No Kings, 2026

    As in places all around the country, and in the world, large numbers of No Kings protestors showed up in Grants Pass last Saturday. I was one.

    That means I was one of eight million Americans in 3,300 US cities and towns at a rally. It felt both noble and exciting to participate in what apparently was the largest demonstration, nationwide, since the first Earth Day. The mood was upbeat. The signs were clever and encouraging: "No faux-king way," "No kings in America since 1776," "Melt ICE."  I didn't take any pictures, but you've seen photos from other cities, the massive crowds in Minneapolis-St. Paul, Atlanta, New York, Washington, DC. Mind-boggling. 

    Grants Pass is a small town. I liked seeing the few black people who were there—the ex-military in their uniforms—young people with "Trans rights are human rights" signs. I liked seeing such a large crowd in this staunchly conservative area.

    Protests around the country were mostly nonviolent, though apparently there were some arrests in Portland, LA, and Dallas. 

    Does it do any good? Well, Trump didn't call an end to the war in Iran the next day, but you know he was pissed—if he was paying attention, if his aides gave him more than complimentary news, if he didn't sincerely believe the real reports were fake news. 

    Does it do any good? Well, the Center for American Progress reports that the numbers from last Saturday put us close to the crucial 3.5 percent figure—the proportion of the population it takes to make government officials pay attention.

    Does it do any good? Well, in the first two No Kings rallies in Grants Pass, counter-protestors stood with their own signs in front of the Republican headquarters, which is directly across the street from the courthouse, where the rallies are centered. This time there was one lone Jesus-hawker with his megaphone. The other counter-protestors stayed away. Did they feel outnumbered? Or do they feel they can no longer support Trump?

    Either way….

        I hope you'll go to the next No Kings protest to help swell the numbers to the 3.5-percent point. It is good for your soul and good for your country.

In the White Mountains of New Hampshire—Part II: Skiing, Snowshoeing, and Snowstorms

    The skiing was great—not always easy, but that was part of the fun. Skiing through the woods was lovely on the easy ups and downs and where the sun threw long shadows of thin-trunked trees onto the snow—so different from the big trees of the Pacific Northwest! 

                                                        photo by Jeanne Blauner

The trails were often packed hard by previous snowshoers and skiers into narrow passages through deep snow on either side.

                                        photo by Tomas Dundzilla
Snowshoers on the narrow trail
Front to back: Sandra, Lisa, Jeanne 

At places the trail went steeply down and then suddenly up, making V-gullies that were sometimes difficult and sometimes impossible to ski: too narrow to herringbone, too steep to stomp up, with snow so deep on the sides there was no push from ski poles. I managed the less steep ones, but pretty soon so many of the skiers were falling so often that the best thing to do was take off our skis and walk. Then we would put the skis back on for more of the lovely bits before we had to take them off again.

    The second day's ski had a lot of V-gullies and one long, wind-swept traverse on a steep hillside, a delightful crossing. 

Me on the traverse             photo by Tomas Dundzila

    At one point, on the return to the trailhead, I took off my skis to walk up a hill and then couldn't get one boot to click back into the binding. The mechanism seemed broken. The snowshoers were way ahead of the three skiers—Jeanne, Lisa, and me. Neither Jeanne nor Lisa could make the binding work. I would have to walk, carrying my skis, the last mile and a half. Carrying skis is awkward, but walking the hard-packed trail wasn't difficult—until my foot hit soft snow and I would fall up to my knee. Jeanne took off her skis, too, suggesting that following her footsteps would keep me out of the holes, though I suspect she was mostly acting out of sympathy for my difficulty. 

    After walking like that for more than a mile, falling in holes and hauling myself back to the trail, I was happy to see Tomas returning to check on us. I gratefully accepted his offer to carry my skis. Once back at the hut, Tomas examined my broken ski, then took it to the sink, ran hot water over the binding to thaw the frozen mechanism, and handed it back to me, fixed.

     Another day we all put on snowshoes to climb to the Zeacliff outlook (1.5 miles, 1300-foot elevation gain). It was my first time on showshoes.

l-r: Sandra, Lisa, me.      photo by Tomas Dundzila  

I look happy enough, but I am not a convert. I prefer the graceful movement and silent glide of skiing—and the challenge of skills, too. But it took snowshoes to get to the overlook, where the view was stupendous, with panoramic views of the Pemigewasset Wilderness and snow-capped Mt. Washington. 

    The last day I was skiing along, happily and easily,

                                                    photo by Lisa Fleischer

back to the parking lot and our cars when Tomas, who was pulling the sled, stopped as I skied up to him. "Hop on," he said. "I'll pull you on the sled." I demurred (slightly), but he was serious. He wanted to see if it could be done; he would pull me until we got to the bottom of the uphill slope ahead. So I gleefully sat down atop the bundles, hung my feet over the front edge, set my skis on either side of me, and away we went, Tomas pulling, me clutching the sides of the sled as we bumped along.

    It was a barrel of fun.

    The whole trip was a barrel of fun—the wonderful people I met, the adventurous Zealand Falls hut, the climbs (even on snowshoes) to vistas, and the wonderful, challenging, beautiful skiing through deep, white, quiet snow. I came home with a healthy respect for the beauty and ruggedness of the White Mountains and warm feelings for my fellow snow-adventurers.

   Sallie (in front), Eugenia, Nancy, Jeanne.   photo by Tomas Dundzila

   That might have been the end of the story except for getting caught in a snowstorm the evening the official trip was over. Eugenia and I (Eugenia driving) were headed to the Boston airport when dark fell, along with the snow. The backcountry New Hampshire roads quickly became treacherous. When we saw the lights of a Dunkin Donuts gleaming in the emptiness, we gratefully pulled into the parking lot, went inside for a bite to eat, then came back to the car, pulled out our sleeping bags, and arranged ourselves for a night in the car. 

    In the wee hours of the morning we were awakened by a snowplow clearing the parking lot. When we got out of the car that morning, we found it blocked in with a two-foot wall of snow. I went inside to ask for a shovel while Eugenia tried to dig us out with the car's ice scraper ("Like using a toothpick to stir cake batter," she said) until she realized the four-wheel-drive rental car could probably crunch right through the snow, which it did. 

    We both missed planned visits with friends in Boston that evening, and I was sorry to miss a night in the Embassy Suites (with its shower), but both Eugenia and I got to the airport safely the next day and, later, to our respective homes, in Ohio and Oregon. I drove home from the airport in the dark, but not in the snow.

    Driving through the Rogue Valley the next day, I was surprised to see daffodils in bloom. It was another world from where I had been.

                                               photo by Lisa Fleischer

Skiing in the White Mountains of New Hampshire—Part I: The Participants and the Hut

     There were eight of us on this Sierra Club ski-and-snowshoe trip in the White Mountains—five participants; two assistant leaders (Tomas Dundzila and Sallie Schramm); and the leader, Jeanne Blauner.

                                                               Photo by unknown bystander
l-r: Sallie, Tomas, me, Lisa, Jeanne, Sandra, Nancy, Eugenia.

They were from Maine (2), New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York (2), and Ohio—and me, from Oregon. I was there because this year's warm, dry, ugly winter drove me all the way to New Hampshire for snow and cold.

    And, yes, I got both.

  The first of my new experiences was to put microspikes on my boots

                                                                                photo by Tomas Dundzila

and hike an easy 3.2 miles from the Appalachian Mountain Club's Highland Center to the top of Mt. Willard for a stunning vista.

       Me on the precipice overlooking the vista.  photo by Lisa Fleischer      

     The next day we put on skis and snowshoes for the 6 1/2-mile trip to Zealand Falls hut. I was carrying a 25-pound pack,

                                                                                        photo by Lisa Fleischer

which wasn't too bad—I had been carrying 30 pounds in training—but I was puzzled at falling (I could ski that? Why had I fallen?) until I realized that the weight of my pack had changed my center of gravity. Once I accommodated for that, the skiing was easy, up and up, with an elevation gain of 1155 feet, until we came to a very steep uphill, where we took off our skis and climbed to the hut. Tomas, who had been pulling a sled loaded with group food and gear from the parking lot, managed to pull that heavy sled all the way to the hut, helped by Nancy and others pushing from behind. 

    Built in the 1930s, Zealand Falls hut is totally charming and has a magnificent mountain-view location. But I had to laugh at the altitude—2630 feet, about the same as my own house!

                                                             photo by Eugenia Costa-Giomi
Nancy, Lisa, Sandra, Jeanne, Sallie, Tomas, me in front of the hut. 

    It's a good thing I like cold! The dorm rooms are unheated. We slept in sub-freezing temperatures, shivered into ski clothes each morning, and had breakfast in the main room, where Parker, the charming young host, had coffee ready at 6:00 every morning, though no amount of bribery or begging would induce him to build a fire in the small wood-burning stove until 4:00 in the afternoon. (It was a matter of firewood supply.) We cooked our own meals and quickly realized that if we used the oven for breakfast (to bake granola, keep pancakes warm, whatever), we were adding heat to the room. 

    We ate exceedingly well on our own resources: lasagna the first night;

The lasagna                        photo by Lisa Fleischer

Argentinian lentil stew, prepared by Eugenia, our authentic Argentinian participant, the next night; and burritos the last night, with desserts of some sort—cake, pudding, cookies, chocolates—every night. As we gathered around the table for a group talk our last night at the hut, Parker slid a panful of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies onto the table for us.

    One late afternoon we saw a pine marten just outside the hut.

                                                                                    photo by Tomas Dundzila

    All three leaders were wonderful, but Tomas was the hero, not because he was the only man on the trip but because he pulled the sled to the hut, saving us extra weight in our packs, and because, again and again, we turned to him for help. "Tomas, I can't get my snowshoes buckled; will you help me?" "Tomas, my boot sole is loose; can you fix it?" Tomas, this; Tomas, that, and the answer was always yes and the problem was always fixed. 

Next week: Part II: Skiing, Snowshoeing, and Snowstorms.

Sallie (in front), Eugenia, Nancy, Jeanne.    photo by Tomas Dundzila