After crashing for a few hours after the 50K, I was up at 5:15 a.m. to fly to Spokane the next morning. I hastily threw together a carry-on and hit the airport. I pride myself on being pretty proficient when passing through security, so I was a little curious when the TSA agent kept my bag under the scanner and had a confused look on his face. After all, I only threw in my hairdryer, a makeup bag, extra sweater, and my geocaching swag-bag (trinkets for trading on geocache treasure hunts). Muttering under his breath, he radioed in for his supervisor. Soon the next-in-authority was frowning next to him, alternately pointing and murmering. Then the supervisor turned on his heel, speaking into his radio for backup. As he passed me, he barked, "Do you have anything like a belt in your bag?" A little confused, I answered, "Yes." "With a belt buckle?" Not a good time to indulge in the obvious sarcasm that could be used in response. Again, a simple "Yes." "A belt buckle shaped like a gun?" I almost laughed, but he had already sped off and before I could get my shoes back on, 7 TSA guys were glued to the monitor like it was the Victoria Secret fashion show. Should I have brought chips and dip? Realization came suddenly; between my post-50K exhaustion and last-minute style of travel preparation, I hadn't thought twice about the ziplock baggie of swag that my coworker (and geocache mentor) had provided for my geocache swapping needs. I didn't get hauled off to any side room for further frisking or questioning, but needless to say, the toy gun keychain and mini-tub of playdough didn't make it on the plane. Humbled, I forfeited my status as experienced security-line guru.
My stopover in Portland began my assimilation into the perpetually damp Northwest. Why is my sister so determined to move back to this climate? Is she really that determined to find Edward? No, it can't be that, her hubby is as perfect her match as she could find. Spokane continued to uphold the wet weather reputation. I enjoyed the easiest car-rental experience I've had in years; no shuttle to wait for, just a short walk - in the rain - out to the awaiting car. Windshield wipers working frenetically, I arrived at the relatives' home. Technically, these are J's relatives; this could potentially be an awkward reunion. I've only met this cousin, her husband, and her 2 kids twice before now. But somehow a connection was made, one that the tech wonders of texting and facebook has deepened over the years. Now I'm worried that any pursuance of a continued relationship subconsciously expects a side to be chosen. Family should stick to blood-relatives, especially when life pitches the hard-core curve balls at you. This is where one is accepted even at the most vulnerable, scars and all. But we waltzed the fine line rather gracefully, knowing that the thousand-pound gorilla was in the room but refusing to let it cut into our limited time together. Besides, how can I not enjoy watching these kids grow up? Not that I can exactly use that term any more.
The older son, big C, is gearing up to head back into Idaho's Bob Marshall wilderness. He spends weeks at a time in the middle of this vast backwoods marvel, hiking out of a base camp where nothing electrical or motorized is allowed. The spark in his otherwise quiet, guarded eyes when he begins recounting his 10-plus mile hikes in to clear trails (my 50K accomplishments pale in comparison), using hand saws to dismember fallen trees at least 3 feet wide, of hand-carving wooden spikes to secure bridge planks over creeks. Or should I say 'cricks'. Then there is the spaghetti sauce made with venison that he and his uncle and grandfather had gotten on a hunt last year...so delicious any Bambi-lover would consider slinging a rifle to procure more. I respect, but will never understand, vegans, and this particular dish makes me all the more grateful I've never made that conversion. He and his sister talk about their favorite uncle, and this is where the statement about pet-sitting Roxy the rat and the three-legged cat (said with an entirely straight face) just cracks me up. It sounds like a Neil Gaiman novel.
The younger daughter, little C, has me wrapped around her little finger. She'll be a vicious threat to any male on campus when she eventually gets to college. I'm not too keen about girly-girls, but this one's got an edge that I love. One minute, she pulls out her midnight-blue satin prom dress, excitedly showing off the little scrunchy-ruffly thing on the back. Alright, I begrudgingly admit the black peep-toe wedges are pretty kick-butt. But then 30 minutes later, we're in her room and she's describing in great detail each of the elk, deer, and various wildlife skulls and jawbone fragments that are perched on shelves all over her walls. She shrugs a little self-consciously, stating that she used to have a lot more out on display, that these are just a few that she's left out. I'm gawking around, empty eyesockets and sun-bleached dentition gruesomely grinning back in a macabre display of osseous room decor. All I can think is, "This chick is awesome!" Hopefully she'll line up her babysitting jobs to earn enough money to visit me this summer...I can't wait to show her California.
During a random break in the rain, we walk down the street to - get this - the nearby cemetery. As if they've researched me and know what I like. Just inside the iron gates is the Sunset Mausoleum, front and back walls made predominantly of glass. Mourners and visitors can fill their eyes and souls with the majesty of the mountains rising up from the banks of the Spokane river. And, as the name suggests, to be here at sunset must be miraculous, must give hope to those who want to believe in life after death. We follow winding pathways past tombstones and mausoleums from as far back as the 1800's. We drop down to a smaller mausoleum housing a life-sized statue of a naked doctor limb-locked with his equally nude wife and onto an observation deck overlooking the Spokane river below.
Earlier, somewhere between a 2-minute downpour of rain, a 5-minute sketch of sunshine so warm I pull off hat and gloves, then hastily throw them back on when hail shatters down before the sun makes another schizophrenic appearance, I have found my third pair of micro geocache 'earrings'. We spend a little time looking for a larger cache, hiking down a hillside sloping away from the cemetery. Skidding down loose gravel, plunging knee-deep in residual snow banks, clambering over fallen logs (why isn't big C practicing his path-clearing skills now?), unsuccessfully trying to avoid the piles of deer scat, I wonder why my legs are still functioning when it's been just over 24 hours since I completed my 50K. We don't find that one right away, but the bug has bitten this family and I'm excited to hear about their future geocache finds now that they know there are so many within walking distance of their home.
All too soon, I hop a flight home, gunless this time. I step off the plane and strip off my 2 outer layers, breathing a sigh of relief that at least in California, 'spring' doesn't include hail.
The older son, big C, is gearing up to head back into Idaho's Bob Marshall wilderness. He spends weeks at a time in the middle of this vast backwoods marvel, hiking out of a base camp where nothing electrical or motorized is allowed. The spark in his otherwise quiet, guarded eyes when he begins recounting his 10-plus mile hikes in to clear trails (my 50K accomplishments pale in comparison), using hand saws to dismember fallen trees at least 3 feet wide, of hand-carving wooden spikes to secure bridge planks over creeks. Or should I say 'cricks'. Then there is the spaghetti sauce made with venison that he and his uncle and grandfather had gotten on a hunt last year...so delicious any Bambi-lover would consider slinging a rifle to procure more. I respect, but will never understand, vegans, and this particular dish makes me all the more grateful I've never made that conversion. He and his sister talk about their favorite uncle, and this is where the statement about pet-sitting Roxy the rat and the three-legged cat (said with an entirely straight face) just cracks me up. It sounds like a Neil Gaiman novel.
The younger daughter, little C, has me wrapped around her little finger. She'll be a vicious threat to any male on campus when she eventually gets to college. I'm not too keen about girly-girls, but this one's got an edge that I love. One minute, she pulls out her midnight-blue satin prom dress, excitedly showing off the little scrunchy-ruffly thing on the back. Alright, I begrudgingly admit the black peep-toe wedges are pretty kick-butt. But then 30 minutes later, we're in her room and she's describing in great detail each of the elk, deer, and various wildlife skulls and jawbone fragments that are perched on shelves all over her walls. She shrugs a little self-consciously, stating that she used to have a lot more out on display, that these are just a few that she's left out. I'm gawking around, empty eyesockets and sun-bleached dentition gruesomely grinning back in a macabre display of osseous room decor. All I can think is, "This chick is awesome!" Hopefully she'll line up her babysitting jobs to earn enough money to visit me this summer...I can't wait to show her California.
During a random break in the rain, we walk down the street to - get this - the nearby cemetery. As if they've researched me and know what I like. Just inside the iron gates is the Sunset Mausoleum, front and back walls made predominantly of glass. Mourners and visitors can fill their eyes and souls with the majesty of the mountains rising up from the banks of the Spokane river. And, as the name suggests, to be here at sunset must be miraculous, must give hope to those who want to believe in life after death. We follow winding pathways past tombstones and mausoleums from as far back as the 1800's. We drop down to a smaller mausoleum housing a life-sized statue of a naked doctor limb-locked with his equally nude wife and onto an observation deck overlooking the Spokane river below.
Earlier, somewhere between a 2-minute downpour of rain, a 5-minute sketch of sunshine so warm I pull off hat and gloves, then hastily throw them back on when hail shatters down before the sun makes another schizophrenic appearance, I have found my third pair of micro geocache 'earrings'. We spend a little time looking for a larger cache, hiking down a hillside sloping away from the cemetery. Skidding down loose gravel, plunging knee-deep in residual snow banks, clambering over fallen logs (why isn't big C practicing his path-clearing skills now?), unsuccessfully trying to avoid the piles of deer scat, I wonder why my legs are still functioning when it's been just over 24 hours since I completed my 50K. We don't find that one right away, but the bug has bitten this family and I'm excited to hear about their future geocache finds now that they know there are so many within walking distance of their home.
All too soon, I hop a flight home, gunless this time. I step off the plane and strip off my 2 outer layers, breathing a sigh of relief that at least in California, 'spring' doesn't include hail.
3 comments:
*I belly laughed on the airport story. *After yesterday's outfit, I think the girly girl rubbed off on you. *There is the best cemetery in Santa Clara! I wanted to explore but were almost late for the funeral. And 4 hours later, didn't want to go cemetery exploring. Love ya. J
Wow - that was some weekend! Sounds like a perfect follow up to a 50K - hiking among the dead. :)
Very cool descriptions of your time! Sounds like you share a cadaver fascination. Dexter anyone?
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