Post Blog from Hong Kong

Today we took the subway out to Tung Chung, on an island out in the boonies, basically in the South China Sea. From the town center, we took a bus up to one of the largest Buddas in the world, the Tian Tan Budda at the Po Lin monastery. To be accurate, the bus took us nearly to the top of a mountain. We had to climb approximately 1 million steps to get to the actual Budda.

The Budda itself is very spiritual and very ancient, having been constructed in the late 20th century - 1990-1993 to be exact.

Although I suffered terrible motion sickness, the bus trip up was interesting. I always thought of Hong Kong as just this big city. But there's a rural part too - complete with water buffalo hanging out. And cattle of course. Free ranging it on the road. There are signs that say, "Don't feed the animals."

The mountains are lush and beautiful. There are houses, not particularly fancy, with large gardens and I imagine they have something to do with the cattle. I wanted to take pictures of the scenery but the bus (and on the way down, the taxi) was going too fast - and I was concentrating on not tossing my cookies.

This is my second trip to Hong Kong. Clyde has been here many times. It's a a hard working city. It's truly one of a kind, world class in the truest sense. It's one those cities I want to require provincial New Yorkers to visit when they act like New York is the only city in the world. I remember how small Denver seemed after my last trip here. Imagine the organization and engineering it takes to cram 7 million people on this little island much of which, by the way, is made up of mountains to steep to build on.

I wonder what the future will be like here as the People's Republic continues to gradually tighten the noose. Can I write that? "Someone" is probably reading this. No joke. I've heard that no one, not even tourists, can take privacy for granted anymore.

It has occurred to me that the British turned Hong Kong over to the People's Republic in 1997. That was 21 years ago. The agreement was that they'd let Hong Kong remain autonomous for 50 years. We're almost half way there already.

As the subway made an appearance above ground, we passed one of the largest ports in the world. Noting thousands of of those freight containers that they pile onto those large container ships, I couldn't help but wonder: is our new washer over there? It's supposed to be delivered in December.

Time to Take Down Those Welcome Signs?

"Yep, this is Colorado. Just keep on moving." 

Clyde and I left the unusually hot temperatures of Denver to view the changing aspen in the high country today. Kenosha pass was particularly colorful - and crowded.

We've never seen so many people up there. The traffic was terrible and parking lots were packed at every trailhead with cars parked along the sides of the roads for miles.

There are too many people in this state. It might be time to take down those "Welcome to Colorful Colorado" signs at the border and replace them with something like, "Yep, this is Colorado. Just keep on moving."

 They say that you can't hike any trail, even in the most remote corners of the state, without running into hordes of other hikers. So many people want to climb every fourteener (mountain over 14,000 feet) that they're like city parks up there.

 I have to confess, I've become kind of indifferent to the mountains in the past few years. Yes, I "oooed" and "ahhhed" at the aspen today, and there were some spectacular views if you could see over the roofs of the SUVs parked along the roadsides. But I hardly ever go to the mountains anymore. I've seen more of the Pacific Ocean in the past few years, more than 1,000 miles away, than the Rockies in my own back yard.

It's not that I don't like the mountains. They are very pretty. When I'm driving around the city, I admire them from afar. When I'm driving around a city where there are no mountains, like Houston, I wonder how people can live without any mountains nearby.

 It's just become a pain to actually go to the mountains. Today, for example. On Highway 285, the alternative to busy I-70, we were in two major traffic jams before noon, on Saturday. I'd rather go to, say, downtown Denver, where the crowds aren't so bad.

When Nature Calls I Have an Answer

Back when the century turned, I purchased a little two man tent. Optimistic as that sounds, there were never any other men in it. Just me and a sleeping bag. And a very upset stomach.

When I was a kid I loved camping. My friend John and I would schlep out the big green canvas tent that was older than we were, set it up on the shores of Lake Minatare (home of the only lighthouse in Nebraska), eat bar-b-que potato chips, and revel in the sounds of the lapping waves which would sometimes creep closer over night as the water rose. I think part of the appeal then was sleeping away from home, independent if only for the night.

Things started to change when I went back country backpacking in Colorado with my brother. The mosquitoes were thick that year, and so tiny that they crawled through the tent’s mesh screens into our noses and ears. A planned week in the Mount Zirkel Wilderness turned into one miserable night plus a comparatively luxurious stay at the Motel 8 in Laramie on the way home. Now that was camping. Why didn’t we just go to Motel 8 in the first place?

As an adult, I tried camping again - with friends who went all out. There was a sleeping tent (for six) and a portable screened in day lounge gazebo. There were sleeping bags and auto-blow up air mattresses. A walk in (almost) cooler. A six-burner propane stove and roomy oven. Tarps on the ground. Skillets and pans of all types. Complete sets of flatware and nicer dishes than I had in my house at the time. Wash tubs. Portable food pantries (gotta get that food up there somehow). Large drinking water dispensers. Multiple director-style folding chairs with beverage holders. And every other gadget sold at REI.

It wasn't a campsite - it was a compound.

Anyone trying to get a feel for how the pioneers lived as they walked their wagons west would have to look somewhere else.  Of course, setting up and breaking camp took hours with all that stuff. I thought it would be quicker and easier to drive into town and go to a restaurant than to fire up the six-burner and unpack all that food, but I was overruled. So I pitched my little two-manner, spread out my sleeping bag on the hard ground, and pulled out my bag of chips.

I didn’t really enjoy myself, but I felt like I was supposed to. I mean what self-respecting Coloradoan doesn’t like camping?

There's just no getting around the fact that regardless of what you eat or how pretty the scenery is, nights get cold in the mountains. It's worse when there is something foreign living in your stomach and you have to repeatedly get up to go to the bathroom, as I did that summer night in Rocky Mountain National Park some 20 years ago. Mom and Dad offered to let me sleep in the motor home with them, but I had my little tent and by-golly, I was going to use it.

Trying to sleep while shivering is hard enough - but when nature calls the way it did that night, you really have to answer. I lost count of the number of times I unzipped the sleeping bag, scrambled for my shoes, unzipped the tent, ran to the facility which was not terribly close, ran back shivering, rezipped everything, and then did it all again about every 40 minutes until morning.

As a new day dawned and a bright sun rose into a crystal clear blue Rocky Mountain sky, I decided that the only camping I was ever going to do again was at the Estes Park Holiday Inn with a heated room and full indoor plumbing.

The two-man tent took a final trip to Goodwill. I have never again shivered the night away with only a thin piece of material between me and the sky.

Don't get me wrong - I love the mountains and being outside. This summer I’m going to visit as many of Colorado’s state parks as I can. I plan to hike, picnic, gaze at the stars, search for wildlife, lean over to get a closer look at flowers, and imagine what it was like in the world before cities and suburbs dominated everything.

But after a day of communing with nature, you'll find me curled up in a real bed with a bathroom nearby. I’ll use electricity to read a book, watch TV, use my laptop, and make coffee if I choose. For a special treat, I’ll haul out some bar-b-que potato chips. Now that’s what camping should taste like.

Their Mountains are Older

“The Great Smokies are the largest single mountain range …”

So begins a quote from the Smoky Mountain News of Waynesville, NC, February 14, 2003. The sentence widens my eyes and a major objection commences in the back of my Colorado throat.

“… in Eastern North America.”

While calmed by the qualifier, I still roll my eyes at the tone of the claim.

The quote kicks off a mystery novel I just started, High Country Fall, by Margaret Maron.

Maron’s mysteries spill beyond the genre into literature. She has a way of capturing the modern rural south (no, it’s not an oxymoron) which makes you feel like you are there. When the primary character, Debra Knott, swelters in a North Carolina summer, the sweat drips down my back. When she chats with neighbors at a large community picnic, my mouth waters for the ham, fried chicken, and biscuits they eat.

I “did time” living in the south, pursuing my graduate degree 20 years ago, in Richmond, Virginia. To say perspectives vary between regions of the country is an understatement. For example, I couldn’t get used the Virginian reverence for war heros – I’m talking about the Civil War, which was fought over 140 years ago. Even in the artsy, hipster part of town called The Fan, Monument Avenue is dotted regularly with magnificent statues of Confederate generals. Stonewall Jackson was less than a block from my apartment. To hear some (not all, to be fair) Richmonders discuss the war, you’d think they were talking about events which happened to them personally. The bitterness against the North is, for some, as fresh as if the “the war of Northern aggression” were still being fought.

When I lived there, I bristled at being called a Yankee. I am from the West. My state didn’t exist during the War Between the States. That anyone from outside is considered a Yankee, no matter where they are from, relegated me to the status of foreign visitor. While always treated with courtesy, I would never outlive my outsider standing.

Not that I was always a paragon of tact and tolerance, myself. I didn’t make any friends by saying, for example, “The war is over. You lost. Get over it.”

The quote about the Smokies reminds me of my reaction to hearing Virginians extol the virtues of their own Blue Ridge Mountains.

Though technically not yet a Coloradoan, I looked down my long nose at the locals and told them that if they wanted to see real mountains, I’d be happy to take them up to, say, Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park.

While unable to deny that the Rockies are quite impressive, my friends in Richmond sniffed, “Your mountains may be bigger, but ours are older.” End of conversation.

I grew to appreciate those beautiful little eastern mountains, dripping with history and character. And I would recommend a drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway anytime.

Meanwhile, if anyone from back east would like to see some snow, in July, at 13,000 feet, just give me a call.

Open Up that Golden Gate – Maybe (Part 2)

Last week, I announced that I was seriously considering a move to Southern California. This week, I promised some pros and cons. On impulse, I created a survey and asked my Facebook friends to comment. This was not a scientific poll. But it also wasn’t a Fox News poll where every question was completely slanted towards a predetermined result.

I am impressed by the thoughtful responses to the survey. For the most part, folks seem happy where they live. Coloradoans in particular are passionate about their home. I was also touched at the amount of care expressed for me. I have some truly wonderful friends, coast to coast.

Here are some of the data from the survey:

• 63% of the respondents came from Colorado/Wyoming/Western Nebraska (in other words the “local” region); 16% came from the west coast; 5% came from Nebraska (east of the Panhandle), and 16% from somewhere else. I’m sure the fact that the majority of respondents are local affected the percentages in the rest of the survey.
• 68% prefer four distinct seasons; 21% agree that Colorado has only two seasons (summer and winter, all year around); 11% like the idea of green grass throughout the year.
• Given a choice, 68% prefer the mountains; 27% prefer the ocean; 5% don’t take advantage of living near either one.
• For solitude, 26% prefer the beach and 74% prefer the mountains.

The best part was the advice written to me. While anonymous, I have a pretty good idea of who many of you are.

Excerpts:

• “I think Bill should do what he wants … and stop paying attention to what I say in the comments section of his blog.”---- Oh, by the way Phil, you do seem to comment more than others on the blog, but I think that’s because Blogspot makes it difficult to leave comments unless you’re a scientist or engineer.
• “I cherish seasons, have never met a natural wonder grander than the Rockies, and (also dream) of relocating to Southern California.”
• “If you’re bored, I say get out. You can always come back.”
• “Getting off my mountain bike on a quiet trail in Boulder County may be the only place I’ve ever found that I can just sit still and “be” for a while. If you haven’t found that place ... yet … keep looking until you do.”
• “DON’T MOVE DON’T MOVE DON’T MOVE DON’T MOVE DONT MOVE”
• “Just don’t move to (someplace in Nebraska). 12 distinct seasons a year, secluded places to get away … but you need them … because of the closed mindedness that is such a part of the culture.”
• “Do what your heart tells you to do.”
• “So Cal is expensive! Traffic is even worse than Denver. Denver has more sun than So Cal. The people are nicer in Colorado … You can almost always see the mountains (from anywhere) in Denver (but) You need to be at the beach to see the ocean.”
• “Rattle your cage.”
• “I love the ocean, but having grown up … where the seasons NEVER change, I’d never live in a place without seasons again … it overrides my love of the ocean and indifference toward the mountains.”
• “You would miss the mountains!”
• “Move to California!!!”
• “Just do it! … Life is truly an accumulation of your experiences … The mountains (are different) in CA, but there still are mountains and they’re really beautiful.”
• “Be careful about trying to make your get away place home.”
• “Plenty of fun in the sun in California, just find a place where you aren’t living on top of others … there is (also) all the good wine and wine country.”
• “Do what your heart tells you to do … the grass always looks greener someplace else … you will find yourself in a tough housing market with high pollution in a highly body conscious gay community where it is tough to make new friends …”
• “Your soul belongs in Colorado.”
• “I would miss you … but you have to do what makes you happy.”
• “Reach for the sun.”

While the conclusions are not all in agreement, this gives me some good material with which to think. Sometimes it helps just to know that I have the option to do something. If I don’t feel stuck, I’m less anxious to make a change.

Meanwhile, here are some of my responses to other comments received:

• Yes, I know about the earthquakes, but when the Yellowstone supervolcano blows, we're all doomed anyway.
• I'm pretty sure there are doctors in California. Also Mormons.
• Orange County in particular is heavily Republican. You can't even swing an underfunded social program without hitting a Republican. But I've lived among those people before. I can do it again.
• No, Alaska is not under consideration, no matter who resides there.
• I wouldn't move to California without a huge increase in income. I am not cheap.

Just wait until I get into one of my periodic fantasies about moving back to Nebraska.

Fast Food and Sacred Rituals - a Follow-up to Ashes

After reading my last entry, Ashes - Excerpt from Fierce Love, a few friends asked whether Rickie's ashes were indeed scattered by the rock above the alpine lake.

Within days of the funeral, Mom's remains were returned in a black cardboard box. Her explicit instructions were that we not waste money on a beautiful urn which would sit on the mantel. Just put her in a plastic bag, she said.

So we ended up with a cardboard box.

It didn't sit on the mantel. My dad didn't want to see it so he told my sister to just put it somewhere. She chose a spot in a glass cabinet among some of my mother’s cherished knick knacks. Two years later, Dad phoned my sister and asked where it was. He was ready.

Unfortunately, Dad's health had declined to a point where he could no longer hike to the predetermined spot at the alpine lake. He told us to go ahead and do it without him. After some discussion, we decided that Mom wouldn't mind if we didn't carry out her wishes exactly. More meaningful to Dad, and much more accessible for this and future visits, was a larger lake at a lower altitude surrounded by a flat path. Mom had often hiked there. It reminded him of her, so it became our choice for the scattering.

Referring to towering Rocky Mountain peaks, my dad remarked that there couldn't be a more spectacular tombstone.

At the shore, a friendly female duck looking on, it became evident that he couldn't hold his cane, balance the box, and maneuver the ashes. We needed something smaller with which to move the contents from the box to the ground. Mom would have been prepared for this, probably producing an old measuring cup from her fanny pack.

Thinking quickly, I ran back to my car, going out of my way not to trip over the duck who was inching closer, perhaps thinking that our box contained breadcrumbs or something. I retrieved an Arby's cup from which I had just slogged down a diet coke. We could pour ash into the cup and Dad could spill it around as he pleased. As we poured the first batch into the fast food cup, he said sadly, "She hated Arbys."

I often wonder what happens after death. I believe in eternal life, but I don't know what it looks like or whether our deceased loved ones can see us. But I'm sure of one thing: the moment we used a paper cup from Arbys to carry out this solemn ritual, no one was laughing harder than my mother.

With that duck following us the whole time, we circled the lake, stopping every few yards so one of us could pour some ash into the cup which Dad would then pour on the shore, by a boulder, or at the base of a tree.

Next weekend, we'll drive Dad up to the lake and walk around it. I think he's comforted knowing that someday his ashes will join hers in that majestic setting.

We may want to stop at Wendy's on the way.

Ashes - Excerpt from Fierce Love

On September 21, 2005, my mother died after a long and debilitating illness. The following is an excerpt from the short story I wrote in her memory.

(The morning of her death, I went into) my mother's office. I turned on the light and saw it pretty much as she had left it, save for a few photo albums her granddaughter Hannah had leafed through. In the front of the file cabinet, exactly as Mom had described, was a folder labeled, "To be used at my memorial service, as you think appropriate." It was a hand-written essay, about two pages long, dated September 1981, about a hike my parents had taken in the Colorado mountains to see the changing of the aspen leaves. As they moved through a forest, they discussed how the old trees fell away and decayed, providing room and nourishment for the young. It was clear that Mom had viewed death as a natural and necessary part of life.

In later years, I often accompanied my parents to the mountains for the annual viewing of the colors. At a particularly scenic alpine lake right below timberline (during a year when my own health was uncertain), I casually expressed my desire to be cremated and scattered at that spot and needed them to know, just in case. Mom burst into tears, responding more dramatically than I had wished, and promised that they would do as I asked. Further, she cried that she wanted her ashes in the same spot so that I wouldn't be alone on top of those chilly Rocky Mountains. I cringed, first wishing she'd stop, and then wondering why I couldn't have my own special spot. She didn't stop. She poked my dad's arm and said, "Bob, don't you want to be scattered here too? Don't you?" He replied that because we would all be dead, it didn't much matter, but ok, fine, he'd consent to anything in order to bring this conversation to a close.

A year before Mom, one of my cats died. In my grief, I decided to take my little companion's ashes to that same alpine lake. I wanted to symbolize that we would be together after death. I asked Mom and Dad if they wanted to come. (My sister) Carol came along too. Although we took the kitty's death seriously, we also silently knew it was a rehearsal for the future. I hiked to a rock above the lake, off the beaten trail where so many others walked. Carol and Dad followed, leaving Mom by the car because the climb would probably be too much. As I opened the canister to release the ashes, Mom cobbled up from behind, navigating the steep incline and rough rooted trail with her cane. Before I could scatter the ashes, she asked to see them. She had never seen cremains before and was curious. We all looked, noting the coarse dust and white fragments of bone which made it different from the fine fireplace ashes we were used to. I then raised the container and let the contents go, most landing with the rain that began to fall, mixing it with the ground, while some blew away in the breeze. I read a poem and we went back to the car, but not before Mom pulled a camera out of her jacket and took several pictures of the rock, the lake, and the view.