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.

    

    

Skiing at Donner Pass: Mushrooms on the Mountain

     One day, skiing ahead of our excursion, two of our group, Jennifer and Kate, met a couple of young skiers on the trail. Jennifer told them about our Sierra Club group, all over 50 years old and the oldest 80. When they met again at the top of the pass, the two young people were taking some mushrooms for a little psychedelic boost to their ski adventure. They said, "Oh, here are some mushrooms for Diana!" to honor my elder position among the skiers.

    That evening, sitting around the stove with me and others, Jennifer told about meeting the skiers and, with a flourish, presented me with the mushrooms. She had overheard me talking about psychedelics with Maricel and Beverly the evening before, so she was pleased to be giving me such a suitable gift.

                                    photo by Debra Gibson

    But Jennifer had missed the main drift of that conversation, which was the part psychedelics had played in my two-year bout with what was diagnosed as schizophrenia. Explaining that reference to Jennifer led to a rendition of the whole story, from so long ago, to everyone sitting around the stove. 

   Afterward, when people expressed gratitude that I would talk so openly about that experience, I told them that when the two-year episode had come to an end, I had thought, "If we are ever going to overcome the stigma of mental illness, we have to talk about it," and so I have never hidden that part of my life. And it's true that today we talk more openly about mental illness than we did in the '70s. 

    And the reason I was talking about psychedelics with Maricel and Beverly, a psychotherapist, in the first place was as part of a discussion about the therapeutic use of psychedelics. As always in discussions of that topic, I raised a cautionary voice: If, as it seems by my experience, some individuals are particularly sensitive to such substances, we should be particularly careful in advocating their use. 

    "So what will you do with the mushrooms?" someone asked, puzzled why I would want them.

    Well, I did offer them to anyone who wanted to actually eat them, but when no one reached for them, I said I would put them in a little jar on a shelf in my house. Then, I said, when someone picked up the jar and said, "What's this?" I could tell a story about skiing on Donner Pass, Jennifer's chance meeting with the young skiers, and all the fascinating, intelligent, broad-minded, and community-oriented fellow lovers of snow I had met.

Sierra Club Trip on Donner Pass: The Lodge and the Lodgers

    One of the best things about Sierra Club trips is the many interesting people you meet. They are passionate about the environment, and, in my experience (on three Sierra Club trips), they are cheerful contributors to a communal experience. 

    On the Donner Pass trip, we stayed at the delightful, rustic, 100-year-old Hutchinson Lodge.

                                                        photo by Debra Gibson

It is unstaffed, but everything ran smoothly because there was always someone to do what was needed—help our cooks, who were also snowshoe and ski co-leaders, with meals (the food was terrific!),

Nora and Jane, two of our cooks 
photo by Jeannette Sivertsen, the third cook

keep the fires going in the two wood-burning stoves, 

Mike, keeping the stove going.
                        photo by Jeannette Sivertsen

pull a sled loaded with supplies (or firewood!) up the snowy hill to the lodge,

and anything else that was needed. With only one water heater, our leaders suggested three-minute showers. I didn't hear that anyone ran out of hot water during a shower. 

    Besides being considerate and helpful, Sierra Club outings people are so interesting! Five of the twenty-one of us were originally from different countries—Argentina, Iran, Israel, the Czech Republic, and Hong Kong. Careers ranged widely—a psychiatrist, a personal development consultant, a doctor, tech people, and other interesting occupations. Discussions ranged from books to personal backgrounds to tales of outdoor adventures. 

Mark Chang leading a discussion about protecting winer wildlands

    Leaders of Sierra Club outings always tell participants about environmental issues pertinent to the area. Mark told us about grassroots organizations and alliances dedicated to protection of winter wildlands "for quality human-powered winter recreation"—i.e., no over-snow vehicles (OSVs). In fact, our snowshoers ran into some snowmobilers on a frozen lake they had snowshoed to. Although there are places in the Donner Pass area open to OSV use, this lake, Mark thought, was not one and the snowmobilers probably recreating illegally.

    Before we went out on the first day, Mark talked to us about backcountry ski equipment and safety. The best way to avoid avalanche danger, he said, was to stay out of avalanche territory at dangerous times. The best way not to get lost, he said, was to use a GPS. "Don't depend on following your tracks to get home," he told us. "There are tracks everywhere." In the Cascades of southern Oregon, where I usually ski, I am always confident I can follow my tracks back to the trailhead, but Donner Pass is a very popular area for skiing and snowshoeing ("It's a zoo on the weekends," Mark said), and, yes, there were tracks everywhere. I was glad enough to follow Mark and his GPS every day back to the Hutchinson Lodge, where I was glad, too, for good cooks, a warm fire, good companionship, and a comfortable bunk bed to tumble into for a well-earned, long night's sleep.

Next week: Mushrooms on the Mountain

Backcountry Skiing on Donner Pass: The Skiing

    Four days of backcountry skiing with Mark Chang, I thought last week as I was skiing with him on Donner Pass, was about comparable to hiking 800 miles for my 80th birthday. It was that challenging.

    And so much fun! 

    I had signed up for this Sierra Club trip—Tahoe Ski and Snowshoe Backcountry Adventure, led by Mark Chang—after extensive conversation with him in December about my experience and equipment. It sounded like I could do it. 

    It was not namby-pamby. It was not on groomed trails with set tracks. It was up steep icy hills, with herring-bone steps that tested the strength of my thighs. It was a lot of downhill challenges.

I'm in front. It's steeper than it looks. Photo by Mark Chang

Four to six miles a day. Tight turns on narrow trails through the woods. Creek crossings on snow-bridges. Swift glides over snow-frozen lakes. I fell plenty of times, but Jane, Mark's skiing co-leader, told me I hadn't fallen any more than anyone else. Everyone fell.

Jane and me                     Photo by Mark Chang

    And those gorgeous views of Sierra peaks, snow as far as you could see.

                                                                                Photo by Mark Chang

           The second day we skied up to and over a pass on our way to Peter Grubb hut. Besides the steep climbs, we had one long, steep, dangerous, icy traverse. At the end of it, we stopped for lunch and discussed plans. Mark suggested that instead of going to the hut, we turn uphill to a flat below Castle Peak, then return to the lodge on the Pacific Crest Trail. One of the skiers protested. "It's only ten minutes to the hut," she said, pleadingly. 

    "Ten minutes for you," Mark said. "An hour for Diana."

The second day's skiers, below Castle Peak.     Photo by Mark Chang

    What made it all so glorious? The whoop-de-whoop ups and downs on the Pacific Crest Trail and its serene glides through the forest? Doing better and better herring-bone steps? The views of high Sierra peaks beyond us or of dark blue, white-trimmed Donner Lake below us? Swooping down wide hills, making graceful (or not so graceful) turns?

                                Photo by Mark Chang

Just simply being outdoors in the snow and the incomparable beauties of deep winter on the mountain? Meeting every challenge, one way or another, and coming home exhilarated every afternoon? Just being able to ski in the backcountry? 

    All of it.

    One by one, skiers dropped out to join the snowshoers. On the fourth and last day, Mark said the skiing group would be himself, Jane, and three others—Jennifer and Kate, the two best skiers in the group—and me. I was aghast. What was I thinking to be skiing with those four? But Mark and Jane had skied with me for three days. If they thought I could do it, I wasn't going to take myself out. 

Jennifer, Kate, Mark, me, Jane             photo by Jennifer Halter Baceda

    What a glorious day! I kept up (well enough), and the skiing was magnificent, challenging and beautiful. We stopped, amazed, in front of wind sculptures.

Jennifer, me, Kate, Jane                             Photo by Mark Chang

We stopped next to a group of trees to listen to the tapping rhythms of a woodpecker. We followed bear paw prints, Mama Bear's and Baby Bear's.

                                    photo by Jennifer Halter Baceda

We skied over the smooth surfaces of lakes, down wide hills, up hills and down, on snow bridges across creeks, and, finally, we took off our skis to walk through dank echoing tunnels under the freeway.

          Photo by Jennifer Halter Baceda

    Every afternoon I came back to the lodge more exhilarated than tired. Every morning I clipped my boots into my skis, ready to go again. I came home with blisters on my heels, a bruise on my hip, chapped lips, and a heart full of gratitude—to Mark Chang for leading this trip and to all the companions with whom I shared his backcountry adventure on Donner Pass. 

(from left) Mark, me, and the other skiers.    Photo by Jane Uptegrove

    

Next week: Backcountry Skiing on Donner Pass: The Lodge and the Lodgers

Cross-country Skiing Christmas Present

     It was 11 below zero the first night of my Christmas present from my son, Ela: three days of cross-country skiing with him in Methow Valley, in the north Cascades. 

    Or course, it wasn't quite that cold the afternoon we got there—just above zero, maybe. We went straight to the rental shop, rented skis for Ela, booked a private lesson for the next day, grabbed a map of ski trails, and took off on our skis.

    At first I was disappointed. It was so flat! I wanted hills, and although the flat, snowy field was beautiful, the skiing was boring. But when we got to the hills and the woods, my spirits rose. Now it was really beautiful, and the skiing was challenging and fun. I was in my element.

I am the figure in white, in my element.

    After an hour's warm-up ski on the flat the next morning, we met Eric, our ski instructor, at a different trailhead.

    Skiing at Methow is either skate skiing (not my cup of tea) or classic cross-country—on groomed trails, in tracks, suited for the skis Ela had rented. I have backcountry skis, suited to the kind of skiing I usually do but too wide for the set tracks at Methow.  I told Eric that what I really wanted was tips for backcountry skiing, and he had plenty for me. Push from the straps of your poles, not from the grip. Swing from the shoulder. Don't flick your wrist. Never equalize your weight on the skis going uphill. He showed me how to swivel my hips to make turns on the downhill. He showed Ela, who, though a good snowboarder and a pretty good novice telemarker, is new to cross-country skiing, how to lift one ski out of the track to slow himself on the downhill. He took us off-trail to demonstrate techniques in deep snow.

    The special thing about skiing at Methow, Eric told us, was not the amount of snow but that it is so cold that the snow never melts and the skiing is always good on the groomed trails.

    When the lesson was over, Ela and I kept skiing, heading up Doe Canyon, by far my favorite of the five or six trails we skied those three days. Up and up and up, climbing hills, until we were far above the river valley, then a glorious fast downhill, on the wide groomed trail, swishing side to side, all the way to the river again

    After a late lunch at our cabin, we went out again, this time skiing out the back door of the cabin to the trailhead and onto the hills up Jack'sTrail, not as steep as Doe Canyon, but still pretty good.

    Our last day at Methow we were out skiing early. It was zero degrees. Not another soul was out. My nose hairs froze. Ela's hair was frosted from his breath. We skied fast, warming up, relishing the sunny spots, by the river, through the woods, over the glorious snow.    

    We skied six times in our three days at Methow. We started every morning with Ela's good coffee and ended it with good pub food. We thrilled to the bright cold weather, the beautiful snow, the fun skiing. Now it was time to pack up and leave. Ela drove us carefully over the icy, snow-swirling passes through the Cascades back to his home on Vashon Island. The next morning I took the ferry to Tacoma and then the train to Eugene and drove home from there.

    It was the best Christmas present ever—the wonderful skiing, the sparkling cold weather, the learning and the practice, all that beautiful snow, and the ever delightful companionship of my son. 

Stopping to view Goat Wall in the sun.

    Thanks, Ela. It was fabulous.

(All photos by Ela Lamblin)

    

And the Snow It Snowed

     I woke up Sunday morning to two inches of snow, and snow still falling.
    Immediately, I drove my car the half-mile down the hill to the paved road. Then I walked home, secure in the knowledge that I could get out if I needed to, whatever the snowfall.

    The snow fell all day, accumulating about 16 inches. That night, as I was eating dinner, dark suddenly crashed into the house. Power outage. I finished dinner by candlelight, then read by headlamp. When I turned off the headlamp before getting into bed, the outside world leapt into existence glowing as though electrified as the moon, hidden behind trees, set the world alight. The Big Dipper danced on its long handle over the mountain.

    Clear skies were brief. The snow fell all the next day. Without electricity the silence was silver. The outside world was pristine and white, the snow deep both on the ground and on the trees and falling in a slow, steady, soft drift from the sky. 

    Electricity returned just after midnight. The next morning I thought I should walk down the road and dig the car out, so I put on my ski boots and gaiters and plowed through the deep snow,

trampling a trench I could use for anticipated walks up and down the hill with my groceries in a backpack. Before I had gone very far, a large downed tree, tangled with several smaller trees, blocked my path.

I couldn't climb over it or walk around it. Without access in or out, I was truly snowbound.

    I don't mind being snowbound. Actually, I kind of like the coziness of it, But I had important travel dates coming up, and I didn't want to miss them.

    Maybe I should have the road plowed.

    And spoil all that pristine beauty? No! What a sacrilege to the cold white cathedral.

    Maybe I should change priorities. 

    I called my neighbor with a snowplow.

    He came up and plowed my road into an ugly muddy mess.

    Later I walked down the plowed road to dig the car out. Uneasy about driving the car up a now slushy road, I left it in a more protected spot and walked home, where I sat at my desk, my back to the plowed driveway, watching the snow-laden forest in its pristine, white, glorious beauty.

    This morning the driveway is covered with another three inches of beautiful white snow.

Ghost Words

    Ghost words are actually and in fact words that entered the dictionary by mistake and were either discovered and deleted—ghosted, as it were—or gathered lovingly into the language in spite of their ghostly ancestry. 

    "Dord" is an example of a word taken into, then out of, the dictionary. It was written down as a synonym for "density" because in the original entry, the lexicographer added, helpfully, after "density," "D or d," meaning that "density," a term of physics, could be spelled with or without a capital D: "Density, D or d"—"Density, Dord." It was an easy mistake to make, but it became a ghost word when it was removed from the dictionary in a huff.

    "Syllabus" is an example of a word with a ghostly, i.e., nonexistent, ancestry that was left in the dictionary in spite of the error that birthed it. In some 17th-century scriptorium, a scribe copying words into a dictionary came to the Latin word sittybas, defined as a parchment label. In the dim light in which he was working, he apparently didn't notice the crosses on the "t"s and created the word "syllabus." In time, the meaning also got twisted, from a "parchment label" to "a list," and on to the most common modern meaning, "a list of lessons for a class."

    But I like to think of ghost words as wraiths, hovering into the language and then evaporating. "Crapulous," for instance, a word for the way you feel after you've eaten too much—isn't it a shame that that word became a ghost? Elflock— hair that elves have tangled—is another ghost word (by my definition) we could use today—much better, don't you think, than "bad hair day"?

    I wish curglaff, the shock felt at a cold-water plunge, hadn't turned into a ghost. I would love to be able to say, as I plunged into a lake at 10,000 feet, "Wow! That was a great curglaff!" And I still could, I guess, even if no on knew what I meant, except that I probably won't remember it. It has only a spectral existence, flitting through the linguistic atmosphere as insubstantial and unsnatchable as a ghost.