Half a world apart

Though I know from our many years of marriage that he would prefer to spend next week pulling trout out of the Kootenai River, Mr. T has elected to make his sixteenth voyage to China tomorrow. His record at Old Company was five trips in one year (four of those trips occurred in four months). Fortunately, this will probably be his only trip this year now that he is at New Company, which still manufactures most of its products here. But he does have to make this one trip.

The Kid is at an age where he has affixed himself firmly to his dad, and resents any attempt at separation. This has gotten so bad recently that, when Mr. T leaves to go to work, The Kid has been known to fling himself onto the carpet, weeping. The Kid is the clownfish to Mr. T's anemone.

It's a unmistakable sign of the pettiness of my character that I am mildly pleased at this turn of the tables. When The Kid was a wee pup and reacted to my departures in the same way, Mr. T didn't really get how badly it sucked. Now he does. But this does present a problem for tomorrow's international trip, and as is customary, it's my job to deal with the fallout. So I've booked The Kid's favorite babysitter for Sunday and Monday, and then on Tuesday I am going to spend four hours on a plane so I can deposit The Kid with my mother, sit on the couch and press a cold cloth to my forehead. When I recover, I will execute my always carefully planned tour of favorite restaurants, accompanied by various home friends. The various members of my family will, each in their turn, annoy the living shit out of me. That is the routine. That is how it goes. It has been and ever will be thus.

My babysitter has agreed to superintend my ill-behaved herd of canines during my absence, which probably means she won't be speaking to me when I get back. The good news is that my mother actually got high-speed internet since my trip there in December. Which means that I might even blog.

For his part, Mr. T won't be too lonely. He and friend/commenter Tony, who has taken over Mr. T's former job, will find themselves in the same obscure south China city, in the same hotel, along with our Chinese friends O and P. It's almost enough to make me wish I could be there with them.

The Year of the Rat

Chinese New Year in the conservatory at the Bellagio.

Just because I find the defining principle of a place revolting doesn't mean I don't want to spend time there

Well, Rose and Kris basically wrote my last post about Vegas for me in the comments to this post. Kris touched on one thing that kept getting to me while I was there -- the excruciating loveliness of the surrounding setting. I'd go back to Vegas for the mountains alone. I spent lots of time gazing beyond the city to the snow-dusted mountains, dying to explore them.

Rose mentions something else -- the better hotels have a distinctly better atmosphere, both literally and figuratively. It's worth mentioning that there was a shakeup in personnel in Mr. T's company that led to us staying in one of the, ahem, less "luxurious" hotels. The difference in indoor air quality was one of the first things I noticed upon exploring other hotels.

Finally, as much as I dislike some of the faux outrageousness of the Las Vegas "scene," I left feeling that I hadn't even scratched the surface of the things available to do that I do find worthwhile. It was a quick trip, so we didn't see a show. There are scores of restaurants I still want to try. I didn't even get to see the shark reef at Mandalay Bay and there are two other aquariums at the Mirage and at Caesar's. And as Rose mentioned before I went, there are circuses and midways and a fair amount of things to do with kids. And even more to do without them.

So, yeah, I'll go back. I will be grossed out by certain aspects of the place, but next time I won't be obligated, as on a first trip, to do the Full Immersion Experience. And I won't. And at that point, it becomes like most cities -- you just separate the wheat from the chaff.

I'll say this. Anyone who is seriously interested in the concept of place should visit at least once. Las Vegas has a strong character. The process of observing it and analyzing it is even more fun than the things that are supposed to make Vegas fun.

First, what I hate about Vegas

It’s no secret that everything is arranged in Las Vegas to facilitate gambling. The floor plans and signs in the hotels direct the unwary along the most circuitous route possible, winding through endless rows of blinking and bleating slot machines. Restaurants play loud, grating music, ensuring that patrons don’t linger too long over their meals. The casino area of one large hotel I walked through was ringed with several Starbucks – just in case you get sleepy before you make your money back again. You can even gamble in the swimming pools, and play Keno at the coffee shop. I eagerly await the advent of toilet slots.

In fact, there is almost no place where one is safe from the temptation to transfer money to the casino owners. From the moment you step off the plane to the moment you go back through airport security, you are forcibly entertained. Even the TSA video educates travelers by showing various hypothetical Vegas characters going through security. You see a showgirl stuffing her massive headpiece thingie through the X-ray machine. Visitors are allowed no opportunity for reflection or introspection. That might interfere with the ability to relieve them of their money.

Mr. T and I used to gamble occasionally back in our 20s, before my populist worldview hardened sufficiently to realize that gaming – at least in Vegas – is the most effective means, short of simple force, to transfer wealth to the super rich from the rest of us.* And all without giving anything in return except the frisson of imminent loss.

And when someone does manage to wrest some lucre from the clutches of The House, she need only walk a few steps to the stores waiting just beyond the casino area to give it all back again. I suspect that very little money actually leaves a given hotel, and even less leaves the city. This is a clever strategy, to be sure, but a dreadfully cynical one nonetheless.

In short, this industry preys on hopes and manipulates desperation for the gain of the corporate or the already wealthy. And while most people escape with no more than a headache and a bit of lingering self-disgust, others suffer more. One of the most appalling things I saw with some frequency were signs depicting an adult hand holding a smaller hand, with the caption: “Don’t leave your children unattended while gaming.” Dear God. It was enough to make me gather The Kid protectively in my arms.

But what really got me was the artifice of it all. As I walked through the airport on the way home past the zillionth public message congratulating me for my numerous acts of unrepentant decadence, I couldn’t help but think: Okay, I get it. You’re Vegas. You’re outlandish, outrageous, and totally transgressive. Whatever. Now show me something that's actually interesting.

But the thing of it is, there is nothing about Las Vegas – at least the famed Vegas that you find on the Las Vegas strip – that is remotely subversive of the establishment. Here is the order of things in Vegas: 1) First we’re going to get you to give us money by tricking you into thinking you have a good chance to take money from us; 2) If that doesn’t work, look over here at this nearly naked woman!!! 3) Be sure to smoke and drink a lot, too!

Perpetuation of the existing economic power structure through heterosexual sex, smoking and drinking. How original.

I kept comparing Vegas to Key West, which actually does have some genuinely subversive elements. I’m not a huge partier – I prefer ocean kayaking and scuba diving to doing the bar scene when I’m there. But I have no real objection to it, and people doing it in Key West aren’t being fed a line about it – they’re just doing it. By contrast, Vegas congratulates you for your edginess when you’re not really being edgy at all.

This is not to bash on people who like Vegas, and enjoy doing all the things that Vegas tries to get people to do. It can be fun, in its way. But look through the artifice so you can do it with a clear understanding of the elements in play.

Next: It's not all beer, babes and blackjack, or: Would I go back? You bet. So to speak.

*Except, perhaps, the credit card industry and our current taxation scheme. But the latter qualifies as a form of force, I think.

Las Vegas: When you build a city entirely around appealing to the worst in people, that's usually what you get

I am an extrovert, so why shouldn’t I like Vegas? Isn’t Vegas an extroverted city?

Well, not really. Vegas is extroverted the way a mugger is extroverted. Despite the unceasing hustle and bustle, the shows and the food and the endless displays of human endeavor – I mean, there’s a show dedicated entirely to demonstrating one’s skill creating soap bubbles, for crying out loud -- Vegas doesn’t really like people. This is, I think, the most cynical place I’ve ever been. Common courtesies that you take for granted elsewhere are frequently absent here. People either behave differently while here, or this place attracts a certain kind of person.

I started noticing this on the plane from Phoenix. The three of us were seated apart – each of us in a middle seat. We approached the flight attendant and asked for help getting one of us seated with The Kid. Usually we have at least one aisle or window seat to barter when this happens, and it’s easy to get the seats arranged. We knew it would be harder this time, but a five-year old shouldn’t be required to sit between two strangers on a plane, sorry.

“These are our seats,” snapped a woman who looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. The flight attendant explained the situation. She looked over at me, sneering. (Me, of course, never Mr. T – it’s always the brood mare on the receiving end of the hostility in these situations). “Well, he has to have an aisle seat,” she spat, pointing at her partner. “Fine,” I said coolly. “Only one of us needs to sit near him,” I observed. “So it’s either that,” I said pointedly, “or you have an unattended five year old between the two of you.”

She cast me another withering glance, and addressed the flight attendant. “I hope you have some comps or something for this,” she sniffed.

At first I thought this might have nothing to do with Vegas per se – there are assholes everywhere, and this is hardly an unusual event when you fly anywhere with a kid. But after spending some time here, I noticed the same sort of attitude again and again. We were walking down the hall to look out the window near the elevator one morning. The elevator had arrived and there was someone in it. They must have mistakenly assumed we were coming to board the elevator. Well, the occupant of the elevator was courteous enough to hold it, but not courteous enough to be patient.

“HURRY IT UP!” she bellowed. I ignored her, appalled. Apparently we were unforgivably delaying the loss of all her remaining money on nickel slots.

In sum, I find the attitude of many people here ranges from indifferent to nasty. I suppose that’s what you get when you combine greed, desperation and soullessness.

Next: This would be a great city if they got rid of all the casinos.

Here, kittykittykittykitty

Someone went to the Lion Habitat at the MGM Grand. And no, I don't particularly approve.

Big rawhide, huh?

My triumpant return to the internet

No more will I haunt the local Borders to catch a few minutes of internet time. I am hooked up now, friends. And I have the following observations to share with you that I've saved up over the past couple of weeks:

1. To the influx of new readers from Europe brought here by Sancho: You are wonderful people! I've heard from folks in the Netherlands, France, Austria, all parts of the United Kingdom, and Belgium. And I have been uniformly delighted by your friendliness, your impeccable manners and your deep concern for a giant otter and his human. This makes me want to travel to Europe as soon as possible so I can spend some time with such lovely people. (Of course, this also applies to the one reader from Thailand who was brought here as well by Sancho!) I love how the internet has made the world such a very small place, and I have so enjoyed talking with all of you. I hope at least some of you keep reading and participating.

2. Mr. T and I seem to have a penchant for moving from one state to another in snowstorms. We moved from Florida (yes, Florida! In the winter!) to North Carolina in early January of 1996. We had been told that North Carolina hadn't had significant snow in ten years. The first thing I saw when I turned onto our new street was a snow plow that had become stuck -- in the snow. People in Idaho and eastern Washington seem less concerned about this sort of thing, but one does tend to wonder whether the snow will ever stop.

3. Finally, I am taking a trip this weekend. Mr. T goes to a trade show every year in the winter. Last year it was in Florida, and I happily attended that one, of course. Every other year -- this year included -- the show has been in Las Vegas.

I've always avoided the Las Vegas trips. But this year, since Mr. T is working at a different company, going to Vegas offers the only opportunity we'll have for some time to see old friends from Portland (yes, that means you, Tony) and friends from Asia.

While I know some of my blogging colleagues have enjoyed Vegas, I've always been viscerally repulsed by the prospect of it. (For what it's worth, Rose's descriptions of her trip there were the first crack in my resolve never to step foot in the place.) And really, it goes against my liberal nature to condemn something without ever partaking of it. That's a little too book burn-ish for me.

So off I go to Vegas until Tuesday. But please don't laugh at the idea of me in my jeans, men's sweater and hiking boots, hair yanked back into a sloppy ponytail with five-year old in tow, on the streets of Sin City. Because as they say, what happens in Vegas -- ah, never mind. I can't even bring myself to finish that.

But perhaps there will be pictures.

Texas

I think I may need to spend more time in Texas. As soon as I stepped off the jetway in Houston this morning, my Quirk-o-Meter started blinking. I don't know whether it was the guy riding around on an airport cart playing the accordion and singing, the fact that at 7:00 a.m. the longest food line was at the barbecue joint, or the woman sitting next to me who kindly assured me before she relocated that it was the sun, not me and my family, that prompted her move. I've spent some time in the Hill Country doing photography, and I read enough Austin-based bloggers to know that's a pretty interesting place. But I'm starting to think it may be fun to nose around the entire state.

I'd love to find a place as quirky as Montana.

Looking forward to the post-petroleum economy

We'd made it about an hour outside Portland when The Kid announced that he was hungry, and might die if not fed. Because The Dalles, which is the town where he made this announcement, is the last readily available food for the next three hours, we scowled and pulled over. We ate lunch at a restaurant where the server dumped a generous quantity of ice water onto my right hip and butt cheek.

I looked at Mr. T. "Why is it whenever we leave the house....?" I began to think we may have a repeat of our Labor Day misadventures.

"So what do you think will go wrong with the vehicle this time?" I asked Mr. T after lunch, as we hurtled down I-84. Last June, you see, we purchased a lemon. Four weeks after we bought it, we spent $3,000 to replace the engine. Then, on our last trip, the engine refused to start at our hotel in Richland, Washington. I'll take A Brand New Alternator for 400, Alex!

But even I thought that was a rhetorical question, which is why ten minutes later, I was shocked to notice that my right foot was wet. The server hadn't hit my foot, so I knew something was up.

"It's leaking," I announced flatly to Mr. T, whose forehead was now sporting a pulsing blue vein.

"How much?" he asked through gritted teeth. I helpfully demonstrated the answer by saying "drip" every time a drop of water plunked onto the carpet. "Drip." I said. "Drip. Drip. Drip. Dripdripdripdripdrip."

Apparently it only leaks when a) it's raining and b) we're going downhill. Once we fix this new thing, the lemon will have been turned into lemonade -- a nearly perfect vehicle. There's only one problem.

"I hate this car," Mr. T snarled.

He's curled up near the fire with his laptop, looking for a new vehicle.

Welcome to America. Or not.

I have a long-held theory that governments staff their passport control counters with the surliest assholes in the country as a form of grassroots foreign policy posturing. It's a way to remind visitors that they are at the mercy of a foreign government that views them as an insignificant speck, so they'd better behave.

And I think the U.S. has probably become one of the worst. I can say without reservation that getting through passport control in mainland China was easier than getting through on the way back home. And that was in Portland, arguably the world's happy-go-luckiest city. Can you imagine how unpleasant it must be for visitors?

Which is perhaps why foreign travel to the U.S. has dropped 17% since 9/11, costing us a cool 94 billion dollars for our paranoid assholery.

I suppose that is why I find this hilarious, albeit in a God-can-we please-be-reasonable-again kind of way.

Tags for this post: Travel, Dumbassery and Parenting; Or, my weekend in three words

Ever had a holiday weekend in which occurred disaster after disaster, and yet you still had a great time? Ours went something like this:

Wednesday night: Leave for Montana way too late, get into hotel room in Richland, WA at obscenely late hour.

Thursday morning: Leave hotel room way too late; get on road to Montana. At 1:30 pm, run out of gas in the middle of barren Eastern Washington (because you're towing a trailer and your light never went on), barely make it to an exit with no gas station. Wait with kid and two dogs while your husband walks across railroad tracks and, miraculously, returns with can of gas obtained from gentleman in undershirt with two-legged dog who refuses to accept any money. Return can, thank man profusely, give him gift of multi-tool and knife which Mr. T always has on hand on accounta he works in that industry.

Thursday night: Reach house in Montana, think for a moment that an unruly rock band moved in and trashed the place, find tiny turds that are too small to have emerged from average-sized musician, realize it's a pack rat, and start cleaning up.

Friday afternoon: Leave for Glacier National Park way too late, eat delicious meal in Kalispell. Get to Apgar Campground in Glacier just after dark and attempt to get tents set up before meeting sister's flight back in Kalispell at 11:12 p.m. Complete tent set-up approximately three seconds before downpour begins, complete with kid- and dog-scaring thunder and lightning. Look at watch, notice it's almost ten o'clock.

Warily observe the slide into hysteria on part of kid and younger dog, thank God that older dog is deaf and old and doesn't give a shit. Get kid calmed down, just before husband enters tent loudly forecasting certain doom if family stays in tent, which is leaking. Calm kid down again, run after dog who bolts out of tent in fear and won't come to anyone but me since I'm the idiot that trained him in the first place. Get sodden dog back in tent just in time to hear husband observe that, dammit, there were vacancies in the hotels in West Glacier and why didn't we just do that. Tell husband fine, take the friggin' tents down then, we'll snag a hotel room just before meeting sister's flight. Sit in car with kid and dogs; hope husband doesn't get struck by lightning while handling tent poles in thunderstorm. Imagine headline -- and inevitable Darwin Award -- and wince. Alleviate guilt by remembering that I offered to do it myself, even though it was his idea in the first place.

Drive to West Glacier to secure these supposed accomodations, which are now nonexistent, because we are apparently not the only complete fracking idiots who wimped out on camping in a storm. See vacancy sign 1/4 mile ahead, swerve to right only to have four other cars swerve the same direction in front of us and pull in, each competing for the same vacancy.

Lather, rinse, repeat for the next 45 minutes. Have clever idea that the hotels in Whitefish won't be as full as those nearer the park, and call ahead to the Holiday Inn Express. Get room reserved at 11:16 pm, after calling sister to instruct her to cool her heels at the airport for another fifteen minutes.

Get sister, who has a hearty laugh at our expense, but the joke's on her because she has to sleep with Trailhead Kid that night, who ends up horizontal on any bed he sleeps on.

Saturday: Leave Whitefish way too late, but get up to Logan Pass early enough to do five mile hike to Hidden Lake with sister while Mr. T and the kid set up tents in new campsite. Have an absolute blast hiking and blabbing with sister. Photograph more mountain goats. Realize it's all worth it. Go to sleep in Avalanche campground after consuming huge slab of buffalo meatloaf at Eddie's in Apgar.

Sunday: Leave Glacier way too late, drive scenic route back to house, see that pack rat shat on the counters again and did not succumb to the trap. Go fishing with Mr. T, sister and kid till dark. Eat bite of single rainbow trout caught by Mr. T, let the kid have the rest, which he proceeds to eat, skin and all. Listen to neighbors' Newfoundland bark at coyotes for two solid hours before finally falling asleep.

Monday morning: Leave house way too late. So late, in fact, that sister misses -- by ten minutes -- being allowed to board flight. Realize that if the dog hadn't had such relentless, horrid gas all the way to Spokane, the ten-minute stop in Sand Point to try and get him to poop wouldn't have cost sister her Monday flight. Get sister hotel and reservation for flight Tuesday at 7:00 a.m. Have one last lunch with sister; be secretly glad. Leave sister at hotel and go home. Get home way too late. Realize it was still a great weekend full of nature, hysterical laughter at the string of catastrophes and the easy interaction with family you truly love. Write boring blog post about it.

Anyone still with me? Or did I lose you back at the two-legged dog?

Glacial Recession V

I'm starting to channel the Friday the 13th franchise with my serial glaciering, but this one's the last.

The final day we hiked a bit along the Highline Trail, looking at excellent examples of the U-shaped valleys carved by glaciation and generally just winding down from the day before. Jeff will likely offer the seminar again next summer, and I'll probably go again, as he plans to hike to other glaciers in the park next time.

The entire seminar was just great. I learned a great deal, not just about glaciation and the effects of climate change on the park, but about geology in general. Mr. T was a geologist before he became a bidnessman, but I had always glazed over during discussions of faults and synclines and formations, until I was standing in front of the real thing with someone explaining it to me. I can be a stickler for technicalities, particularly when dealing with terminology (imagine that!), and that was tripping me up a bit. Or rather, I tended to approach geological terminology with an overly literal mindset.

But really, I have to plug the Glacier Institute now. I mentioned to Jeff during class that I thought there was a good chance I'd become an Institute junkie. Just look at all the classes and seminars they offer. I could spend ten months just taking class after class, and I'd never get bored. The neat thing is that many classes allow kids as young as six to attend. So I think The Kid and I might take some seminars together in the coming years.

Finally, there are a slew of crevasse photos in my photostream here. (There are a few mountain goat shots in there, but the bulk of it is the Grinnell Glacier.) Perhaps you'll be able to get a sense from those images how unnerving it is to be hiking around them.

And sometimes, unnerving is good.

Hello, I'm an adorable baby mountain goat from Glacier National Park

Your daily dose of way-too-friggin-cute.

(Courtesy of Tony.)

A long meditation on the backcountry

I've been too long in civilization. Too long smelling of laundry detergent and soap, and too long coddled by conveniences. My muscles and body are soft from relative disuse, and my fingernails are too clean.

Almost everyone I know has places they long for at certain times. When the midwestern winter gray lingers just a hair too long, my brother's thoughts turn to sunsets on Mallory Square and conch chowder by the docks. One friend thinks of Venice; another pines for skiing in the Andes.

This time of year I think of a trail, and carrying the necessaries on my back. I enjoy the exertion, the heat, and the sweat. I take a perverse pleasure in the barely perceptible slide into personal squalor. I feel vaguely grubby the first and second days. After that, I know I smell like a dung heap, but I don't care, because I can't smell myself or my partners, and they cannot smell me. It's a happy arrangement in every way.

I enjoy how a trail unfolds with every step. What's ahead? Where will we camp tonight? Will it be a stream or a lake? Or perhaps by the ocean? I relish the way every muscle hurts after a proper day of hiking, so much that lying down on a sleeping pad on the ground feels like a gift. I love it all. I love the smell of the bagels I pack on each trip, the whish of the nylon as I cinch the stuff sack, and the fuzziness of hiking socks as they hug my feet.

Almost exactly six years ago (before my son was born), my husband, my sister and I were suffering just this kind of post-winter discontent. So we packed up our dogs and drove to Southern Indiana, right up to the border. Indiana is not all flatness -- the southern part of the state boasts some hills. We arrived at the trailhead on a Friday evening, and hiked a mile or so to a bluff overlooking the Ohio River. We camped there at a shelter with a guy and his two kids. We made a fire and enjoyed the kind of easy merriment that occurs when you meet someone on a trail.

We hiked together for the next two days among the blooming redbuds. We did nine miles the second day, and four the day after. We were soft, just emerging from a slothful winter, and so that was enough -- at least with full packs. That weekend we were all able to feed our urge to follow a path with the people we loved best. Tonight is much lonelier. We're all scattered away from each other; Mr. T is half a world away in south China, I am here at my laptop in Portland, and my sister is asleep in Indianapolis. Both the dogs that went on that trip have passed on.

I've never been able to do enough of this -- at least, not with my favorite partner. At first I was kept from it by a demanding job; for the last four years parenting duties have made it difficult to get away together. But the kid is almost five now, and frequently demands to be taken to a "hiking place." It's astonishingly easy here to get out in relatively short, kid-appropriate distances. There's a cobalt blue lake nestled in the shadow of Mt. Rainier that feels like the end of the earth. It is, in fact, a mile and a half off the road up to Paradise -- perfect for a quick overnight trip. After that come multi-day excursions. It's almost here.

I still ache to do the long-distance, six-month journeys. I won't get to do that for many years yet, I know. I wonder whether I'll still be in good enough physical condition when that time comes. My mother is 64 and needs both knees replaced. Will I be able to do a long trip in my early 50s? I don't know.

But for now, all I can do is get short snatches of time on wilderness trails. And I've learned that the truth is simple and immutable: the more I get, the happier I am.

An odd realization

It would never occur to me to think I don't travel much. I certainly don't travel as much as I'd like, but that's not the same thing. So it was an odd feeling to realize that, other than a single night away to attend the Loggins and Messina reunion concert with my sister 18 months ago, I've not spent a night away from both my husband and son since my brother and I went to Spain in the fall of 2004. Since then, I've been with either one or both of them.

This is different from one of my friends, who's not spent a night away from her children and husband in at least five years, but it was still startling to me.

So it's probably a good thing that I'm going to Seattle this morning to visit one of my good friends from law school, who is living there temporarily. I'll be back Saturday.

And I might even have slept peacefully and continuously for a few nights.

Throwing away the pearl

Our friend (and colleague of Mr. T), "O.Z." arrived in town from his home in Shanghai last weekend. He and Mr. T have spent most of his time in the U.S. on a domestic business trip elsewhere, but they got finished two days early and flew home last night. Since they'd worked so hard, we all played hooky from work (and TK from preschool) and went to the beach.

O.Z. hosted us in China last April, and we were treated, quite frankly, like rock stars. So whenever O.Z. comes here, we try to show him a good time too. One thing that has surprised me is how few cultural disconnects there are in our friendship. We get each other's jokes; we discuss history, world affairs, and business. (Try having a lengthy discussion with a 33-year-old Chinese guy about the McCarthy era sometime. Very interesting.)

The running joke this week has been the difference in the ways our respective cultures approach food, as evidenced by this discussion at a Portland seafood restaurant:

O.Z. (holding up a gigantic Alaskan crab leg): This is enormous crab. This is typical?

Mr. T: Yeah, I suppose. That's Alaskan king crab.

O.Z.: Where is crab body? You eat the legs only?

Mr. T, grimacing: Eww. The body? That goes in the trash.

O.Z.: But that is best part! In China, that is delicacy, and the legs are considered so-so. You know this. (Addressing me now.) When we take Mr. T to Spicy Crab Restaurant in Shanghai, they have very small crabs. All Chinese people eating the bodies, but Mr. T pick away at those tiny crab legs!

You do same thing with chicken. You throw away chicken feet, but Chinese dry them and sell them as snack at gas station!

[Insert much grimacing and noises of revulsion from me and Mr. T as O.Z. laughs hysterically.]

Me: Come over Friday night. I'll make crab cakes if we can find crab at the coast.

Mr. T: We'll even let you have the body, O.Z.

O.Z.: Thank you! With crab, it's like you Americans find a box with pearl in it, and you throw away pearl and eat box instead.

Cryptic snippet of the day: TerraPass edition

up on the airplane nearer my god to thee i start making a deal inspired by gravity if i did wrong i won't do it again i can be sweet and good and nice and if i had enemies they're friends i hold onto my life with the grip of a vice...

--Indigo Girls, Airplane

I'm leaving Tuesday morning for a trip back to the flatlands to attend to work, see family and friends, and eat at favorite restaurants. I may do a bit of hiking, which will be nice because very few people do much of that in March back there.

In case you're wondering, I purchased carbon offsets this morning for 9,500 pounds of carbon dioxide from TerraPass. (The offset I purchased covered 7,500 lbs., but I got an extra 2,000 lbs. for foregoing the cute little luggage tag.) The flight back east releases a little less than 3,000 lbs. for both me and my son. So I have a little leeway there.

(I might do a post on carbon offsets soon, but I can't imagine it would be any better than the one at Real Climate that I discussed in this post.)

Paddling the mangroves

Jade over at Arboreality and I share a passion for mangroves, trees and shrubs that dwell in and around coastal waters. Mangroves are a testament to tenacity, having adapted extensively to the challenges of growing and reproducing in several feet of seawater.

If I recall, Jade got her introduction to mangroves in Belize; I've been fascinated with the Florida mangroves off the Keys since I was a child. Forty and fifty years ago, my grandparents navigated the mangroves in their boat to fish for snapper. In the last ten years, I've taken to exploring them by kayak. This is my favorite way to see them. It's impossible to overstate how much life is supported by these unique plants, and kayaking offers an opportunity to see it all up close. The wikipedia entry for Florida mangroves lists the following:

"The branches of mangroves serve as roosts and rookeries for coastal and wading birds, such as the brown pelican (Oelicanus occidentalis), roseate spoonbill (Ajajia ajaia), Frigatebird (Fregata magnificans), Double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax carbo), Brown Noddy (Anous stolidus), Great White Heron and Wurdemann's Heron, color phases of the Great Blue Heron (Adrea herodias), Osprey (Pandion haliaetus), Snowy Egret (Egretta thula), Green Heron (Butorides striatus), Reddish Egret (Dichromanassa rufescens) and Greater Yellowlegs (Tringa melanoleuca). Other animals that shelter in the mangroves are the American Coot (Fulica americana), American Crocodile, Bald Eagle, Peregrine Falcon, Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake (Crotalus adamanteus), Mangrove Snake (Nerodia clarkii compressicauda) and the Atlantic Saltmarsh Snake (Nerodia clarkii taeniata ).

Above the water mangroves also shelter and support snails, crabs, spiders, bromeliads of the genus Tillandsia, including Spanish Moss, and Reindeer lichen. Below the water's surface, often encrusted on the mangrove roots, are sponges, anemones, corals, oysters, tunicates, mussels, sea stars, crabs, Florida Spiny Lobster (Panulirus argus) and seagrasses."

Here is an image of a cormorant rookery I took a few years ago:



Two years ago, I took along my Nikonos V and attempted some underwater shots after donning my mask and snorkel and lashing my kayak to Mr. T's boat. That roll of film got ruined in a tragic film spool accident. I haven't yet recovered.

This trip, Mr. T and I took our son along in a double kayak, so there was no underwater photography. Anyway, I promised Jade mangrove pictures, and the best I could do was this video. I'm used to my own boat, and the hatch on this one -- where I kept the cameras in dry bags -- was too far forward for comfort. Also, my seat kept slipping, making the video a little jittery. (These are all obviously excuses for my sorry-ass video recording, I know.) We went deep into the mangroves on this paddling trip, and the passage was often extremely narrow.

As always, there's a bit of four-year old narration on this one. I like to think of him as a budding Sir David Attenborough.

Out to lunch, back soon

Tomorrow, I'm escaping from the sodden, cold Pacific Northwest to -- the sodden warmth of Florida. Maddeningly, the forecast for central and south Florida, where I'll be spending time, involves rain for the first 9 of the 13 days I'll be there. But unless the rains are desperately torrential, I will not be swayed from my two primary goals: great images of an alligator and an anhinga.

I'm considering a visit to Ding Darling Wildlife Refuge, but if time is too pressed, I'll settle for the avian pleasures of Eco Pond or the Anhinga Trail in Everglades National Park. These are trails that, while relatively close to civilization and populated with many humans, are fairly bursting with life. At both places you can sit, very still, in front of a tripod-mounted camera and just wait for something to come along. It always does. I could while away whole days in either place.

Yes, I'd rather do a paddling trip up the river and camp on the chickies*, but an opportunity to do that is scarce these days. Until that can be arranged, I'll happily visit Eco Pond.



*Chickies are small, raised platforms on which to camp, designed to elevate the camper above the high-tide water and all that slithers within. However, Hurricane Wilma apparently destroyed many chickies, and I don't know whether they're to be replaced or not. Perhaps I'll put the question to a ranger.