Which Way do we Go?

Okay. We'll be going either to the Wallowa Mountains in eastern Oregon, or south to Lassen Volcanic National Park and/or Mt. Shasta. We haven't decided yet, and probably won't till we have to get on the highway.

Stop pulling your hair like that, Full Moon. It'll leave bald patches on your head.

Bike Paths and Boy Scouts

There are two items of interest in today’s Indianapolis Star, and both of them tend to underscore differences between my old home state and my new one.  

First up is an article detailing the sorry state of Indianapolis roads with respect to “bike-ability,” and local cyclists’ efforts to improve matters.  Indianapolis has within its city limits a grand total of 3.7 miles of bike lanes.  This doesn’t include the sixty miles of greenways accessible only to pedestrian and bike traffic – but those sixty miles are essentially cut off from anything else.  They are roads to nowhere, in effect, unless you conduct most of your activities along one of them.  In other words, these greenways are fine for a recreational ride, but are limited even for that purpose, and do almost nothing to accommodate bicycling as a means of transportation.  

The fact is, if you want to use your bike to get from Point A to Point B in Indianapolis, you are going to have to risk your neck to do it.  I struggled with this issue when I lived there.  The houses I occupied near Broad Ripple and Glendale were the most bike-friendly.  I could avoid the insane traffic by riding through parking lots, neighborhoods and on the occasional sidewalk, and still get to my favorite restaurant or store without getting flattened by an SUV.  

But when I moved to the last Indiana-based location of Three Dog Farm, I was socked in by Michigan Road.  To get to the safety of the White River Greenway, I had to ride several miles alongside the segment of the driving public that thinks it’s hilarious to swerve into a bike’s path and watch as the bike goes wobbling all over the place and eventually spits its rider out onto the shoulder of the road.  So I didn’t do it.  When I felt like biking into Broad Ripple, I’d hitch a ride with TS as far as the White River Greenway, then head in from there.

This sort of thing is not as much of a problem in Portland.  You can’t take two steps without hitting a greenway or a bike lane. (In deference to Full Moon, I will refrain from using my usual “you can’t swing a dead cat without” preface, which I admit is kind of odd anyway, coming from someone sympathetic to animal rights issues.)  People actually use their bicycles for transportation here.

And, wonder of wonders, Oregon is the only state whose obesity rate did not increase last year.

Becoming bike-friendly – or even merely less bike-a-phobic – is one of the things Indianapolis could do to dramatically increase the quality of life available there.  But Indy’s elected officials don’t seem to get this, and appear to scratch their heads and say “huh?” every time someone brings it up.  The addition of bike lanes would likely be inexpensive or “cost neutral,” with the federal and state grants available, according to Steve Talley, the City-County Council President.  If that’s the case, it would be crazy not to build them.  But as we all know, just because they’d be crazy not to do something doesn’t mean they’ll do it.

Next up is the reason why Trailhead Kid will not be participating in the Boy Scouts unless and until there is a radical change in their national policy.  Dave Wendling’s 6-year-old son wanted to join the Boy Scouts at his Lawrence Township School, and Mr. Wendling stepped up and volunteered to lead the group, when no one else would.  

Mr. Wendling went home and shared this news with his [male] partner who apparently gave him an odd look and reminded Dave that the Boy Scouts seem to have a few issues with gay folks.  So Mr. Wendling called the dad in charge of the recruitment meeting, who then called the national organization, and asked whether there was a problem.  There was.

Sorry, Dave.  You’re gay.  Buh-bye.  

Not only was Mr. Wendling not allowed to lead the group, he was not even allowed to attend an overnight event that was held at a public school.  Nice.

But Trailhead, you say, how can you possibly keep Trailhead Kid from being in the Boy Scouts?  It’s a time-honored tradition!  It’s outdoorsy!  And heck, they probably wouldn’t even enforce that rule in your local Portland groups.  So don’t you think it’s wrong to keep TK from joining when every other little boy will probably be doing it?

Nope.  Not a whit.  And here’s why:  What if every other kid was joining a group whose national organization had a rule against admitting black people?  Should I let my child join just because the local chapters didn’t enforce that rule?  

It’s my responsibility as a parent to teach my son how to treat other people, and to help him create an ethical framework for his life.  The Boy Scouts purport to assist with that aim.  But this exclusionary rule not only contravenes that goal, but aggressively undermines it.  And that’s sad, because everything else about the organization and its activities seems positive.  I have a number of friends who benefited from their affiliation with the group as boys.

But some of the people the Trailhead family loves most –who have been outstanding, loving examples for TK since he was born – are not considered “good enough” by this group.  I’d be some kind of hypocrite if I ignored that.  And that’s not what I want my kid to learn.

A White Giraffe Photograph

Charles Foley has taken the photograph of a lifetime.

Foley works for the Wildlife Conservation Society in Tanzania, at the Tarangire National Park.  In 1993, he began hearing rumors of the existence of a white giraffe.  He kept his eyes pealed for twelve years, but never saw it.  

Recently, he was in a helicopter conducting an aerial survey of elephants when he spotted the elusive giraffe.  Click here to see his photograph of it.  It’s gorgeous – all white except for the legs, which are the usual brown.  

According to Foley, the giraffe is not a true albino, just a lighter color than usual.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

…often go awry. Or the worst laid plans, in this case.

This is why I don’t like to plan things too rigidly (take that, Full Moon). According to the Weather Channel Online, all three of our possible trip options will be beset by weather of such unspeakable crappiness that we will be forced to re-route. The high temperatures in Glacier will be hovering around the upper 40s, and there will be rain and sleet. I don’t have a problem with the chilly weather, but the rain and sleet, when coupled with the cold, turn me off. We have a similar problem with the Mount Olympus hike and the Wonderland Trail.

The best forecasts within a reasonable driving distance are for Crater Lake and Grand Teton National Park. (You may be curious about the profusion of national parks – it’s a long story for another post. Just bear with me for now.)

I intend to wait until tomorrow to see if the forecasts change. Meanwhile, does anyone have any suggestions? Criteria for the trip locale are: 1) hike-able or paddle-able, 2) can be reached in a day or so from the Portland area, and 3) a relatively non-crappy forecast for next week.

Update:  Looks like the Wallowa Mountains have climbed to the top of the list.    

Coming Soon: Good Old Fashioned Aimlessness

With the exception of journeys taken by plane, which were necessarily planned several weeks ahead of time, vacations used to go a little something like this, starting about the week prior to vacation:

Trailhead: Where do you want to go?

Trailhead Spouse: Dunno. Boundary Waters?

Trailhead: Maybe. Adirondacks?

Trailhead Spouse: Maybe.

Two days before:

Trailhead: Where should we go?

Trailhead Spouse: Hmmm. Maine?

Trailhead: Too far to drive during the time we have. Upper Peninsula?

Trailhead Spouse: Maybe.

The Night Before:

Trailhead: Where are we going tomorrow?

Trailhead Spouse: I don’t know. Just throw all the guidebooks in the truck and we’ll decide later.

Trailhead: Okay.

Sitting in the car at the end of the street trying to determine which way to turn:

Trailhead: What about the Badlands?

Trailhead Spouse: Okay.

Trailhead: Turn left.


Things haven’t happened that way in quite some time. That train left the station three years ago when the Parenthood Express rolled in. But thanks to Trailhead Mother-in-Law, who will arrive Friday evening, things are taking that turn once again. The arrival of TH MiL means the first week-long vacation for the Trailheads -- without Trailhead Kid -- in three years.

And we still haven’t decided where we’re going. The top choice is a paddling trip in Waterton-Glacier, mostly on the Canadian side. We have a couple of bad-weather backups, including portions of the Wonderland Trail in Mt. Rainier National Park, and a trip through the Hoh Rain Forest to the base of Mt. Olympus in Olympic National Park.

We’ll decide sometime before we get to the end of our street.

Gulf Coast, West Coast, What's the Difference?

This is a conversation I had with a drug store cashier last Saturday morning, while Hurricane Rita was lashing the Gulf Coast.  I had just walked into the drug store carrying Trailhead Kid, whose head was resting on my shoulder:

Cashier:  Awww, somebody’s tired.

Trailhead:  Yeah, we just flew in from the West Coast last night and he’s a little jet-lagged.

Cashier:  Where did you fly in from?

Trailhead:  Portland, Oregon.

Cashier:  Oh, no!  Are things getting bad down there?


I didn’t know quite what to say.  

Political Joke of the Day

I can't help myself:

Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing. He concludes by saying: "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed." "OH NO!" the President exclaims. "That's terrible!" His staff sits stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands. Finally, the President looks up and asks, "How many is a brazillion?"

(Thanks to CM for the forward.)

Bad Shoes and Tedium

There is nothing quite like the overbearing glare of fluorescent lights and the monotony of droning lawyers (Bloggerdad excepted, of course!) to relentlessly squash even the tiniest spark of creativity bold enough to peak out during a continuing legal education seminar.

Nothing of interest has happened to me in the last two days, other than an appallingly poor choice of shoes. This produced raw heels and shooting ankle pain, and no doubt made our secretary rue the day my plane landed safely as she walked to the drugstore, purchased moleskin and delivered it to me at lunch. (Thank you, T! I owe you five bucks!)

My midwestern sortie is nearly over.

My Wild Night with Jimmy Messina, or How I Sold Out My Principles at the First Sight of Clint Black

I was six years old when Loggins & Messina broke up. Back then, Kenny Loggins and Jimmy Messina were competitive little squirts in their 20s with way too much talent and perhaps a bit too much ego. The two personalities became too much for each other, and they went their separate ways in 1976. Fortunately, the seemingly endless span of thirty years eroded the egos, but not the abilities. The astonishing raw talent, so much in evidence when they were young, had long since given way to a richly textured skill honed by those thirty-odd years.

The difference between the youthful Loggins & Messina and the concert I heard Sunday night was like the difference between getting busy with a young man and an older one -- the younger ones can show you a sweaty, energetic night that lasts forever, but the older one really, really knows what he's doing. It's the difference between a sharp gasp and a low, languid moan.

Oh my -- did I say that out loud? I was thinking it, but I had no idea I'd actually said it. I must have been thinking about Jim Messina again. Forgive me for a moment while I press a cold cloth to my forehead.

Ahem. I think I've collected myself sufficiently to continue.

We were sitting in the eighth row -- so close I could practically see their fingernails as they picked their guitars. Messina is so good at what he does that it's obviously second nature. Watching him, one gets the impression that he could play a successful concert while juggling oranges or balancing a basketball on his head. And it's clear Kenny Loggins has never become bored with his music, even after so many years of it -- he wore his joy in every expression and every movement, and added these exuberant little leaps to his performance that just made you love him.

About halfway through, Jim Messina announced that Clint Black would be sittin' in for a song or two. Click here for pictures. Though his music alleviated many a long commute on I-40 from Greensboro, North Carolina to Duke Law School in Durham, Clint Black is not exactly on my most-loved list these days. But he sang "Killin' Time" and sat in on some other songs with L&M, and it was -- insert heavy sigh here -- just really damn good.

And I suppose the whole Clint Black issue illuminated a thought that germinated during the concert. There's something inherently odd about the live music experience. On a personal level, it's only minimally mutual -- though there's a bit of narcissism on both sides of this coin. To the audience, these performers are larger than life, each fan having stamped them with their own projections, experiences and desires.

Performers must be aware of this, at least to some degree. I think it's the ones with the least understanding of this principle who tend to succumb to the deepest degree of celebro-narcissism. But we cannot possibly love them for who they are, because we only know as much of them as they allow us to. I am a perfect example of this. It had never occurred to me that Clint Black would have political beliefs I find utterly repugnant, because I had projected my own notions onto him.

This much I can say, though. I don't know what Jim Messina's favorite foods are, whether he had a tough time in third grade, whether he sleeps on his side or on his back, or what his grandmother was like. I don't know what Kenny Loggins' favorite book is, or whether he reads at all, or what his relationship with his kids is like. But I do know what they look like and how they sound when they sing "Vehevala" or "Long Tail Cat" or "Peace of Mind." And that small part of them that I do know, I love. And so do thousands upon thousands of others.

And maybe that's enough -- for us and for them.

Back from my Tour of the Midwest

I have returned from Columbus, and am working on my post about the Loggins & Messina Sittin' in Again Reunion Tour. But right now I have to take TK to Full Moon's house and attempt to restrain him from chasing Joe Kitty around the house and picking him up by the neck.

Bet that Olive Garden parking lot is lookin' a lot better now.

Joe Kitty Hits Fat City

There’s a certain alchemy that takes place when I’m with Full Moon. Noteworthy things happen with startling efficiency.

We had been together tonight only two hours before we had found a stray kitten, captured him, named him, fed him, purchased the requisite kitty supplies, got him purring, and settled him nicely at Full Moon’s house.

Joe Kitty is an interesting little guy. He wears a look of constant bug-eyed surprise, as if perpetually overcaffeinated. Accordingly, I suggested she call him Joe. Joe Kitty, just to make him sound a little more rednecky and ridiculous.

It was a good night for Joe Kitty. He went from scoping the Olive Garden parking lot for scraps to jumping into the arms of a total pushover.

Wasteland Takes One for the Team

I see that open thread joke went over well.

I can’t believe you all let Wasteland hang out to dry with that humidity question. You guys are brutal.

But seriously, what is up with this humidity here? I started to bead up like a can of cold beer on race day as soon as I stepped off the plane.

Open Thread -- Hahahahahahahahahaha

Anyone who frequents the big political blogs like Eschaton or Daily Kos knows they employ a device called the “Open Thread.”  This means that the comments section for that particular post is open to any topic – hurricanes, Iraq, pork futures or navel lint.  You see, these guys have so many people thronging to their sites and eager to make comments on any conceivable topic, that they are forced to post open threads in order to maintain topical discipline on their other threads that are actually devoted to one issue or another.

I’ve often chuckled at the idea of posting an open thread here at Trailheadcase, with its seven or eight regular commenters.  Such an act seems the height of hubris and delusionality.  So I think I must do it.

As soon as I click “publish” on this post, I’m off to PDX airport and won’t be back online till sometime tonight.  And, believe it or not, it appears I have some readers beyond those who comment.  So, it’s your turn.  Amuse everyone.  If you haven’t commented here before, please do so – that way we can welcome you to the asylum.  

At least I know Bloggerdad will be able to find something to say.

A Stiff Wind

Ahem.  This is hysterical.

Hoosier Beaver?

On Friday morning, TK and I are headed back to Indiana for the first time in many moons.

In light of my upcoming flight, it was probably unwise to spend the late afternoon in front of the TV, riveted by the emergency landing of the Jet Blue plane at LAX.

Assuming our aircraft's landing gear performs as it should, TK will get to spend some time with the grandparents and the aunts and uncles, and I will get to spend two thrilling, action-packed days at a continuing legal education seminar. That is the sort of thing they make you do to keep your license to practice.

I will also be making a short sidetrip to Columbus, Ohio with FullMoon, for the Loggins and Messina reunion concert. (It has been clear for some time that, at least with respect to music, I was born twenty years late.) Also, Trailhead Kid will get to spend time with one of his favorite preschooler pals, Wasteland Kid.

So it is that I continue my life as a native midwesterner transplanted to the Beaver State. Or, as I've suggested above, a Hoosier Beaver. As you can imagine, I've had a great deal of fun with Oregon 's nickname, as has every other Oregonian above the age of ten, I'm sure. Frankly, it's one of the things I like most about Oregon. We know perfectly well that our state name corresponds with a slang term for female genitalia, and yet we still drive around with bumper stickers on our car that say, "Dam right I'm a Beaver!" This is my kind of place. It's impossible not to admire that.

In other news, I have acquired a Flickr account and will be scanning in slides and posting them over the next few weeks.

Nature Smacks Itself Upside the Head

The direct human cost of Hurricane Katrina is so glaring, we’re only now becoming aware of the grave environmental consequences of the storm.

Consider this: according to the article linked above, coastal Louisiana produces a full thirty percent of this country’s domestic seafood, and that production has been severely impacted by the toxic aftermath of Katrina. The aftermath of the storm may cost shrimpers up to $540 million in sales over the coming year. There may be reason for optimism with respect to any long-term health hazards for residents of the city, but:

The floodwater being pumped out of New Orleans is "a toxic gumbo like we've never seen," said John Rodgers of Clemson University. It's being pumped into Lake Pontchartrain, but Rodgers said he believes some of it will enter the Mississippi River as well.

Scientists will have to monitor river sediments for toxic metals and pesticides, which in the short term could kill fish and crustaceans or make them hazardous to eat, he said. Over a longer period, Rodgers said such contamination could diminish fish reproduction for several years.

Additionally, the Coast Guard believes that seven million gallons of oil was spilled in the aftermath of Katrina, about two-thirds the quantity of the Exxon Valdez spill.

Lots of work to do.

Trailhead E-Mail

After I sought his advice on an issue in the comments section of his site, Bert helpfully pointed out that my e-mail address is not accessible on this site. It actually is, but it's absurdly hard to find. You have to go up into the profile and click on it and then look into the corner. So I've relocated it to the right of the main page. As soon as I figure out this HTML stuff, maybe I'll be able to mess with the template a little more.

So it's there. E-mail me tips, dirty jokes, random thoughts, obscenities and what not. But no threats or scams relating to Nigerian royalty, please.

And thanks for the suggestions, Bert!

My New Reading List

It’s almost Banned Books Week! I believe Athena did a post on these issues awhile back, but this seems timely now as well. The week from September 24 through October 1, 2005 has been designated as a week to celebrate intellectual freedom and resist censorship.

This is my kind of celebration.

You can find the American Library Association’s proclamation here. My favorite parts are these:

WHEREAS, every silencing of a heresy, every enforcement of an orthodoxy, diminishes the toughness and resilience of American society and leaves it less able to deal with controversy and difference, and
….

WHEREAS, Americans still favor free enterprise in ideas and expression, and can be trusted to exercise critical judgment, to recognize propaganda and misinformation, and to make their own decisions about what they read and believe, and to exercise the responsibilities that accompany this freedom; and
….

WHEREAS, conformity limits the range and variety of inquiry and expression on which our democracy and our culture depend….

The ALA observes that challenges to books are usually made with “the best intentions – to protect others, frequently children, from difficult ideas and information.” The top three reasons, in order, for challenges to a particular book are 1) because the book allegedly contains sexually explicit material, 2) offensive language, or 3) because the challenger believes it is unsuitable for a particular age group.

Well, this year it’s the gay folks getting people all worked up. There’s a surprise.

Three of the ten most challenged books of 2005 were cited for “homosexual themes,” the highest number in a decade. The ten most challenged books of 2004, in order, were:

"The Chocolate War" [by Robert Cormier] for sexual content, offensive language, religious viewpoint, being unsuited to age group and violence

"Fallen Angels" by Walter Dean Myers, for racism, offensive language and violence

"Arming America: The Origins of a National Gun Culture" by Michael A. Bellesiles, for inaccuracy and political viewpoint

Captain Underpants series by Dav Pilkey, for offensive language and modeling bad behavior

"The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky, for homosexuality, sexual content and offensive language

"What My Mother Doesn't Know" by Sonya Sones,for sexual content and offensive language

"In the Night Kitchen" by Maurice Sendak, for nudity and offensive language

"King & King" by Linda de Haan and Stern Nijland, for homosexuality

"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou, for racism, homosexuality, sexual content, offensive language and unsuited to age group

"Of Mice and Men" by John Steinbeck, for racism, offensive language and violence

The list of 100 most challenged books from 1990-2000 contains the usual suspects, including "Catcher in the Rye," "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn," "The Handmaid’s Tale," and "Heather Has Two Mommies." But frankly, I’m stumped by "James and the Giant Peach" and "How to Eat Fried Worms." Maybe it’s just been so long since I’ve read them that I can’t recall what’s landed them on the most challenged list.

As for authors, I don’t think Judy Blume could write a grocery list that wouldn’t get her into trouble. Blume and her books are a consistent presence on the “challenged” lists, as is Toni Morrison.

The website has more.

So, Happy Banned Books Week to you all! And remember, if “they” don’t want you reading it, maybe you should be.

Another Ball Rolling Down Hurricane Alley

Tropical Storm Rita has cleared out the Florida Keys like a drag queen at a Promise Keepers Convention.

So another swirly-looking ball is headed toward the Keys, and I'm on pins and needles, hoping the Keys aren't destroyed like New Orleans was.

That string of little islands is part of my native memory, home to my earliest recollection. My Dad's parents managed a hotel in Key West for years, and when I was but a tot, my Mom's parents used to spend every spare moment fishing off the Upper Keys and staying at their favorite establishment.

My brother and sister and I have returned there as adults and made our own memories. My brother and I each tend to visit the part where we spent the most time as kids: he goes to Key West, I visit Islamorada and Marathon and devote only a day or so to Key West. My sister, TS and I celebrated my thirtieth birthday swimming with the dolphins at the Dolphin Research Center on Grassy Key. One of my most breathtaking memories is diving with TS at the John Pennekamp State Park, and watching mesmerized as an enormous sea turtle swam between us, breaking our linked hands.

Just last week my brother and I were having a discussion about what our ideal day would look like. Here's what I said:

Trailhead: Here's my ideal day: Sleep till I wake up, which is early, because the windows are open and I can hear the palm fronds rustling in the breeze, along with the waves lapping up on the pier and the occasional seagull squawking. Throw on a bathing suit and some shorts and flip flops. Shoot the sunrise off the pier. Head to the Blue Mountain and drink coffee while sitting in the Adirondacks under the palm trees, and petting the stray kitties. Talk to some local about how he used to be rich but after he lost it all he came down here. Then go to the Marker 88 pier and photograph the heron there for half an hour or so. Throw the kayaks onto the rental car and put in at Whale Harbor. Make the open water crossing to the mangroves, wondering whether there are sharks underneath. Cruise around the mangroves. Get in the water and shoot the Nikonos when it's clear enough. Head back to condo. Gather dive gear for an afternoon reef dive. The water is smooth as glass. Do the scissor step off the boat and enter the food chain. Shoot the Nikonos at a couple of clown fish and a lobster. Run hand over the giant sea turtle's barnacle-crusted back as he swims by. See a reef shark. Get off the boat and go to dinner at Islamorada Fish Market or Marker 88. Have a mango salad, a bowl of conch chowder, scores of grilled shrimp, and key lime pie. Watch the sunset since I had the good sense to go to dinner on the gulf side. Drift off to sleep to the palm fronds that are still rustling in the breeze.

Trailhead Brother: That sounds pretty good. Grilled shrimp. Your day seems very National Geographic.

Trailhead: You're right, it is very National Geographic. Except I forgot drinks at the tiki bar in Marathon after dinner.

This is the sort of trip I hunger to take in March, when I have gone so loopy from lack of sun that I can no longer be trusted not to burst through a door with an ax and a manic grin and announce, "Here's Trailhead!"

So I get a little nervous when I see one of those little twisties headed toward my islands. We've seen the devastating loss of culture, tradition and history in New Orleans. To think of Mallory Square and Duval Street destroyed, or the Marker 88 or the Rain Barrel blown to bits -- that's too much for my intestinal fortitude.

Some small part of me just needs to know those places are still there. Thing is, they won't always be. And as we have seen so graphically of late, they could be gone sooner rather than later.

No, I'm not Dead

Just tired. We had a great party tonight. For me, this meant prodigious quantities of TwoTone74's four-bean salad, chocolate cake and Trailhead Sister's bean dip (I only wish she'd been here to make it herself).

I have concluded that the only way to motivate Trailhead Spouse and myself to unpack and organize is to schedule a gathering. Once we realized we had five adults and seven kids coming to our place, we got off our collective butts and organized -- well, the downstairs, anyway.

No doubt nothing else will get done until the much anticipated arrival of Trailhead Mother-in-Law on September 30. (No, she's not the type to comment on any kind of mess. Fortunately, neither is my mother. It's only our own personal shame that drives us to clear a path for her to walk through.)

I'll be back to regular posting on Monday. I know you are all breathing a sigh of relief at that news. Otherwise, you would have to find some other website on which to cheat your employers out of their time.