand why I love where I live so much. And I know, now, how to impress visitors who can't hike by foot. I'll just take them on a hike by car.

Trump's Scariest Move

       Trump's greedy and bumbling fingers are reaching into so many areas of our lives that, were I to dwell on them, I would live in a puddle of paralysis. Trump scares me in so many ways:

    That there will be no help from public health agencies when the next pandemic sweeps the country.

    That climate change will charge right ahead without any efforts on our part to mitigate its damage, including storms and fires, and then that FEMA won't be there to help in the aftermath.

    That something will come of the ridiculous and bullying boasts to take over Greenland and the Panama Canal and to change the name of the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America, of all the embarrassing ideas.

    That he compiles lists of words banned in government documents and websites. Words that can't be used?! "Woman," "diverse," "social justice," 'bipoc"—PEN America lists more than 250 words no longer considered acceptable by the Trump administration. 

    That cozying up to Russia and thumbing our nose at our allies will have disastrous international effects.

    That extraction will dominate in our national forests.

    That our precious National Parks, the pride of our country, will lose their sanctity and their carefully controlled use. (Already I have heard of interlopers misusing the land [poaching? defacing?] and, when confronted, answering with a shrug, "What are you going to do about it?")

    That science will be ignored.

    That the arts will languish.

    That dissenting voices are being squelched.

    That our children will miss out on the education they deserve and need.

    That the imposed tariffs will play havoc with the economy and shut down many small businesses of good people who are the very people I thought Trump meant to appeal to, and aren't they changing their minds now?

   It is scary to think of all this, but the scariest thing is what he has done to one person: Abrego Garcia. 

    If Trump can pluck a person out of his altogether normal American life and throw him out of the country, then laugh in the face of the law—it stabs fear into my heart.

    

"Hands Off" March in Grants Pass

    I have been in despair over the future of this country, but on April 5 a strong flame of hope tore through the despair. Hundreds of people stood on 6th street in Grants Pass, Oregon, a small, rural town in Josephine County, strong Trump land, waving their defiant signs and calling for "hands off."  

    Old people, young people, children, people in wheelchairs, retired people, working people, a flock of teenagers in fishnet stockings and one figure wearing an American flag sewn to a rainbow flag

—people of all sorts gathered in front of the county courthouse with their signs protesting Trump, Musk, DOGE, etc. 

    Someone estimated 300-400 people—nowhere close to the thousands in other cities, but people everywhere on the street were marveling at the size of the crowd, the largest anyone had seen at a protest in Grants Pass.

Pretty darn good for Grants Pass.
(Note the women in red cloaks)

    Across the street, at the Josephine County Republican Headquarters, a handful of glum counter-protesters stood with their left-over, enormous Trump/Vance campaign signs. A number of people, including three or four women in the red cloaks of The Handmaid's Tale, crossed the street to surround them with their anti-Trump signs (then rejoined our group, as you see in the photo above).

    No one got angry. No one yelled. There was no violence. Many drivers passing the crowd honked their horns in support of the demonstrators and gave encouraging signs. There were, admittedly, a few motorcyclists who revved their engines with disapproval and some drivers and passengers who made unpleasant gestures, but there were a lot more thumbs up than fingers up. Basically, civility ruled.

    Many signs followed the "hands off" theme: hands off science and education and social security and our parks and our forests, and hands off agencies and people and institutions. "Hands off democracy." "Hands off Greenland, Panama, Canada." 

    Lots of signs spoke in support of immigrants, trans people, federal workers, scientists, and others. I liked the "Deport Musk" signs, and I liked the double-sided poster, one side with a picture of Trump, labeled "puppet," the other side with a picture of Putin, labeled "puppeteer." I loved the "Make good trouble signs," referencing, of course, both Cory Booker and John Lewis. I liked the young man standing staunchly with an American flag as big as any you see flying from the back of a pickup truck, saying, in effect, the flag belongs to us all.

     One of my favorite signs said, "No, no, no; Donnie's gotta go," and the similar "Bad Doge!"

    But the sign I thought had the best message was made by a girl of about ten or eleven: "Don't be a bully, Mr. President." 

    It kind of just comes down to that, doesn't it?

    I am so glad I was there that day, adding my presence and my voice to the crowd.

This was my sign, to which I could have added
education, science, and hatcheted items

Other signs. Not bad, for this conservative town.