As we pulled the canoe back to the truck, someone turned on the wind switch. It was like a wind monster had come suddenly striding across the ridgelines and gotten into a beef with the pond. Roaring, swirling, portentous winds made our timing impeccable — it sounded like it meant lengthy, nasty business. Glad to be on solid ground and not out on the water, we tied down the canoe and headed back for camp. Where the wind monster’s even more badass father was hard at work giving Misery its namesake mojo.

The previous night’s “wind” had reversed course 180 degrees and was now coming in across the waters unimpeded. Our crisply tethered tarp snapped and popped in the gale-force wind tunnel of our site like a panicked goat staked in the path of a Tyrannosaurus, several of its tension poles missing. Our oh-so-tall tent had been pushed into the bushes of the tiny clearing into which it had barely fit (sufficient level ground being a notable criterion for deploying such an abode). But surprisingly, nothing had been sent down the driveway and across the road by the single-minded howl. After trying in vain to resecure the tarp, we yielded to sanity and took it down in the horizontal pellet-gun salvo of intermittent rain. Mark took to the passenger seat to listen to weather reports to see if this was a passing fancy or a long day’s night, while Mike and I spent a bracing hour or so cleaning up and securing things as if we were ceding the territory — though we had no place to which to retreat nor lasting desire to do so. In the end, the sheer practicality offered by The Road gave us our only sensible option. Had we in fact achieved Enchanted’s shores, we’d’ve had no choice but to improvise, though I’m glad not to have found out how I’d have served dinner that night. As it was, we threw what we could into the truck, placed goodly rocks atop our coolers, staked down our mainsail of a tent (including a rope across the top secured to massive trees), and headed off down Capitol.

Yes … Though we blush to disclose this detail, roads that size have names – the current “landowners” have put up perfectly familiar suburban road signs with reflective white letters on green rectangles sticking up out of the bushes — as incongruous a sight as I can remember. Capitol. At the end of which is pavement. Down which can be found a loose cluster of 7 or 8 buildings meriting the name West Forks on a map. Food and shelter.

And so three dirty, soaked and bedraggled – and slightly sheepish – erstwhile campers ascended the timber stairs of The Emptiest Restaurant We’ve Ever Eaten In and made the acquaintance of Blonde #1, our waitress. We had our choice of booths and slid into one with a good view of the bar and the massive chainsaw art – actually pretty impressive – and gazed about the true log-cabin architecture at more knotty pine than seemed plausible. Her Blonde Coolness brought menus, recited the draft list, and we tried to keep the dry jeans we all clutched out of sight, lest the commonality be misconstrued somehow. One by one we surreptitiously made use of the facilities to change and tidy up a bit. A second blonde waitress somehow also kept herself busy, though we three hardly taxed Blonde # 1, and # 3 could be spied behind the bar, making some sort of list and trading out Dave Matthews for what turned out to be Sol Jibe. After awhile one of them noticed the chill (anything short of Misery’s antithesis of a blowdryer was heaven to us), and they turned on the heat. Michael would’ve been last to change, but the warm air blowing under the table eventually dried out his soggy pant legs, and he was able to save his lone change of clean clothing for the ride back to Massachusetts several days later. We made our peace with the weirdness and ordered.

The Guinness was great, Mike’s pulled pork sandwich unspeakable, other stuff unremarkable but good, and most all got gratefully eaten — the dessert was sinfully worthwhile. We lingered, then further procrastinated by playing a little pool in the third floor “lounge” — there was more losing than winning going on, though some fabulous shots were sunk. Yet a fourth blonde showed up, a twenty-something we’d noticed at the gas station while filling up just before arriving here, possibly a daughter of one of The Three Blondes, as she loitered about with a relative’s familiarity, heedless of our shabby selves. Though it was getting late, two other tablefulls had finally arrived. Out on the Kennebeck some moonlight could be spied. Ultimately we shuffled off into the now-gentler night and drove the dark roads (with one extinguishing of the headlights in a nod to Dan Akroyd and Albert Brooks in the opening scenes of “The Twilight Zone” feature film) back to camp.

Where all was well. We stayed up a little, made a half-hearted fire, and with the wind monsters somewhat settled (but still huffing nearby) and the rain elsewhere, Mike went back to his vigil, Mark and I to our ripstop townhouse, all hoping the optimistic weather report – which was actually for elsewhere – boded well for our corner of the north woods. Many times I coasted awake to the sound of a resurgence of winds and thought of Mike, out in the open. His night was pretty sleepless, he tells us, the buffeting more the cause than the cold. Though that, too.

Turns out Bingham, south of us, had tornados. Much of the region endured the same sudden severity, which was nowhere forecast before we left. We spoke around the fire of what we’d’ve done had we had to do something, had we been across a pond without the option of The Road, but we’d made our peace with taking the easy way out, a notable change in individual characters and group dynamics. No regrets dogged our heels as we set off the next morning up the talus slopes below the ridge that overhangs Misery, out of the lingering winds and into embracing sun in the shelter of the ridge’s lee, a new quest calling us out of another late-breakfast-become-lunch and off to find whatever it is we come out there to find. Change. Nature. Vistas to photograph, and before which to sip good wine. A bit of breathlessness. A new appreciation granted by comfort with real contrast.

Adam

Blonde # 1 stood to one side, aloof as ever, as Blonde # 3 gave a fan’s impassioned intro to Sol Jibe, whose Arabic-tinged and clarinet-embellished piece called “Rhumba” we’d just enjoyed. Which sounded to me like a riff on Ferron’s “Shadows on a Dime”, hence the query to # 1, passed on to # 3 – the bartendress – who handled all CD’s. Except that neither blonde knew Ferron, and nor, apparently, did Sol Jibe. But anyway … The fresh rapport with # 3 finally helped warm # 1 to us somewhat – how could she not come around?  We were the only ones in the place – and she even made an effort to cajole us into dessert. Twist our arm.

But wait. Multiple blondes? Ordering food? Oh yeah …

Rewind.

After we blew Day One trying (and failing) to find access to this-year’s destination of the persuasively-named Enchanted Pond – access convenient enough for our twenty-Sherpa truckload, that is – we headed back up the many miles of gravel to an arguable counterpart, Misery Pond, chosen both for its end-of-a-long-day ease of access, and the name. But there’s easy, and then there’s easy. Misery lies only a little past the first bend in about 10 miles of vertically-rolling but otherwise arrow-straight, two-opposing-logging-trucks-and one-howling-with-fright-pickup-truck-between-them-wide gravel road. The “driveway” is only about 20’ long. That’s it, and you’re there. We were so aghast at its proximity to this north Maine superhighway (and lack of a picnic bench) that we investigated access to a site purportedly somewhere out across Cold Stream Pond a few short miles away, but we couldn’t be sure we knew where it was out there once we made Cold Stream’s shores, and dusk had made its intentions clear, so we returned to Misery, at least for the night — rights to the option to relocate on the morrow retained.

A fine first night, with a fine first dinner, finally out in the woods and out of the truck. Okay, some cons — without Q’s magic, all our firewood seemed to have been treated with some sort of noxious retardant, smoking abundantly without sustaining flame; and the makeshift table I cobbled out of the bones of someone’s campchairs and lids to Mike’s Rubbermaid tubs lashed to a tree for support offered all of 5 square feet of highly compromised semi-horizontal surface that was nowhere convenient to the fire pit. But we’re not whiners. Not sitting in our camp chairs, Dark-n-Stormies in our mitts, and many go-with-its heaped onto steaming bowls of Schreib’s most excellent vegetarian chili. Mike had his nest feathered out on the point overlooking the lovely waters of Misery Pond, and Schreib and I looked forward to a night on our princess-and-the-pea rigs inside our new tent, which afforded the novel experience of standing up full height in its capacious and invigoratingly-colored interior. Life was good. We lingered long, nursing our uncooperative “fire” and chatting.

The next day began with the ubiquitous gloomy grey weather we know all too well, and we rigged a handsome tarp to keep the anticipated rain off our fire pit and firewood. After a leisurely breakfast eaten quite late – we’d stayed up past 11:30 and had slept in well beyond our abilities at home – we pondered our options. The morning’s logging trucks had rumbled by what inside the tent sounded like mere inches from our heads, and the lack of a picnic table was additionally annoying. Even if just for the doing of something, we decided to go investigate Cold Stream Pond in more detail, see if we wanted to relocate. We retied the canoe onto the roof rack (Mike and Mark had used it to gather firewood on the shores), gathered a few supplies (most of which were still in the bed of the truck) and some snacks (the first lunch already blown off), and set out. As it started to rain.

By the time we got to that other shore, sprinkles had become steady drizzle, but returning to sit around under the tarp was hardly appealing, so we skipped a few stones, put on our raingear, clambered into the canoe, and set off across the pond. We were headed into the wind, which was swirly and pushed us about some, but no real whitecaps were forming, so crossing was just a matter of effort. Despite the diminished visibility we could see across the extent of the water, and behind us the hulls of boats parked at the put-in made a clearly discernible target for the return trip. Paddling, even in the rain, was comforting familiarity, the activity and new places to explore welcome. We had a site to scout, maybe islands to explore.

But each likely landmark proved just another tree or rock, not the beachhead of a site, each possible passage a blind cove, pushing us back out to round what were all peninsulas, never islands. The site should’ve been roughly midway, from our memory of the map (which we’d left back at camp given the rain), but we got to the far end of Cold Stream with no hint of a site. Good thing we hadn’t sought out this purported option the night before …

And what an end it was. Dead snags on the shores bespoke a sort of wasteland, and though the vistas might have been compelling on a blue-sky day, the grey skies came down to the surrounding shores and seemed to confine this pond to miserable solitude. Even were there a viable site somewhere around here, we weren’t relocating. So we drifted a bit in the rain with the winds at our backs, and then headed back along the shores just to see if we’d missed anything.

All the way back into the first cove, well past where the site was likely to be, we spied some orange ribbon blazes and tied off. Just inside the woods in deep moss was a piece of rebar sticking just out of the ground with a bright orange plastic cap such as are used at jobsites to prevent impalements. What could possibly be marked here by ribbons and an iron stake driven into the ground … ? Mike noticed something even odder – a clear line of sight through several hundred yards of woods. Feeling a bit like Hansel and Gretel following breadcrumbs laid by another whose intentions were unknown, we set off.

Into a clearcut. Not exactly the payoff or deep mystery for which we’d hoped. As it turned out, from later examinations of our map, the line-of-sight likely marked a township division, kept clear by surveyors. The undisturbed moss made it unlikely any loggers used this passage for access to the pond. Nothing before us compelled us to forward progress, so we tossed candied-ginger shortbread cookies to each others’ gaping mouths, sipped at a flask of Scotch, generally lollygagged awhile, and headed back, having even forgotten to scavenge firewood, our trip essentially merely time killed. No treasures or discoveries, barely any exercise. Just a protracted way to get wet.

Turns out the adventure was back at camp all along – we just needed to get away while it put on its party dress.

Prom Dreams

The editing-to-content ratio here is preposterous — we can only hope enough meaningful content is actually perceived and enjoyed to even begin justifying the time spent. References and inferences abound, from what was chosen and the sequencing, to of course, the music selections — but good luck with any of that …

A first-time “director”, I had a ball with this, both shooting and editing. Props to Michael for the infinite patience summoned in bringing to the screen this attempt to capture some of what I see as the essence of that fabulous summer day, when this tribe of bright and beautiful young people celebrated this coda to their middle youth and the setting off to whatever’s next.

It’s been two years since Tricia and I had visited my parents in Albuquerque, and nobody’s getting any younger. Though the timing was tough — squeezed in between our yearly Maine camping trip and a pilgrimage tour Tricia is leading to Chartres (she’s there now) — we picked the first full week of October both for Albuquerque’s world famous Balloon Fiesta, and my father’s birthday. Our first fall visit, we think.

The bottle of great wine I brought was stolen out of our suitcase (more on that perhaps, if American ever answers my email), and the weather ruined not only our personal balloon flight (twice) but much of the Fiesta itself, yet we still had a great visit, refamiliarized ourselves with the food, art galleries, and smells of the southwest, and gave my father a memorable 77th.

Oh, and natch — took a few pictures .

Adam Kibbe
The following is admittedly long by blog standards, but short for the experience. And of the linked gallery of 75 pictures, you should know that I started with almost 250. I hope someone makes it through the text and/or the pictures and enjoys …

Frequent Flyer airplane tickets stretch the definition of free – specific travel dates, remote Logan terminals, “puddle jumper” jets, 3-hour layovers in both NYC and Brussels. But never mind — safe arrival is paramount, our destination more than worthy, even the return “price” of an overnight layover in Brussels actually a gift, as we thus came to experience a second European capital, and one which may never otherwise have been on our agendas.

After 20-plus real-time hours of travel we debarked the big, blue (4-Euro) SITA bus in the Santa Maria Novella terminal on the edge of the city center and set off on foot into a land of another language on the first of many perambulations about this gorgeous city, our suitcases bumping along behind us on the cobblestones. We would see versions of ourselves at that moment several times over the next week, a stream of arriving or departing tourists ever-present there.

That first walk was a bit hazy and narrow-focus, as I tried to navigate from one consult with our map, intent not on sightseeing but just on laying our burdens down, bootstrap-learning the basics – like where they hide their street names and whether people jaywalk. Awareness was dimmed by fatigue, which mercifully somewhat blunted the assault of incredible urban density — people stream towards you down sidewalks inadequate to the volume, cars and scooters barreling along millimeters away, and so much is unfamiliar. But midway on our beeline we found ourselves before the Duomo, and while not yet ready to truly behold and perceive it, its grandeur began to massage into us the message that we’d arrived.

Somehow we unerringly found Via Sant’ Egidio and the Palazzo Galletti B&B amongst the Byzantine streets and climbed the lengthy first-floor stone steps around four sides of a spare, columned courtyard up to the welcoming reception desk, from whence we were shown to our modestly palatial room, complete with old frescos, parti-colored hand-hewn 5-meter-high coffered ceiling, and a marble bathroom. And with a bottle of Chianti from the owners’ own vineyard awaiting beside a pair of glasses and corkscrew. Attention to detail. We’d drink the quite passable Chianti on our balcony for lunch several days later, but after unpacking and changing we immediately headed back out onto our bustly sidestreet and into the pleasant fall evening to see something of Firenze.

Save for one partially rainy day, we had spectacular weather there – 60’s (mid-teens Celsius) and mostly full sun. That first evening was plenty warm enough for outside dining, and after a couple hours walking that took us through the Piazza della Signoria, past the Uffizi and down to the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio and back, we settled beneath some hanging teak-and-canvas canopies beside the curved street behind the Duomo at an empty, lantern-lit sidewalk restaurant, quite ready to rest. Yes, we know restaurants with crowds are usually best, but it turns out the Italians don’t even start thinking about dinner until past 8:00 and we were hungry tourists who wanted to dine near home and shortly thereafter crash. My rusty Italian got us unidentified glasses of red & white wine, a tasty, oil-drizzled bowl of pumpkin-pasta soup and a shared salad, then some fantastic handmade arugula-garlic ravioli in cream sauce for me and a plate of tuna, pasta and tomatoes for Tricia. Then we were off for our first gelato along what we would later come to think of (and thereafter avoid) as Firenze’s Newbury Street – la Via dei Calzaiuoli — then blissfully home and to bed.

The next day we started exploring in earnest. But first the soon-to-be-familiar daily breakfast in the Palazzo’s plaster-vaulted breakfast room, complete with fresh-brewed espresso, a mountain of fruit (including ‚ÄúSicilian pears‚Äù, a cactus fruit), yogurt, fresh and packaged brioche, hazelnut cookies, toast (with jellies and/or Nutella), blood-orange juice, and cereal if one wanted (we never did). And thus fortified, we hit the bricks. Or cobbles ‚Ķ

Such a new place and pace. Narrow, crowded streets lined with diagonally-parked scooters, and swarms of live ones veering amongst tiny Smart cars and electric postal vans; occasionally we’d have to flatten ourselves to let pass slow-moving buses whose mirrors almost scraped the side walls. And people. Lots of people. The sidewalks range from implausibly narrow to mere curbings where an old wall juts out, and casual strolling without strategy is rare. A constant sort of game of chicken is played — I never figured out if there were rules, exactly, but my size came in handy as I learned to protect my path (and that of Tricia often behind me) by body language and by adopting the perceived expression of calm, studied indifference that says, “I’m clear I’ve got a right to my small piece of the sidewalk, one of you three move”. No animosity, mind you, just part of the Italian “cool”, I think. In the generic urban milieu the Italians register little – no disdain for tourists, no aggression, rarely hurry, but no warm “Buon’ giornos” either. Just on their way from somewhere to somewhere else in an environment that requires that your personal space be projected a few millimeters lest you be run down, but no more than is necessary lest one engender conflict.

When they meet a friend, though, they light up like day breaking. Smiles, hugs, kisses on the cheek, pausing to catch up. Passing hellos are rare, Italians seemingly preferring more personal lingering. Solo persons in contact with others via cell phone stand in place as if truly present elsewhere, intent on their conversation, animatedly waving their hands about as if their listener could see them. And pairs of men and women are everywhere walking arm-in-arm, further espousing personal contact in the otherwise impersonal, hectic street scene. We learned after awhile how to walk at our own pace — when we could stroll arm-in-arm, when single-file; when to step into the street to pass someone without being flattened by a speeding taxi or silent bicyclist; how to step aside without a glance over one’s shoulder to let pass the fast-approaching local who actually had a destination. Not by learning anything consciously, but by becoming attuned to the city. That there are equally innocently bewildered tourists everywhere means there’s no attainable mob oneness, but it got easier. And we gazed more.

Hard to pay attention to forward eye level when there’s so much going one to all sides and above. Ancient architecture, shops of all descriptions, scads of eye-catching Italians. Not so much riveting beauty, mind you, but while many are beautiful, Italians are definitely almost uniformly ‚Äúcool‚Äù, right down to the mammas with their bambini. Mostly in blacks and leather tones, with sleek leather jackets and perfect jeans, hip squarish specs, just the right amount of jewelry, and generally well-coiffed. Fascinating footwear, too. Even those that tended to name- or sports-brand sloppy brashness had hip red-suede tennis shoes, or an earring or something to turn the gaudy gauche into idiosyncratic groovy. Any one of whom would stand out in some other environment, but en masse it sort of felt natural, as if the city were a dry reef wherein many species of colorful bipeds congregated as do fish about a coral reef, interacting or not, ducking in and out of the coffee shops that beckoned every 10 meters or so for their ritual espressos. Only the occasional matron in grey or black defies the Live Hip or Die unspoken credo of Firenze, wearing their sensible square-nosed shoes instead of the ubiquitous Wicked-Witch-of-the-West absurdly pointy ones currently en vogue.

And above it all the craggy stone architecture, centuries if not millennia old, with painted wooden shutters and lovely plant boxes, the faces of old clocks on towers, the blue autumn sky in corniced slivers above the winding streets, all draw one’s wonder and attention. The whole city is hand-hewn stone, redolent of the work of ages of humanity, its enduring authenticity solidly about you everywhere. Firenze may change a little in its occupants and details, but save for the contents of any given storefront or trattoria, you know it has been and will be thus quite a long time, the scooters and Smarts, and gawky tourists and hip Italians all just this generation’s witness to the city’s massive and patient history.

We saw as much as we could take in, from the delightfully quotidian to The Official Cultural Treasures. We daily quickstepped past mobs of guided tourists with earpieces in place and cameras aloft in rotating endless watch before the amazing (but reproduction) bronze Baptistry doors of Ghilberti, but stood among them in unabashed awe before Michelangelo’s David in the Accademia, absorbing the poised, masculine confidence radiating from the recently-cleaned white marble that quite transcends stone. We bought 2-Euro panini and crostini in side-alley cafes and washed them down with coffee that never failed to be excellent, sitting at length at tiny tables observing while old friends and regulars came and went in short bursts of jocular urban camaraderie. In the Uffizi Tricia gasped as we entered Yet Another Gallery and came face-to-face with the original of Filippo Lippi’s La Vergine con Bambino e Due Angeli, a reproduction excerpt of which, having moved Tricia to tears years ago, resides in our home. And in the Santa Croce cathedral complex we experienced transporting silence before the remains of the robes of St. Francis of Assisi, modestly enshrined behind glass in a room fully paneled in surpassing woodwork, suffused with angled sunlight through pebbled glass. A rich hour-plus was spent in a wine shop so tiny three of us filled it, Tricia and I listening intently to the sweating proprietor’s wonderful Italianate English, occasionally lapsing into Italian when color failed him, spinning the tale of the Sangiovese grape in Toscania — the history, blunders and future of Tuscan wines, a personal product in a global age. And at night before and after dinner, we’d wander the streets extemporaneously, both in areas we’d been and others we’d not, all new in the different light and energy of a citizenry changing clothes from its business brusque to its nightlife. Nowhere did we feel unsafe. On the most deserted streets a twenty-something hottie might suddenly glide by on a bicycle so unstylish it, too, was cool, her flowing hair and solo presence seeming to declare the darkened neighborhood threat-free.

When we’d had enough of the city center we ambled one day across the obscenely commercial Ponte Vecchio and up the Via de’ Guicciardini past the Palazzo Pitti to the gated entry to the Giardino di Boboli, and into its vast open space. Open parks or places to sit (besides walls and steps) are rare to nonexistent in Firenze. Benches and trees and quiet were a welcome decompression as we gazed at the crumbling statuary and greening fountains, and wandered the myriad hedged paths uphill back towards the Arno. From the apex courtyard of the hilltop ceramics museum (with a bathroom, if you ask ‚Ķ !) we had views into the surrounding quintessential Tuscan landscapes, and nearer the Arno spectacular views of the Duomo and towers of the city center, the remove giving fresh perspective.

But to know a city is to know its people and their places. Our second day we asked one of our hosts (the only day we saw this particular woman) for recommendations of restaurants, and she made us a reservation at one of them – for 7:45, 15 minutes before it regularly opens (we’d ignorantly requested 7:30, way too early for most Italians — a genteel and unnecessarily generous compromise). The streets we walked towards it were away from where we’d been and had a particularly neighborhood feel to them, with barely a tourist to be seen. Unfancy, but nice. We were greeted at “Il Giova” by the beaming, casually dressed owner, a trim 30-something woman who seemed to know everyone who walked by, ducking outside periodically to kiss cheeks and coddle babies. At that hour a reservation seemed quite beside the point, and she showed us to one of the few two-person tables in this mostly empty 8-table trattoria. With a nice bottle of Vernaccia di San Gimignano to savor – the only Tuscan white – we settled in to await our vegetarian version of the house antipasto, chatting, planning and surreptitiously observing our neighbors.

A young family of three beside us noshed on calamari which the father later pronounced the best he’d ever had — their child ate buttered spaghetti but was open to samples of all his parents were eating. After awhile a young couple came in and sat down beside us, poised but effusively vibrant, their rapid Italian beyond my eavesdropping. The woman gave the man a gift of a ring, which he accepted easily, and the owner chatted with them familiarly from behind the counter. They only had filetto, and a bottle of her best wine – Morellino di Scansano Tenuta Poggio Brigante, Riserva “Arsura” 2002 (I later looked for it in vain in wine shops). Then came our antipasto, which had nothing in it I’ve ever had in any other antipasto and was superb. The place’s pace would have seemed glacial had we not felt we’d found a place we could stay forever. We actually saw a couple come and leave, too impatient for the owner to “notice” them – “Your loss,” we murmured to each other. But not to worry – before we left hours later, people were waiting outside.

I only had a primi that night ‚Äì gnocchi alla zucca di gialla ‚Äì but the improbably light pasta pillows in their yellow zucchini flower sauce was ambrosial, Tricia’s duck in port and fig sauce also magnificent. Simple, honest, perfectly prepared food, her lone cohort in the kitchen obviously a master, and she the sort of Italian Audrey Hepburn hostess one unrequitedly but helplessly falls in love with. After coffees and a shared tiramisu, we asked (in Italian) if we needed reservations to come back, and she smiled grandly and said ‚ÄúOf course not‚Äù ‚Ķ We passed her a couple nights later on our way to a brick-oven pizza place we’d noticed on our way home that night, and though engaged in conversation with someone, she recognized and greeted us. And so yet a few nights later, for our last night in Firenze, we made ‚ÄúIl Giova‚Äù our only repeat, a meal perhaps a bit less surprisingly memorable in its details, but grand for the feeling of belonging. That second visit we fashionably came a bit later, and it was more crowded. A trio of actually quite excellent street troubadors briefly entertained, and towards closing two gorgeous young Bohemian women came in with free samples of Amarone liqueur, apparently a common marketing ploy there, but news to us. We declined, and the owner came by to make sure we’d understood that it was free, and we happily said quite honestly that we were simply too stuffed. At least, I think that’s what I said. As we were saying our goodbyes I thanked her for her patience with my Italian ‚Ķ

There are, of course, architectural and cultural marvels to describe and other adventures to tell, but I’ll fast forward. The unforgettable climb up the Duomo in unexpected near-seclusion and its payoff 360 view. The bus trip to Siena through the rolling hills, and the tourist trappings and cursing gypsies that awaited us (and overpaying by over double an astonished late-night Florentine bartender that same night when we felt we needed to exorcise Siena’s luchre demons and dispose of all our “tainted” cash). Breaking my tooth on rum-nougat gelato outside a shop on the south end of the Ponte Santa Trinita on our second day, and days later seeking out the famous Bar Vivoli gelateria, undaunted. The shopping. The worthy, exhausted pain of so much walking. The incredible custom sandwiches from the previously uninvestigated oil shop three doors down from our B&B, to which our local Internet impresario turned us on, and which we ate on our balcony with the house Chianti one rainy afternoon, and again beatifically in the airport the day we left (okay, two repeats … ).

Though but a day there plus a touch-and-go on our way in, Bruxelles deserves its own telling, from abstract first glance from the air before dawn, precisely-defined roadways draped like strings of pearls on the barely visible forms of the land, to our return a week later to intimate experience of its incomprehensibly complex public transit; our slightly frayed tucked-away hotel smelling of cannabis, and its expatriate English curmudgeon hotel owner pleading to be paid in cash; from fabulous Belgian beers at lunch and street waffles made while you watched, to dining on couscous alone in a smashing but deserted corner restaurant after kirs, while South American music played in delightful incongruity. Grey skies but occasional sharp light; cold wind, uncluttered sidewalks; free churches, public parks. Loved it. Hated it.

Came home.

The pictures take me back, but I was ready to leave. Time away from all that is familiar sharpens one’s appreciation, both of the world at large and of the microcosm of our individual lives. Italy was not so foreign, and I miss the food and the spark of its people already. And I liked working on my rusty Italian, a passionate language which is sensual to hear and to speak. The urban pace was wearing, though, and I could probably die complete without ever seeing another Renaissance painting involving the life or torture and death of Christ (or the annunciation or coronation of his mother), but I would very much like to return to Tuscany someday and seek out its less urban campagna, reindulge in its foods and wines and history. Dip a mattonella biscotti in a thimble of vin santo after a fabulous dinner and watch the sun set on the cypresses and old stone walls with good friends near at hand.

Anybody up for renting a villa in Tuscany for a few weeks one summer?

Adam Kibbe

Reflections in†night’s window block my view.

They were there by day, just invisible.

What is outside is still there, just not seen.

Such balance

shapes what is available to us.

And what I see through this window (when I can see)

is not all there is,

but it shapes my perception

as the frame of a camera describes a worldview.

“Careers are limiting” said Michael,

and of course he’s right —

in that we will do what we will do

and no more.

But the things we do

expose us to what we come to know.

Were our actions other, we’d be too.

Is there always more to more?

Are there not paths that

in leading inwards,

expand?

To know something well from one perspective

can be limiting.

But to know that point of view at all

is a gift.

To know knowledge, however thorough, deep and vast, to be finite,

is to come to a field

rich with life.

All the blossoms of that field are beyond one’s picking.

And to find one’s limitations,

measured against†such multitude,

may be daunting.

May be liberating.

But we are pickers,

and we†walk this field.

One is as fair as another.

I am inside this window.

What is outside is outside.

Tomorrow will come,

and tonight’s separation will have no relevance,

save for these reflections on a reflection.

Adam Kibbe

“Don’t scrunch up your eye like that!” said Tricia to me, laughing.

Hard not to when someone’s trying to get to your eyeball through the unfamiliar, thin skin of your eyelid with an even more unfamiliar eyeliner pencil. I was getting an improbable education in the things women put themselves through in the name of “beauty”, in the service of the theme of this year’s Dorothea Birthday Extravaganza chez Cynthia.

Last year it was “Titian and Topiary”, both color and set piece decor. This year it was the less precise but more flexible “White and Gold”. Tricia had gotten me a nicely pleated white tux shirt and burnished-gold-metal-mesh bowtie for a song at Keezer’s, a Cambridgeport emporium serving the formalwear needs of Harvard students (and others) for many decades, partially through clothing “recycling”. But even atop off-white pants and a metallic belt, we hadn’t yet “nailed it”.

Accessory one was a small paste diamond literally glued to my right earlobe (however good a sport, I wasn’t getting pierced for the event). Arguably, it started the thought process that led to the current excess. The ladies would augment their own splendid wardrobes with gold jewels, gold finger and toenail polish, and gold blush — why not yours truly? So here I was in Lynn’s bathroom minutes before departure for Le Bash, gold & white eyeshadow in place, along with a touch of mascara, and having eyeliner run along my already affronted lids. To say I was acquiring a case of self-consciousness would be an understatement.

But my homage to Valentino and Nureyev (and Chaplin and others from an era of men-with-makeup) was a hit. “God you have beautiful eyes! For a girl.!” A few homophobic come-ons followed, but whether earnest dissembling, flattery or truth, the ladies all seemed to dig my look. Arriving with the complementary clash of a long black cloak and woven black scarf, and unveiled in the obsequious glow of golden drama that is their house — itself tarted up something fierce — I was just another perfect accessory to the evening’s themed party. The melodramatic guest.

The others were “lovely” as well, in gold lame, or shades of varying golds layered with white, one full black tux with gold cummerbund and bowtie, melded tones of softweave whites, and even a cook’s jacket with gold buttons. The house positively shimmered, and the foods would carry the theme, with white mascarpone/Vidalia pizza studded with black Nicoise olives, a to-become-legendary leek/fennel/Pernod cream soup, and other delicious decadence, including the theme drink of cream, white chocolate liqueur and vodka. Cynthia gets her theme from some small inspiration and then uses it as a phrasing structure off of which she can riff as she conducts the songs and set changes of the evening’s opera.

But for all the color ñ white, after all is a blend of all colors and serves to let the use of simple saturated subset colors play in elevated accent ñ perhaps the most memorable passage was of the observance of some classic, colorless “black & white”. Though warned by her husband it could kill the evening, Cynthia eased us sideways into participating in her current rage for the DVD of the 1987 Roy Orbison tribute concert, first released as a CD in the year of his death, 1988, and recently remastered on DVD as “Black&White Night”. Staged in dinner-theater fashion before notable guests, and filmed in black & white in kinetic cutaway style, it features an astonishing ensemble of talent, and a playlist for a generation. Or two or three generations.

By then well-lubricated by champagne, the wines of dinner, and the evening’s signature drink, we were off-handedly asked our impression of/predilection for Roy’s music. With favorable to rave results, the path was clear for a surprise screening. And so, with the epic soundtrack ripping through the soundsystem-on-steroids of our hosts’ basement “Flamingo Lounge” party space, we settled into the demanding task of grooving to the outpouring of a stagefull of legends joyously giving everything to honor their leader for the night, this firmly pedestaled icon of their craft. He of the black helmet of hair and even blacker shades. He of the inimitable, operatic warble, with its deep-baritone-to-falsetto range. He of the quintessential 50’s and 60’s love ballads, such as “Only the Lonely” and “Blue Bayou”. And of the concert’s climactic coda, “Oh, Pretty Woman”, with which his name is arguably more lastingly associated than even that of the richer, more notorious (and still living) Julia Roberts.

But he of an amazing band-for-the-night, too. Elvis (Costello that is) earnestly handled acoustic rhythm guitar, while Bruce (need I say Springsteen?) shared moments of lead guitar with T-Bone Burnett and did backup vocals with Jackson Brown and J.D. Souther, while the oh-my-god trio of k.d. lang, Jennifer Warnes and Bonnie Rait did sweet doo-wop for the gang, and Tom Waits tickled piano and organ into the mix. Through it all, Roy stood stalwart at the center, only occasionally moving about to acknowledge his friends, but emoting whole eras of love and equaling the sonic power of any crooner name you care to conjure with matter-of-fact natural grace.

An epic concert, and this excess of talent melded into the tightest, livest, most professional group of studio musicians you ever saw, their own names and egos damped in the service of this greater name, their rapture to be there in whatever role evident in every move and note. And the enthusiastic audience of yet more names another active component of the visual and auditory energy. Transformed by shared experience, we shook our tambourines and booties, and despite the “just-a-song-or-two” premise of pushing “play”, we participated in the whole damn thing, start to finish. Just one part of how most of us rocked past 2:30 before heading home, leaving the even more hardcore to head for the hottub and their own “enough” of 5:00 a.m.

When we first got the annual invite, I little expected to sit for an application of eyeshadow and eyeliner, and while I knew full well there’d be dancing and tambourines, I also could not have predicted we’d have music royalty for “live” entertainment. There are times this evening seems but over-rehearsed ritual, with little discernible variation from those that came before, however unique and excellent the individual elements that go at great effort into forming each event might be. But through a certain amount of restraint in intoxicants, and the ebullient infusion of energy Roy & Co. gave us, we staggered home more replete of friendship and good times perhaps than usual, afterimages of many colors, but especially of three, still dancing in our eyes well past final curtain.

Photo Gallery

Adam Kibbe

“Don’t scrunch up your eye like that!” said Tricia to me, laughing.

Hard not to when someone’s trying to get to your eyeball through the unfamiliar, thin skin of your eyelid with an even more unfamiliar eyeliner pencil. I was getting an improbable education in the things women put themselves through in the name of “beauty”, in the service of the theme of this year’s Dorothea Birthday Extravaganza chez Cynthia.

Last year it was “Titian and Topiary”, both color and set piece decor. This year it was the less precise but more flexible “White and Gold”. Tricia had gotten me a nicely pleated white tux shirt and burnished-gold-metal-mesh bowtie for a song at Keezer’s, a Cambridgeport emporium serving the formalwear needs of Harvard students (and others) for many decades, partially through clothing “recycling”. But even atop off-white pants and a metallic belt, we hadn’t yet “nailed it”.

Accessory one was a small paste diamond literally glued to my right earlobe (however good a sport, I wasn’t getting pierced for the event). Arguably, it started the thought process that led to the current excess. The ladies would augment their own splendid wardrobes with gold jewels, gold finger and toenail polish, and gold blush — why not yours truly? So here I was in Lynn’s bathroom minutes before departure for Le Bash, gold & white eyeshadow in place, along with a touch of mascara, and having eyeliner run along my already affronted lids. To say I was acquiring a case of self-consciousness would be an understatement.

But my homage to Valentino and Nureyev (and Chaplin and others from an era of men-with-makeup) was a hit. “God you have beautiful eyes! For a girl.!” A few homophobic come-ons followed, but whether earnest dissembling, flattery or truth, the ladies all seemed to dig my look. Arriving with the complementary clash of a long black cloak and woven black scarf, and unveiled in the obsequious glow of golden drama that is their house — itself tarted up something fierce — I was just another perfect accessory to the evening’s themed party. The melodramatic guest.

The others were “lovely” as well, in gold lame, or shades of varying golds layered with white, one full black tux with gold cummerbund and bowtie, melded tones of softweave whites, and even a cook’s jacket with gold buttons. The house positively shimmered, and the foods would carry the theme, with white mascarpone/Vidalia pizza studded with black Nicoise olives, a to-become-legendary leek/fennel/Pernod cream soup, and other delicious decadence, including the theme drink of cream, white chocolate liqueur and vodka. Cynthia gets her theme from some small inspiration and then uses it as a phrasing structure off of which she can riff as she conducts the songs and set changes of the evening’s opera.

But for all the color ñ white, after all is a blend of all colors and serves to let the use of simple saturated subset colors play in elevated accent ñ perhaps the most memorable passage was of the observance of some classic, colorless “black & white”. Though warned by her husband it could kill the evening, Cynthia eased us sideways into participating in her current rage for the DVD of the 1987 Roy Orbison tribute concert, first released as a CD in the year of his death, 1988, and recently remastered on DVD as “Black&White Night”. Staged in dinner-theater fashion before notable guests, and filmed in black & white in kinetic cutaway style, it features an astonishing ensemble of talent, and a playlist for a generation. Or two or three generations.

By then well-lubricated by champagne, the wines of dinner, and the evening’s signature drink, we were off-handedly asked our impression of/predilection for Roy’s music. With favorable to rave results, the path was clear for a surprise screening. And so, with the epic soundtrack ripping through the soundsystem-on-steroids of our hosts’ basement “Flamingo Lounge” party space, we settled into the demanding task of grooving to the outpouring of a stagefull of legends joyously giving everything to honor their leader for the night, this firmly pedestaled icon of their craft. He of the black helmet of hair and even blacker shades. He of the inimitable, operatic warble, with its deep-baritone-to-falsetto range. He of the quintessential 50’s and 60’s love ballads, such as “Only the Lonely” and “Blue Bayou”. And of the concert’s climactic coda, “Oh, Pretty Woman”, with which his name is arguably more lastingly associated than even that of the richer, more notorious (and still living) Julia Roberts.

But he of an amazing band-for-the-night, too. Elvis (Costello that is) earnestly handled acoustic rhythm guitar, while Bruce (need I say Springsteen?) shared moments of lead guitar with T-Bone Burnett and did backup vocals with Jackson Brown and J.D. Souther, while the oh-my-god trio of k.d. lang, Jennifer Warnes and Bonnie Rait did sweet doo-wop for the gang, and Tom Waits tickled piano and organ into the mix. Through it all, Roy stood stalwart at the center, only occasionally moving about to acknowledge his friends, but emoting whole eras of love and equaling the sonic power of any crooner name you care to conjure with matter-of-fact natural grace.

An epic concert, and this excess of talent melded into the tightest, livest, most professional group of studio musicians you ever saw, their own names and egos damped in the service of this greater name, their rapture to be there in whatever role evident in every move and note. And the enthusiastic audience of yet more names another active component of the visual and auditory energy. Transformed by shared experience, we shook our tambourines and booties, and despite the “just-a-song-or-two” premise of pushing “play”, we participated in the whole damn thing, start to finish. Just one part of how most of us rocked past 2:30 before heading home, leaving the even more hardcore to head for the hottub and their own “enough” of 5:00 a.m.

When we first got the annual invite, I little expected to sit for an application of eyeshadow and eyeliner, and while I knew full well there’d be dancing and tambourines, I also could not have predicted we’d have music royalty for “live” entertainment. There are times this evening seems but over-rehearsed ritual, with little discernible variation from those that came before, however unique and excellent the individual elements that go at great effort into forming each event might be. But through a certain amount of restraint in intoxicants, and the ebullient infusion of energy Roy & Co. gave us, we staggered home more replete of friendship and good times perhaps than usual, afterimages of many colors, but especially of three, still dancing in our eyes well past final curtain.

Photo Gallery

Adam Kibbe

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Not all of Albuquerque was endless desert skies and appealing adobe, the waxing moon rising poetically each night over the rugged Sandia mountains in the impossibly blue high desert air.

Earlier this winter, the downslope neighbor had read my father the riot act after the septic pumper backed around the lone pi’on and onto her property while preparing to pump his system. Crushing nothing but scrub, but violating her invisible boundaries and offending her sensibilities by crushing…… well, something, I’m sure. Hard to tell with scrub chapparal. Delicate, slow-growing ecosystem, but it generally naturally looks pretty crushed anyway.

To take responsibility for future actions, however, my father set about finding his property lines, in the otherwise unfenced, unmarked rolling terrain of their neighborhood at the foothills of the Sandias. A plot plan quickly led him to the northern two survey markers down one long side of his house, and in a recent visit, my brother helped him relocate a short stretch of fence to allow the septic truck to turn before the pi’on, still on Dad’s property. But despite measurements and trigonometry, Dad had been unable to locate the southern two, covered, presumably, in the shifting topography of a dry wash arroyo.

Sons love to be helpful to fathers they love and admire. And they like to show them up, too. So on our own recent visit, I took advantage of the useasonably warm blue-sky day to get outdoors and wander a bit, enjoying the desert sun and pi’on-scented air, and hoping to find that which had eluded Dad.

The downslope neighbor’s son was rumored to have surveyed and staked the southwest corner, thus completing their perimeter defense. I did my own calculations and found a bit of pipe — which otherwise had no earthly reason being in the arroyo — sticking up a few inches out of the pebbly sand of the desert within a foot or two of where my cruder methods placed that corner. My “spot” was less to my father’s advantage (and also under a thorny bush), so I deferred to the greater precision of a level transit (and the thornless open earth) and accepted their verdict.

The last corner was never found. But I did find my father’s discrete wooden stake gratifyingly exactly where I first looked, though I calculated the SE corner marker to be several yards further away from the road. I got Tricia to come out and help me sight that line down to the SW plumbing pipe corner — a line which was suprisingly close to the south side neighbor’s house — and we began to look along that swath of scrub for the last marker.

About that time, though, that neighbor came out to see if their mail had come, and wondering who we were and what we were doing, came over. After introductions and explanations, he acknowledged a similar interest but launched into a long rationale involving legal setbacks and why it couldn’t be that close to his house, and then marched north about 10 yards into the arroyo (and my father’s land) to show us where we SHOULD be looking. Very friendly, mind you. We politely listened, and then gave up our search, rather than rub his nose in our theoretically more rational accuracy.

The previous day we had driven up to the crest of the Sandias (10,678′) and taken a brief hike in the snow 1/4-mile or so along the precipitous rim, until we’d come to a point where we could look down into the foothills and my parent’s neighborhood a mile or so below, and hopefully see their house. I took a telephoto image, which I could then also digitally zoom in on, and indeed, we could hazily make out their drive, and the neighboring houses. But from roughly a mile away, the land looked so spacious, ample beyond words. Houses dotted innumerably about, yes, but sharing that vast openness the western desert offers.

I thought of that contrast — the lack of borders from the perspective of distance, the rationalized but irrational, greedy protectiveness of humans in close proximity — as I trudged back into the house to report my failure to my father (I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved). And I thought about the age-old adage that good fences make good neighbors. Here I’d admired the neighborhood’s lack thereof (the one my brother had helped move was just a very local ex-dog compound of the previous owners), but it seemed that the sense of borders was very strong indeed, and that the unmarked uncertainty led to broad, pre-emptive, antagonistic assumptions.

Anybody remember The Guess Who? (No, not the more famous band one Guess short of that……). And their hit song Share the Land? http://www.lyricsdir.com/g/the-guess-who/share-the-land.php

“Maybe I’ll be there to shake your hand
Maybe I’ll be there to share the land
That they’ll be givin’ away
When we all live together”

Another 60’s lyric rendered absurd. But I’d loved that song, and I could hear it, distantly, as I stood atop the mortared mound of rock that is the Sandia Crest official peak elevation marker and taken a panorama the previous day. I’ve never believed in communal property — sounds oxymoronic, frankly — and I have an abiding respect for (some would say worship of ) privacy. But I wondered why I’d been so interested in finding those markers. Let them go unfound. They’re there should they be required to inform some future discussion. But to learn to forget them would be the true accomplishment. Reacquire that higher perspective. And learn a new adage. Good neighbors make needless all fences…….

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Complete Abuquerque gallery

Adam Kibbe

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Closer View
For 2-1/2 hours I dodged caffeine-hungry patrons and their holiday-high children, twisting picture wire, measuring placements, and patiently waiting for all-clear moments at the condiment bar to hang above and near it. Over 3 years ago, my wife had walked into our local Starbucks and without my knowledge signed me up for their wall-display-of-the-month program. Yes, a three-year waiting list, AND I was bumped from the lucrative October slot I’d been given originally for post-spending-frenzy January. But here I was, on New Year’s Eve, finally hanging 7 of my photographs. In public.

Choosing, printing and framing them had been a saga in and of itself, but never mind that now. The immediate experience was a strange nervousness about actually finally facing them out to the public, combined with the almost-chaos of holiday java-addicts at their daily dealings with their pusher. Since my arrival that morning, I’d kept the pieces wrapped or leaned face against a wall while I signed agreements and measured and prepped. But soon enough, the first one was going up, and leaving it face to the wall at that point would be entirely too much false modesty. No one laughed. No one cheered either, but my ice was boken. Two up, then three. Skip the pricing and “artist’s statement” 8×10’s — those come last. Hectic, pregnant moments.

I got a couple of quick compliments, even spoke at length with a couple who wanted to know about where they were all taken, which lapsed into a discussion of cogent specs on digital cameras. One man enthusiastically praised my show before it was even up, thinking me last month’s artist, but it WAS nice to know people would go out of their way to comment, since, truth be told, most were walking past without much of a glance.

So now it’s done. Three years in chronic fits of effort and anticipation, and I feel a strange limbo as I ponder why I acquiesced to my wife’s enthusiasm for this public display of affectation. Favored images on which I’ve labored so long are now in another realm entirely, well past private hobby amateurism and into The World. It IS exciting, in a self-induced-fifteen-minutes-of-fame kinda way. Odd that it feels so odd, though.

If you get a chance, please stop by (next to Shaw’s on Rt. 20). The Guys will likely schedule one of their regular coffee klatches there some fine weekend day. But I’m dying for somebody besides me and Tricia to tell me what they actually look like………….

Adam Kibbe

View Larger image
Closer View
For 2-1/2 hours I dodged caffeine-hungry patrons and their holiday-high children, twisting picture wire, measuring placements, and patiently waiting for all-clear moments at the condiment bar to hang above and near it. Over 3 years ago, my wife had walked into our local Starbucks and without my knowledge signed me up for their wall-display-of-the-month program. Yes, a three-year waiting list, AND I was bumped from the lucrative October slot I’d been given originally for post-spending-frenzy January. But here I was, on New Year’s Eve, finally hanging 7 of my photographs. In public.

Choosing, printing and framing them had been a saga in and of itself, but never mind that now. The immediate experience was a strange nervousness about actually finally facing them out to the public, combined with the almost-chaos of holiday java-addicts at their daily dealings with their pusher. Since my arrival that morning, I’d kept the pieces wrapped or leaned face against a wall while I signed agreements and measured and prepped. But soon enough, the first one was going up, and leaving it face to the wall at that point would be entirely too much false modesty. No one laughed. No one cheered either, but my ice was boken. Two up, then three. Skip the pricing and “artist’s statement” 8×10’s — those come last. Hectic, pregnant moments.

I got a couple of quick compliments, even spoke at length with a couple who wanted to know about where they were all taken, which lapsed into a discussion of cogent specs on digital cameras. One man enthusiastically praised my show before it was even up, thinking me last month’s artist, but it WAS nice to know people would go out of their way to comment, since, truth be told, most were walking past without much of a glance.

So now it’s done. Three years in chronic fits of effort and anticipation, and I feel a strange limbo as I ponder why I acquiesced to my wife’s enthusiasm for this public display of affectation. Favored images on which I’ve labored so long are now in another realm entirely, well past private hobby amateurism and into The World. It IS exciting, in a self-induced-fifteen-minutes-of-fame kinda way. Odd that it feels so odd, though.

If you get a chance, please stop by (next to Shaw’s on Rt. 20). The Guys will likely schedule one of their regular coffee klatches there some fine weekend day. But I’m dying for somebody besides me and Tricia to tell me what they actually look like………….

Part Three by Adam Kibbe

Den Mothers

Instant incandescence. Backlighting tent fabric, even the seams almost too bright to see. One Mississippi, two Mississippi……….. 5 was the shortest I counted, thankfully, but the ensuing thunder seemed to drive in the insubstantial nylon with its forceful, rumbling roar of sheer violence, as if it were right outside. Long wait for the next flash, but it always came. If one were cowering under one’s sleeping bag with eyes screwed tightly shut, maybe the lightning would’ve had the glow of a bug light Michael describes. I wouldn’t know — beside him in the intervals of dark, I lay awake with eyes wide open, almost unblinking, awaiting the next. Atomic explosions, is what occurred to me.

My mind flirted with the status of the boys out on the point, as I lay still, waiting to count. There was no sleeping through that. I figured Mike was awake – had to be. But much as I liked the idea of all-night chats in the darkness, the few time we shared tents, he seemed pretty committed to sleep, and it’s never happened. I respect his space and quiet, and knowing I probably wouldn’t sleep much anyway, I usually on these trips will let him crawl in first and myself hang out by the fire enough time to give him a head start on slumber before I crawl in after him. Aware that I snore, I wouldn’t dream of dreaming until I hear his own, softer snores.

The boys had to be terrified — adolescent insouciance must’ve long since evaporated in the face of that fury, I imagined (though I hadn’t even thought of how much more exposed they were out on the point, as we ourselves were mostly untroubled by wind where we were). I could just imagine Robby facing down the storm, machete in hand, Matt and Daryl’s pellet guns trained on the ceiling.

Earlier that night, when I’d first noticed the flashes, but before the rumbles started sounding impressive, I’d gone outside to get a better look — I love thunderstorms. Even when it seems they might at any instant kill me. I can be afraid, when it gets that close, but it still feels like a truth about our existence is being discussed, and I want to bear witness. And it’s not about our human insignificance – that’s too insignificant for such a dialogue. More, it’s just that the processes that have shaped our planet — indeed, the universe – operate on scales so vast as to be inaccessible until these modicums of power, mere hints of the scope, offer glimpses of the ever vaster powers of which they are but ripples. Besides, it’s beautiful.

I’d gone out in my socks, partially to rescue anything that might need rescuing, as it was occasionally raining. This included my camera, left in presumed shelter on the picnic table; shelter I no longer trusted as the storm picked up momentum. It also turned out to include Michael’s camera, left for some reason on the ground just outside the vestibule of our tent. Within seconds, though, my feet were soaked, even though I’d quickly ducked under the tarp. So I threw two plate holders down on the ground and stood on those to watch the show.

Across Spencer Bay, the lightning was periodically backlighting the distant hills. Wide, sweeping glows of light would cover much of the horizon, followed many, many seconds later by muffled, almost subsonic grumbles. And they also silhouetted what from my vantage appeared as one very small, isolated tent. But it looked to be in good shape, and I gave it no more thought than wondering after the mental states of its occupants. After awhile the cold plates and chill breeze drove me back to our own tent, where I sought sleep, assuming (surprisingly correctly) that my socks would dry on my feet.

Why had we not examined more the job the boys had done of situating the tent on the point? We saw them carry it out there fully assembled, like a six-legged mobile home, and it wouldn’t have taken Sherlock Holmes (or even Watson) to deduce they had not adequately secured the fly with cords & stakes, much less the tent itself (the latter a step I often skip myself). Partly it is that they exude such confidence in themselves. Indeed, their fire out on the point was a raging bonfire, while the more needed and purposeful one lamely guttering within the partial shelter of our tarped base camp had never hit its own stride. You’d think we were by mistake trying to burn a gas fire, concrete fake log insert for all the enthusiasm our fire seemed for being a fire. Much smoke, no heat, and without constant and vigorous fanning and blowing, no flame. The boys had just gotten it done.

So it wasn’t mere complacency. And the false security of truck and tarps let us drift a bit, knowing that alternatives were near at hand. But the question still bears pondering. Post facto, we’d reasoned (rationalized?) that some lessons are only learned through doing or not doing oneself. Had we cautioned them against camping on the point, in the calm of the first night, we would’ve seemed merely feeble old farts, our “advice” but the timidness of age. And had we offered tips on proper tentcraft, we’d have been met with protestations to not treat them like kids. Or so we assumed. Even after the collapse of their tent, when they re-established “home” the next day, we just watched to see what they would do. (This is, I might add, after Mike and I had re-erected it, after recovering it and laying it and all their gear out to dry while they sought in naps the sleep they’d failed to find the night before).

He’d have to say, but I think that besides just attempting to share the locale and approximate experience of our yearly camping ritual — something his son only knows intellectually — Mike also hoped to teach, if only indirectly, some of the generous, cooperative interactions of the adult group. I know I did.

Mostly we were all together. The boys only disappeared to be just by themselves a few times each day. But we were not necessarily always interacting. And they contributed mightily to setting up camp and hacking apart firewood. But their domestic habits were otherwise nonexistent — Pepsi bottles with three sips in them left scattered everywhere one looked, dishes from meals abandoned, random gear four sheets to the wind. Lecturing and cajoling, though, were not personas Mike or I wanted to adopt, so we left things until we ourselves could no longer bear the chaos, and cleaned up.

The boys handled their allotted meal responsibilities with aplomb (except for dishes) and were attentive on our daily treks (okay, drives). No complaints. But we did feel a bit like den mothers, something on which we actually commented as the two of us sat about the table one evening (probably cleaning up).

And den mothers don’t teach tentcraft, or double-check tent rigging. Den mothers don’t exude backwoods lore and lead memorable expeditions. We played barely passable Frisbee, went on walks, chauffeured bumper-riding youth about logging roads, and shopped. Perhaps had the canoeing trip model prevailed, we might have been other than den mothers, and that might have altered something. What, exactly, I’m not sure. It was an odd trip. Good, but not, perhaps, what we set out to share with them.

None of this coursed through my brain as I lay in the dark counting down to thunder. I should have been thinking about the tent’s condition, and thus that of the boys inside. Instead, I was projecting/empathizing, assuming they were as snug as I was, with only a few milligrams of adrenaline difference in appreciation of the storm. I also assumed Michael was asleep, and was equally wrong on that count, too. And outside, the storm assumed nothing. FLASH!!! One denmother, two denmothers, three…………………


The working fire, before the storm.

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