I'm a pie maker!

I've made seven pies in the last month. It has become a "go to" solution for desserts. So far I've only twiddled around with pecan, blackberry, and cranberry/pecan pies. There have been bubble-overs. There has been an overfilled pie. There have been cursings while flour was knocked to the kitchen floor. But I'm having fun.
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I do love pictures of minutia.

So very often I find myself in some gorgeous spot with fantastic scenery and what do I take a picture of? This:

When if I look up and refocus, I can see this:

Or this:

But then I get caught up in something like this:

Or these:

And this: (by the way...I love newts)

Or something like this:

Oh well. At least in this era of digital photography I am not wasting boatloads of film and money on various pictures of tiny things or slimy things or random things.  Life is good.  

But by the way, the cool wheels for the trip to the coast looked like this:

We called it the Vespa all weekend.  I think it was a Versa or some such V word.  The other V word that was involved in the weekend was Vanessa, and she looked like this:

 

It was a good coast trip, even if we did miss our drunken birthday girl, Tiffy. :)

I really wonder about my subconscious mind.

I mean, really, where does it come up with some of the dreams I have? Here's a quote from last night: "He's in there right now drinking the gravy without asking first!"  Undoubtedly my subconscious was tinged with thoughts of the upcoming Thanksgiving feast in which gravy will be consumed (hopefully without ptomaine or botulism) and the lunch I had with my grandparents that involved a baked potato and gravy. But drinking gravy? Really? I have never seen someone quaff gravy, even when it was damned good stuff.

Maybe I'll post random quotes from other dreams, but then again, when a person recounts a dream it is usually a lot more interesting to the dreamer than the audience.  Gnight! Sweet dreams! (and Mom: yellow, chocolate brown, and cadet blue)

This is what we do at the yurt.jpg

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Hat 4.jpg

I'm a hat knitting maniac lately! This is my fourth. The others are gifts, so no pics of those. Next up, something with ear flaps!
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Tate snuggles down.jpg

It's a day that foretells winter. Tate is preparing to hibernate.
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Coughs and flu and sniffles, oh my!

So, this school year is already shaping up to be a germy one. We're in month two of school and I either am in month two of a cold or my virus collection stands at two, depending on how you're counting. All I know is that my mucus production and cough-rate are way up.  I also haven't seen 10:30pm in over two weeks, and in fact am now getting perverse joy in how early I cave in and crawl into bed.  My record this year is 7pm, but I had to talk myself into staying up past 6:15 that night.

It is also October 10th today, and people are going wacky with the "10-10-10!" craziness. In honor of the silliness, I propose we call this day "Bo Derek" day and be done with it.

I'm off to buy more Kleenex.  Whoever thought of infusing tissue with lotion should receive a Nobel Prize.

Mmmm, beets!

Today I got to help my grandparents can some pickled beets.  By help I mean urge to do it so that I can learn how and then reap the benefits by eating said beets.  My grandparents are good sports and the beets were growing up a storm in their garden, so they agreed and we tackled those that looked big enough. Sadly, I didn't get a picture of the wheelbarrow full of beets while my grandad, who I call Mule, was trimming the stems.  It looked quite impressive to see a huge pile of greens, though.  After trimming the stems to a length of a few inches (which I wondered about but figured I would learn why they were left long if I shut up and paid attention) we then had to wash and sort them by size.  This is Gram starting the sort with Lucy pondering whether or not we had something edible for her.

Once sorted, we then cooked them until they were forkable.  Gram is amazingly patient and kept telling Mule and me that they weren't done and we had to wait.  Luckily she knows what she is talking about, because when we pulled them off the stove to slip the skins they were perfect.  It's almost like she's done this a few times before or something!  When we pulled the beets off the heat and doused them with cold water, then the fun began.  I figured we would have to peel the beets with a paring knife. Oh no! The very cool thing that happens to cooked beets (and maybe other root vegetables for all I know) is that the skin just slips right off of them! All one has to do is squeeze the little beet and it gives up its skin in nothing flat.  It also tends to fly out of one's fingers if one is not paying attention, leaving a trail of vibrant fuschia juice in its wake.  Ahem.  At any rate, this beautiful sight is our beets after they were cooked, skinned, trimmed, and cut up for pickling. 

 Before I go much further, you may be wondering why I'm raving on about beets.  That would be because you are not in the "beet camp."  If, though, you fully understand why beets deserve such glowing attention, that means you are with me in beet adoration.  I find there really is no middle ground. For you beet haters, you must try something other than the sad little cubes of purplish glop the lunch ladies slopped at you in elementary school.  Even I don't much like unseasoned beets that have the texture of grainy paste. Try some pickled beets, and even better, try home-pickled beets.  They are fabulous.

Here is Mule being a bit impatient and poking at the beets while they were in the pickling solution.  Gotta love that he's still wearing his cowboy hat.  The kitchen smelled glorious at this point.

And finally, the beets were done and put into jars.  I do have to admit that I got distracted and talked to my cousin for most of the time while the packing of the jars happened, but I did watch. I'm a huge help.

The grand total for the day: eight quarts and one pint of beets pickled, one countertop thoroughly scrubbed of errant beet juice, one granddaughter taught the ways of the beet, and two patient grandparents in need of a much deserved nap. Oh, and those stems that have to be left long? That's so the color doesn't leach out of the beets while they cook.  Cool!

Finally, the rain.jpg

It's been so hot and muggy. I've been waiting for the clouds to crack, and they've done so in a huge way today. Ahhhhhh.
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I love my dogs.

Admitting you had a problem is the first step

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I are a flower gardener!

My attempts at growing vegetables last year met with a long, drawn out, and dry end. My attention span for gardening is finite, apparently, unless the fruits of my labor are nearly immediate. So this year I chose flowers and stuck mainly to putting annuals in pots, with a few exceptions.  Here are my victims this year.

Petunias and some other cute little purple flower.  (see how botanical I get?) They really would like more sun than they get, no thanks to the 100 year old tree in my yard, but so far so good.

A geranium which looked so happy at the greenhouse.  It looks much less happy now that I brought it home and repotted it.  I had it out in the only sunny spot in my yard, but I think it didn't like it there.  It now resides on the porch on an old metal stool.  I think it complements the asbestos siding of the house quite nicely.

"Scarlet begonias tucked into her curls"  Ok, sorry about the random Grateful Dead reference there.  These are my happy begonias.  I have three different planters of them since begonias have proven themselves to be tolerant of the amount of shade my yard gets and the amount of neglect my plants get. I love them.

The "rose garden".  I like roses and I decided to give this patch of dirt over to them more permanently.  The one on the left is called a Marilyn Monroe.  I thought about getting the big white showy JFK rose to put next to it, but I resisted and so the one on the right is called a Remember Me.  Neither name has much significance to me, I just liked the colors.

 Marilyn Monroe

Remember Me

And not to be outdone this year, the little climbing rose that has been here since I bought the house is blooming up a storm.  You can also see the foliage of the random bush that I want to tear out this fall to its right and the "annual shade loving" plants that I put in a few years back that are going strong.

Next year I really would like to tear out all of the Oregon Grape that lives along the side of my house and replace it with grapes.  Regular grapes.  We'll see.  That's a lot of commitment and a long time to wait for the fruits of my labor. 

Traffic Idiots

Does anyone else notice that if you have to dodge one idiot while navigating the streets of Klamath Falls you will invariably have to dodge two more before you get home?  What is it about the traffic wackos coming out in droves? Do they take certain days off and then head out together when they are back on the job?

Case in point: Today I was pulling up to a stoplight on a oneway street that crosses another one way street.  There is a bank on the corner. Rather than go around the block, some genius decided that it would be perfectly acceptable to turn onto my one way street and travel the wrong direction for 40 or so feet to turn into the bank.  Never mind the frightened people in the lane he squeezed out.  Never mind traffic laws.  He had to get to the bank!  I wonder if he realized he had missed the turn in from his street and was in a panic, was lost and didn't realize that 6th is one-way, or simply didn't care.  I think it was the latter, as he very carefully navigated between the lane of cars and the curb. Generally, people who realize they have erroneously turned onto a one way street have a much more panic stricken look on their faces.  For a few minutes I was amazed at this person but soon I was distracted.

Not two minutes later, as I turned onto yet another one way street, I came face to face with an approaching forklift in my lane.  FORKLIFT! Figuring discretion trumps right of way or legality, I moved over.  The man gave me a jaunty wave as he rode by, grinning from ear to ear.  I'd like to know if he realized he was on a one-way street or if he felt that he could do whatever the hell he pleased because he had huge prongs sticking off the front of his vehicle. Again, I feel it was the latter.

And finally, later today I was toodling along on another one way street, minding my own business, going the speed limit, when a small pickup zipped past me on the right and then cut in front of me.  This is not uncommon on this street as there is a "left turn only" lane and sometimes people forget that they have to get over to make the turn, so I figured he was in a godawful hurry and also was forgetful.  Then we turned the corner and he immediately pulled into a parking space.  I had to restrain myself from yelling out the window or otherwise signalling my displeasure.  Whew, I'm so glad he managed to get that parking spot in time!  There were only four others on the same street and it was touch and go whether he'd have to walk an extra 30 feet to his destination!  Or maybe a bee had flown in his window and stung him in a delicate place and he had to find the quickest way to the curb.  I hope it was the latter.

I need a drink.  And I need to leave my pickup in my driveway more often.  I didn't have any of this aggravation yesterday or the day before when I didn't drive anywhere.  And no, I didn't go to the grocery store today.  :)

Shopping the big city/little village way

I've decided that it is fairly pathetic to drive the six blocks to the local grocery store for a bag of grub. When I get in there I always find things I'm pretty sure I need (Ben and Jerry's Key Lime Pie flavor? Limited batch? OH MY GOD I HAVE TO STOCK UP!) And then I end up lugging out three bags and an eight pack of toilet paper.

I've ingested enough television and read enough books to realize that people in big cities, New York say, often don't have cars. No cars! While that in itself is staggering enough, it results in people shopping at a local market and only buying as much as they can carry home. Likewise, it appears that people in Europe venture forth several times a week to the markets for small and toteable amounts of groceries. Why can't I do that? Granted, I may get odd looks from the neighbors after they catch on to my routine, but I doubt they'll label me a pinko for it.

So today was the first attempt. I boldly set out with my one reusable shopping bag and a goal. I would buy a few ears of corn, two zucchini, some sort of bread item for breakfast, and maybe some angel food cake since I'd been hallucinating the smell for a few hours. I threw my wallet in the bag, took the house key off of the pickup keys (no tempting fate for me!) and sallied forth.

The walk to the grocery store is pleasant enough. It's summer and there are lots of flowers to look at. I did hear my name once as I walked past some teenagers (there is no escape from students, even in summer) but I managed to avoid mishaps or long conversations. I got to the local store, which most of my circle of friends call Ghetto Safeway, and smugly strolled in with my one bag and my plan.

The goal of only a few items immediately was shot down by the smell of strawberries. I'm a very smell-oriented person. I once dumped a guy because he smelled like old people. It could be this is why I'm single. But I digress. The strawberries led to cherries and from there it was a quick slide to french bread, butter, and aluminum foil. I did get corn (5 ears, curse you ghetto safeway sale!) and zukes but I decided to reprimand myself and leave the angel food cake on the shelf.

With my now uncomfortably full bag threatening to separate my left shoulder, I turned towards home. What seemed a gradual sloping walk to the store now revealed itself as a six block walk uphill. Some positive self-talk was in order. "Ok, don't go at this like you're killing snakes. This is supposed to be a nice walk. Pace yourself!" Before long the heat and the french bread whacking me with each step were getting a little oppressive. I also was hoping not to need defibrillation only two blocks from my house. Have I mentioned that it has been a long while since the good people at the Y have seen me in the gym?

Luckily, I made it home. As I walked up my driveway my dogs barked as if I was an intruder wearing a mailman's uniform. It may take a while for all of us to get used to the new routine.
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The Long Drive Home (a long time ago at this point)

I realized after a week of sleeping on the ground with only a few cushions from an old motor home under me (air mattresses have a short half-life with my dogs around) that I was missing my bed.  I also was a bit tired of tearing down camp, carefully repacking the pickup, and unpacking it again only to set up the tent.  Again. Apparently I hit my wall of tolerance for mobile tent camping at one week.  These people with RV's might be onto something.

At any rate, the dogs and I woke up at 5:30am on the morning of our last day at Baker Creek and I decided that I would rather break camp and get breakfast on the road somewhere than fire up the stove to make coffee.  An hour later we were rolling down and out of Great Basin National Park.  The morning held promise and the scenery was gorgeous, as usual.

We got to Ely and I was reminded of my loathing for the town.  Now, I don't know what might have initiated my overall distaste for Ely from childhood trips through Nevada, but the failure to find a diner where I could get a cup of coffee without having to wade through smoke and slot machines cemented it in the "I will never stop here again if I can help it" category as an adult.  It could be that my short temper was due to the lack of caffeine, but it was only 7:30 in the morning and I usually don't turn into a raging wench on a caffeine jones until at least 9:30am.  After leaving one spot where I watched a "waitress" who more closely resembled a "stand and talkress" I finally had to give in to McDonalds for my fix.  Off we roared, west onto Highway 50.

Highway 50 has a reputation and even glorifies itself as the lonliest highway in America.  Really?  Is it any more lonely than 395 between Valley Falls and Wagontire?  Or any of the number of highways elsewhere in Nevada, for that matter?  I found it enjoyable to cruise along at 75 mph (bless you, Nevada speed laws) without the worry of traffic or police.  Once the caffeine kicked in I was even feeling civil and gave these weary souls a honk and wave as I blew by.  Some waved back, others not so much. 

Early in the planning stages of this trip I had chosen Hickison Petroglyph area as a potential spot to camp, and even though it was only 10:30 or so in the morning when we got there, I was still willing to give it a look.  The "no water" sign didn't scare me, as I was packing 15 gallons thanks to some pilfered spring water bottles from work and a nicer one from Grandad.  We pulled in and surveyed the campground, found it to be a little scary in view of being the only person there besides a very friendly fellow who waved like a crazed man when I drove by, and decided to just look at the petroglyphs instead.  I found a shady spot in the day use area to park, opened the door to the pickup, and within 60 seconds was swatting madly at my neck.  I swear that a legion of no-seeums and mosquitos shrieked "BLOOD!" when I presented the dogs and myself as victims.  With a frenzy of determination, I urged the dogs out into the sun and onto the interpretive path.  The self-guided tour pamphlets were all gone from the trailhead, so I had no idea what I was looking at whenever we got to a post with a number on it facing a rock.  There were a few petroglyphs, but nothing better than can be found east of Lakeview. I figure this is probably because of Hickison's proximity to a highway and the fact that it is marked on a nationally published map.  Any old vandal can stop and scratch new graffiti on top of the archaic graffiti.  Kinda sad, really, but here's what I had the patience to see and determine as the best of the bunch.

After Hickison, I really was in no mood to stop, so we breezed down through Austin and headed north to Battle Mountain in order to make a quick shot towards Winnemucca.  The day was beautiful and even though the chances of finding a camping spot were decreasing exponentially with my mood and the hour of the day, I did at least appreciate some of the views.

Once we left Winnemucca it looked as though Lakeview was going to be the next "camping" spot for the night.  I figured that if Mom and Dad weren't home that at least I could throw down the tent on the back lawn and fight mosquitos there as easily as anywhere else.  However, once we made it to Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge, my mood had again lifted (this day was a rollercoaster of negativity followed by gazing happily out the window) and I decided to drive at least part way in to see if there was a place to camp.  I didn't want to camp at Virgin Valley with the opal mining crowd, so we took a dirt road and headed for some primitive spots marked on the map.  Gooch Springs sounded interesting, but turned out to be in a direction I didn't want to go, so we forged ahead. When I turned off the pickup to let the dogs run, it was absolutely gloriously silent up on top of Sheldon and once I again I thought that I could face setting up the tent.  After marvelling at all of the obsidian nodules on Horse Heaven flat and watching a lone antelope run off, we made for Catnip Reservoir.

As soon as I saw the place I wanted to stop.  That lasted until I realized someone else was camped there. Since I doubt that they would have appreciated visitors, I decided to just follow some dirt roads back to the highway and head for home.  I'm not sad that I took a long detour through Sheldon. It was a fantastic drive and I was recharged by the time we hit the pavement once more.  But some day I'm going back to Catnip.

The desert was blooming its heart out up on the high flats.  This is just one of the many pictures of flowers that I took.

Though the antelope I saw on the refuge were very far off and moving fast, these deer weren't too worried about the pickup.

This is my favorite picture of the dogs from the whole trip.  By this point we had been on Sheldon for about three hours and I was hoping that the road we were on would not peter out, but I figured that the worst that could happen was that we'd have to backtrack.  The dogs enjoyed the unfettered freedom to run for a while.

After a week on my own with no one else making decisions, I realized that I did, too, and that was enough.  We made it to Lakeview a few hours later, visited with Mom and Dad, and rolled into Klamath before midnight.  It had been a 17 hour day of driving, but it was worth it.

I haven't forgotten to finish this!

After the semi-marathon drive through Utah and Nevada, the dogs and I ended up at Baker Creek campground in the Great Basin National Park. Originally I had some reservations about camping here, as my only memories of the place from when I was 12 or so were "lots of cactus" and "cold!" The memory I have of camping here in my 20's with my platonic friend Bill (boy, is that another story) is "Cold! Windy! Let's tear this tent down and get out of here!" So, you might understand why I expected to be annoyed by the middle of the night. However, the place was glorious with a capital G.  The campground at Baker Creek is tucked into a canyon along the aforenamed creek.  Each campsite is hidden from view from most other sites (a huge plus in my book) and has a fantastic auditory buffer of the rushing water itself.

The place initially looked like home, with big coniferous trees and aspens, but the granite rocks and  prickly pear reminded me that I wasn't in Oregon.

The tent was more level than this picture makes it look. At least I didn't notice myself rolling in the night. It could be due to the fact that I had two dogs anchoring me in place. I wasn't cold at all, but they either had tired of sleeping on the ground and preferred me as a cushion or their spoiled and desert-accustomed bodies were chilly. Hard to say, but if anyone could have heard me in the night over the creek the conversation went a little like this: "Move. Lucy, dammit, move! Tate! Get off of me! Move! Grpphugh, NOT ONTO MY HEAD!"

 

The dogs survived the night, as did I, and the next morning was gloriously clear. This is what Wheeler Peak looks like from near my camp. It was the only view that I had stored in my childhood memory of the place until later when I drove up the "scenic drive." More on that in a minute. If you've never been to Great Basin National Park, GO. It is cheap to camp (It is ridiculous that I could stay here for $12 a night but I was stiffed $17 a night for a Nevada state park!), it provides some needed respite from the heat, since the lowest campground in elevation is 7,000 feet, and the above and belowground scenery is fantastic.  The mountains are obvious and grand, but there is a large cave system here as well. This time I didn't venture into Lehman Caves because I didn't want to leave the dogs, but I remember being astounded as a kid.  This is also where I learned the difference between stalactites and stalagmites. If you haven't been there and you find yourself hauling across highway 50, drop south a bit and go see it.

After supporting the local economy at the Lehman Caves visitor center ("Ooooh! Fossils in a bag! I must have them!  Damn, these came from the Confusion Range.  I just passed that!") the dogs and I drove up the Wheeler Peak scenic drive.  I didn't have any idea how high in elevation one can get, but I soon found out. The drive meanders and switchbacks its way around the northeast side of the mountain until it presents you with the following view at which point you realize that the campgrounds are on the boring side of the mountain.

 

 It seemed amazing to me that I could go from an expansive sage brush flat to this view in under 30 minutes. I also expected to hear yodels, but I resisted giving one of my own since the few people at the pulloffs already were eyeing me with suspicion.  I think it was my hat. Or possibly it was my heaving breaths as the elevation steadily increased.

 Finally, I reached the highest point one can drive.  There is a large parking lot and potty stop, but no oxygen tanks, so I didn't stay long. Kidding, I was only mildly hypoxic and I could barely tell the difference between the headache from altitude sickness and my normal day-to-day headaches.  There is a campground at this stop, which is roughly 10,000 feet in elevation. The view in the picture below is looking up at the 13,000+ ft peak. I had no urge to camp here, since listlessly sitting in a chair and reading a book is what I had been doing the previous day at 7,000 feet. It would have scared the ecohipsters to see me setting up a tent while periodically lying on the dirt gasping for breath. After taking pictures and marvelling at the elderly couple sitting on their tailgate smoking a cigarette, we departed for the lowlands.

That night, in celebration of surviving the mountain (it sounds like I scaled Everest rather than driving my sorry self up Wheeler) I decided to char a hotdog for dinner.  Mmmmm, healthy.

Next up: the long, long, long drive home.

Leaving Utah

After deciding against backtracking to camp at Cedar Canyon, the girls and I headed downhill from Cedar Breaks National Monument. The drop in elevation is, let's just say, quite swift. While negotiating numerous curves, four wheelers which I guess are now called "OHV's", and a LOT of condos in a place called Brian Head (I kid you not), I realized that the smell of burning brakes was coming from the poor old Ford. I geared way down and crawled back to the flat land of Utah, hoping to find something entertaining in Beaver. I had to go to Beaver, come on! Any graduate of Oregon State understands. You duck people can keep your comments to yourselves.

Unfortunately, by the time I got to Beaver, I was in the "must drive on, must drive on" mode and didn't stop other than to take this picture while traffic dodged me on the highway.

I had my sights set on a campground near Minersville, which sounded historic and promising.  Plus, the map showed a reservoir and I figured the dogs would appreciate a swim.  Unfortunately, once we go to the campground, we discovered that it essentially was a gravel parking lot with a section of fence providing a windbreak and scant separation from the next "site." Not only that, but the place was PACKED with people, all of whom seemed to know each other and look at my pickup expectantly as I crept through.  It appeared to be a family reunion of "OHV" and jetski enthusiasts.  The reservoir looked only slightly more inviting than a stock pond on the desert.  I made the snap decision to drive on, much to the annoyance of the dogs.  I have no pictures of the place, but the expression on Tate's face once we finally did stop for the night might be enough to register what they were feeling.  I call this her unhappy wombat face.

On we drove, hoping to find someplace level and quiet to throw down the tent.  If the wind had not been howling, I would have chosen a piece of dirt off the highway outside of Milford, Utah since I was getting delirious with fatigue at this point.  But, as the windfarm in Milford attests, it's a breezy spot.  We gassed up and I snapped a few pictures.  This first was a place across from the gas station.  Times are rough in Milford.  The combined cafe-jewelry-lapidary-taxidermy shop was closed down.  Can't say I would eat in a place that might have a motto of "If you can't wear it or eat it, we'll stuff it!"

 It could have been the road fatigue getting to me, but I also found this humorous. Looks like people in Milford have a knack for multipurposing a space. They also have an interesting aesthetic for paint jobs.

Through the long afternoon we drove, not finding anything suitable or attractive.  Finally I looked at the map and said "Screw it.  Girls, we're going to Wheeler Peak."   

Cedar Breaks National Monument

The first view of Cedar Canyon


Cedar Breaks National Monument, worth every dollar of the $4.00 entry fee.

From the north rim looking south.  The rangers told me that the snow was several feet above the roof of the interpretrive center just six weeks ago.  It was a warm day when I was there and the snow was melting fast.

The drive up from Cedar City is gradual, but the climb does become more pronounced and eventually one realizes that the air is thin and exertion of any sort results in an odd elevation of the hearbeat, which is perplexing until this sign comes into view.  Then everything makes sense.

I thought the dogs would appreciate cooling off.  After being told to "stay!" several times for the picture, I think their hineys were cold, though.

I keep thinking that I might attempt watercolor painting again using this place as inspiration.  I know it will only end badly, but it's worth a shot.