No, not wino (we can argue about this later). I said "whiner."

I just had a birthday, and traditionally, the birthday boy gets birthday gifts. And I did receive some exceptionally thoughtful gifts and notes from some incredibly gracious people. Thank You, all!

Receiving gifts, though, for some sinful reason, often turns my thoughts to other things (material or otherwise) that I don't have.

I can be an impatient jerk most days. It goes like this: I want stuff => I can't have stuff => I whine like an attention-starved puppy. I could stand to be a little more grateful rather than wishing for things I don't have.

But yet I still want. And it's not that I shouldn't ask:

If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!
         -- Matthew 7:11

So I guess if I ask and I don't receive, it could mean that what I'm asking for isn't a good gift.

Or maybe it means that I have wrong motives:

You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spend it on your passions.
         -- James 4:33

Or maybe there's a bigger picture that I don't understand:

Jesus answered, "It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him."
         -- John 9:33

At the very least, I can know that what I have right now are still good gifts, and that my Father in heaven actually cares (see also James 1:17). He did, after all, show how much he cares by coming to earth in person for us. For me.

Isaiah expressed part of what kind of joy this particular gift should inspire:

You will say in that day:

I will give thanks to you, O Lord,
for though you were angry with me,
your anger turned away,
that you might comfort me.

Behold, God is my salvation;
I will trust, and will not be afraid;
for the Lord God is my strength and my song,
and he has become my salvation.

With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation. And you will say in that day:

Give thanks to the Lord,
call upon his name,
make known his deeds among the peoples,
proclaim that his name is exalted.

Sing praises to the Lord, for he has done gloriously;
let this be made known in all the earth.
Shout, and sing for joy, O inhabitant of Zion,
for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.

         -- Isaiah 12

From the Montgomery (Alabama) Advertiser: "At one site in Barbour County, the [yellow jacket] nest was as large as a Volkswagen Beetle... Attached to two walls and under the slab, the nest had to be removed in sections..."

Caption for picture on the right: "A yellow jacket nest engulfs the inside of a 1955 Chevrolet on Harry Coker's Tallassee property on Thursday. Gigantic yellow jacket nests have been found in old barns, unoccupied houses, cars and underground cavities across the southern two-thirds of Alabama.  -- Rob Carr"

When speculating on how the nest could get so huge, entomologist Dr. Charles Ray recites a line as if this were a B-movie: "...or that the queens have developed some way to cooperate."

The whole story is here.

Thanks to Foster for the link.

Ladies and Gentlemen (and Todd),

I’m proud to introduce you to the newest member of my personal bike fleet:

2006 Specialized Roubaix Elite

This Roubaix, classified as an endurance road bike, has a carbon fiber frame (I could throw it like a baseball), fancy Shimano components, and a sale price. A fool and his money are quick to buy a bike.

I’m not exactly sure how to express how cool I think this is. It just is. Because.

Because I’ve been thinking about buying a new road bike for the past 2 years. Because the mountain bike just isn’t doing it for me on my 20-mile evening rides. Because I have never in my life owned a new vehicle of any kind (my GT and my Rockhopper are pre-owned and were $75 and free, respectively; the motorized cars have all been used).

Buying the bicycle was a bit of trip itself.

My pastor/friend Bob knew I was interested in buying a bicycle, and he suggested a time (Saturday morning) and a place to check out a few models. And with my house sale finally complete, I was a little more free to spend.

I met Bob at his house and we rode over to the first bike shop. While Bob got his handlebar replaced on his new bike, the salesdude introduced me to a few Treks. He didn’t take any off the rack or suggest that I ride any, and I may have scared him a bit with my comparatively small budget (in my view, my budget was pretty darn big, thankyouverymuch). I didn’t have a strong attraction towards any of those bikes; Bob and I headed on to the next shop.

We walked in to Fairhaven Bike and Mountain Sports and Bob found the guy who sold Bob his new bike the day before. Erich was very clear on what was available, gave me a few ideas on which models were good for what, sized me up, and gave me a bike to test drive.

See, the thing is, I’ve never really ridden a road bike before. It was different (everyone said it would be), but not so weird (riding a bike is still just riding a bike). I could do this. In fact, I did do it.

But not immediately. I didn’t want to jump in head first--I thought that would be impulsive and imprudent. No, instead Bob and I left to grab a burger and a milkshake, just to mull things over. And because milkshakes are yummy. We got to talking about the bicycle, the church in Whatcom County, the spiritual significance of milkshakes, East Coast/Left Coast differences... a little bit of everything. We finished the lunch and Bob asked, “So you wanna go back to the bike shop and...” “Yes.” I interrupted, to Bob’s amusement.

We went back to the bike shop, and I told the guy, “I want the bike. But all I have is $6 in my pocket.” I was on my bike, and when I go out on my bike, I only take my ID and a few bucks. He said, “That’s good enough for me.”

$6 down, and a promise to come back later. That’s a sweet thing. I bought the first bike I rode, and it was over my budget. Not so sweet. Except that the bike really is "all that."

I came back later in the day to pick up the bike and pay the balance. Because of the sale, I got enough store credit to pay for pedals and shoes (which’ll happen this week or next).

Since Saturday was a busy day, I had to wait until Sunday morning before church to get in the inaugural ride. The morning was grey but not wet, and I took a route that led me in to and back out of the fog. The bike handled wonderfully, but the rider had issues getting comfortable.

In a moment of coolness, though, I climbed a hill on Smith Rd and caught up to a dude on a Trek mountain bike. I’m sure he was thinking two things: “How in the world did this fat guy catch me?”; and, “Man, that’s a cool bike.” I was thinking, “Why did it take me so long to catch this old guy on a mountain bike”; and, “Man, this is a cool bike.”

I honestly couldn’t tell too much of a difference in my climbing and/or my overall sense of ability riding this road bike versus my other bikes, except when climbing the final incline to my house. I wasn’t nearly as wasted after the climbing was over, and the climb itself didn’t seem as difficult. So that’s new.

All in all, I’m still very happy with the bicycle. Probably because I’ve only ridden it once. And with rain in the forecast, the bike will likely stay in the living room where it belongs (the garage is for dirty bikes... this is a clean bike). And I can't wait to give it another go.

I made cannoli Tuesday night.

I think my first experience with cannoli was with my sister (the doctor) when we went to Disney World/Epcot Center years ago. The second was this summer while puttering around San Francisco.

When our guys’ small group made plans for a big cook-out with girls I figured this was as good an excuse as any to see if I could make the stuff. Chicks dig dessert; I like chicks. Win/win. And the correlative excuse: Time to buy new kitchen equipment, including a new Sil-Pin silicone rolling pin.

I used two recipes from AllRecipes.com: one for the cannoli shells, and one for the filling. I doubled the filling recipe and easily filled all of the shells with very little leftovers. These recipes appear to have the ingredient amounts just about right.

Last Saturday I started calling and visiting stores I thought might have the cannoli forms I needed in order to fry the shells. (I wouldn’t order the forms online, since I didn’t think the second-day shipping costs were worth a $4 product.) Finally, after 7 or so tries, I got a tip that Fountain Drug had what I needed. And sho’ ‘nuff. I gave ‘em a call, and they had a package of cannoli forms waiting for me at the register. In fact, they have lots of specialty kitchen and baking items there. I would never have suspected.

Things I would do differently the next time:
1. Double the cinnamon in the dough. I thought the taste was too subtle.
2. Start sooner. Rolling + frying = no fun when starting at midnight.
3. Better estimate how many shells to fill. When the shells get soggy, it's like eating a sweet-cheesy chimichanga. Not bad, but not exactly what I was going for. Next time I won’t fill them all if I don’t think I will serve them all.
4. I might consider adding more chocolate chips to the ends of the cannoli once they are all filled.
5. Instead of going for a long tube o’ sweet cheesy goodness, I may try to make the shells shorter and more open at the ends (like the picture in that Amazon link). I think I can do this by actually cutting circles out of the dough instead of ragged (American) footballs.

Things I did do differently:
1. I didn't have an amaretto liqueur; I used hazelnut (specifically, Frangelico).
2. The dough didn't really come together as-is. I had to add a dash more wine.
3. There was no particular oil specified; I used vegetable.
4. I don't own a piping bag; I sacrificed a large-ish Ziploc bag with a wee bit of a corner sliced off.

There’s nothing too excited about making the filling, at least with this recipe. Making the shells, though, is the time-consuming part. From left to right: 1) Rolling, cutting, forming  2) Staging  3) Frying  4) Drying/cooling  5) Preparing to receive filling

Bicycle commuting can be challenging. Take yesterday, for example.

In the summer, I aim to commute to work via bicycle as much or more than I do via automobile. Since I produce a more than healthy amount of perspiration in this endeavor, I like to take a shower and change clothes once I get to work. Luckily for me, then, there is a shower stall at work.
 
Monday as I’m getting dressed, I discovered that I forgot to pack pants in my pack, and I ended up wearing my exercise shorts until noon when I went home and changed. My boss even said, “I thought you seemed a little more casual than normal.”

This certainly isn’t as bad as the day I forgot my shirt, since I discovered that in time for my roommate to bring me a clean one. But I’m not so sure if this is better or worse than the day I forgot underwear. It happened months ago, and I didn’t say anything at the time. And, fortunately for all of us, no one seemed to notice.

These things... they happen.

I had some friends over for lunch yesterday after church. Grilled chicken (bummer that it was dry), salad, rice, biscuits and a vegetable platter followed by ice cream and brownies for dessert.

We all sat at the table with a tablecloth. Seeing as how I eat most of my meals standing at the counter, reclining in the living room, or sitting in the car, and the food itself usually comes through a window or out of a polystyrene serving container (or both), this was re-new experience. I hope that guy at the Jack in the Box doesn’t mind, but it was lots more fun to sit at a table with people. [Update 9am: I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that I had put the knife on the wrong side of the plates. I guess I need to do this more.]

I have two distinct memories when it comes to Sunday dinner. (In my vocabulary, dinner on Sunday is the noon-hour meal; dinner on any other day is the evening meal.)

First, back in the day: it was pretty predictable who came to join the family for dinner after church. It was either Manford and Helen and/or Jim. Manford and Helen were like our grandparents, since our biological grandparents lived far, far away. Manford was a real ham (some stories about him here). Jim was a bachelor in his mid-to-late 30s and early 40s who helped run a family business in town, lived alone on his farm where he sometimes reared horses, and played cello masterfully. I can easily single out Jim as someone who had a massive impact on my life, and I wouldn’t at all be surprised to hear my siblings say the same thing. More on Jim another day.

These Sunday meals at home ended for me when I went off to college. At some point during my sophomore year, I started tagging along with Daniel who attended Sunday services with our Greek professor Kelly and his wife Janice. Normal for us became one of two things: 1. retire back to K&J’s house for whatever great thing Janice cooked up, followed by a yummy dessert and freshly brewed Twining’s loose leaf tea (with a cloud of milk) or 2. go out to a local Chinese restaurant and try to steal each other’s crabmeat rangoons. Being the college age, we’d sit around the table exchanging all manner of silliness with equal part seriousness, either belly-aching about some theological craziness on campus or trying to one-up each other in winning the “servant prize” for the day (taking care of dishes, setting the table, etc). I learned a lot around that table, including how you can make your host reel with giddiness when you say, “So what was your doctoral thesis on?” They are great folks. You should meet them.

For a long time I thought that I received the better end of the things. I show up, someone feeds me, we have a good time, I go on about my business. Pretty good deal, no? It turns out that Kelly and Janice loved our childish antics and thoughts as much as we (me, Daniel, Rachel, and later Peter) loved their life experiences and wisdom (and, um, their food). I know, too, that Jim must have looked forward to lunch with my family, since he wasn’t the type to stick around a place if he didn’t enjoy it. It took me some time to realize (and partly from talking directly with Kelly and Janice some years hence) that those Sunday afternoons may have been just as significant to Kelly, Janice, and Jim as they were to me.

Good News, everyone. They found the Virgin Mary.

She’s made of chocolate and lives in Fountain Valley, California.

Mmm… chocolaty co-redemptrix. Praise the Lord, and fire up the fondue pot.

Last Saturday I went on another day hike, this time to Skyline Divide (Forest Service, Hiker Bob, Green Trails #13).

My hiking buddy this day was Erland. We both had commitments later in the day, but because of my stellar picture skillz and incredibly pithy remarks regarding recent hikes, Erland was jonesin’ for a hike and he would not let me not do it. So be it. We left stinkin' early in the morning (6:15-ish) and arrived at the trailhead around 7:30 am. There was one other car in the parking lot, but it appeared to have been left there overnight.

Everything I read said that the trail was all up at the beginning, so we were mentally prepared. Up the trail we went. And up, and up. And then up a little more. When we got near the top, we continued up. And then more up. When you see the sign welcoming you to the Mt. Baker Wilderness you’re there (after just a bit more up). Around 8:45 (1 hr, 15 min later) we got our first glance of Mount Baker from the Skyline Divide ridge. It’s an unforgiving climb, but it has a huge payoff.

Click for 2.3 MB fullsize panorama

Once we got to the top, it stayed relatively level, and we had nearly constant 360-degree views. You can walk in the middle of high meadows or step up to the edge of steep drop-offs.

The trail markings on the Green Trails map ends 3.5 miles from the trailhead, but parts of the trail continued on towards Baker. We aren’t exactly sure where the official end is. The path splits at one point: a high road and a middle road. We climbed up the rocks to the high road, of course, and followed that for another few minutes. We ate lunch with Baker [start Regis Philbin voice] "right there" [end goofy voice]. Very cool.

When you go, remember this: We left the trailhead early (7:30 am), and we spent nearly 45 minutes at the top without seeing another soul. One the way down, though, we passed 65 people and 8 dogs. At 11:30 am, the parking lot was full, and there were still people arriving (and one group came with llamas). If you go, go early. The earlier the better.

So this hiking business is starting to become a regular Saturday thing for me. It’s fun and I love it, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last. Football season starts soon. :)

I woke up early Sunday morning for no apparent reason other than going to bed early (on a Saturday!). Since there was plenty of time before the morning church service to get in a decent ride, I decided before I got out of bed to tackle Yew St and redeem myself.

But I upped the ante. Climbing the hill would undo my personal embarrassment, but doing a little more would return myself to good graces with, um... myself. I choose a route that intersected the very bottom of the hill (on Woburn, between Iowa St and Lakeway (previous attempts always began at Lakeway)) and biked from there to the top.

Limped is more like it.

Midway up I purposely slowed my pace so I could breathe a little easier and keep my legs from buckling. And to stop my heart from exploding, which seemed imminent. Any reasonably ambulatory person could have walked most of it faster than I pedaled. But I did do it, and that was the point.

My prideful side likes to remind me that not everyone could do it. My cynical side reminds me that not everyone is stupid enough in the first place. My back side just hurts.

(Maps that show roads' elevation gains in and around Bellingham can be found here.)

Yesterday, as in, um... yesterday. Friday. Some might be able to make a case for my being a weenie at other times, but I’m not talking about those times. I’m talking about a very specific moment Friday evening.

Friday is supposed to be a party day, or so I hear from partiers. Sure, I’ve had a frothy pint or two after work on some Fridays... I’ll even admit to using them to wash down a Reuben sandwich. But not this day (that is, Yesterday). To celebrate the survival of this particular work week, I hopped on ye ol’ bicycle for a ‘quick’ 15-ish mile road ride.

So you know, this is me NOT being a weenie. Can you do 15 miles? At once? No water break? In the snow? On one wheel? Of course, the answer for half of you (total readership up to 6!) is ‘durrrr.’ The point is, this wasn’t a lazy Sunday afternoon bicycle ride on the boardwalk. I biked up Dewey to Mt. Baker Hwy, continued on up Britton Road, and then back towards home.

If you know the area, you’re now saying, “dude... those are lame hills. Why, back when I did the Death Ride...” blah, blah, blah, “... 10,000 vertical feet ...” blah, blah, blah...

If it isn’t obvious, let me make it so: I’m still not “the best weight for my height.” No hill is still “too easy” even though I’ve been riding now for a few summers. It’s a successful climb if I make it to the top without gasping for air like a concrete-shoe-wearing mob informant.

Anyhow... back to me not being a weenie. Right, I remember:

And then I became a weenie.

As I approached the corner of Lakeway Drive and Yew Street, I thought about Yew St hill and the countless times (ok, 6) I’ve climbed it on my bicycle. To me, the hill is massive (500-ish ft from Lakeway), and I’m just not used to it. Each time before, it was painful. Each time took forever. Each time involved me wondering aloud about what I had gotten myself into (my grammar suffers when I climb, too). But each time after it was over I was glad that I did it; each time I had enough gas to get to the top and cruise down the other side; each time I knew that I’m tougher than the hill.

I thought about the serious, brutal, personal, uncomfortable, panting, light-headed, sweat-inducing 10-to-15 minutes of pain and decided that, since I’ve done this before, I could easily do it again. Some other day.

That’s when I became the weenie. At about 6:30 Friday night.

Two words: 1. We. 2. Knee.

When faced with a challenge, I’d like to think that I always confront it straight on and accomplish it. Vanquish all foes. Eliminate intruders. Eat the whole pizza. Other times I shy away like, if you pardon the Seinfeld reference (used here in a completely wholesome and G-rated context), a frightened turtle. These shy-away times usually leave me with a bad taste in my mouth. I regret ‘em, and I tend to hold a grudge against myself because of it. (You’d think I might be mature enough to get beyond this, but that’s fodder for another post.)

It’s the problem of seeing something you know you can do, something maybe you should do, something you either haven’t done or are afraid to fail at, but you are just too scared, too timid, or too (dare I say) weenie to go through with it. There are too many other things in my life that require me to put my head down and follow through that I can’t be letting this weenie-ness control me during my leisure time, too. It’s a hard habit to unlearn, but I’m working at it. And with all the bad tastes, my toothpaste bill has been astronomical.
 
Next time, I won’t let myself off so easy. That hill is mine. I ownzor that hill. Yew Street, you are now MY STREET.

So if you see me out there, climbing that stupid hill, just know that I’m not being a weenie anymore. I’m not letting fear or pain or whatever so-called demon it is that’s keeping me from ascending that (stupid) hill and triumphing like the hill-climbing, triumphing, non-weenie bicycling stud that I am.

And toss me some water, for goodness sake. It’s a long way up.

Not only do we not choose our vocation, but, strictly speaking, we do not find our vocation, as if it is something unknown, awaiting us in the future. Rather, our vocation is already here, where we are and what we are doing right now.
    Certainly we may have different callings as we go through life, and we may be preparing for some future goal. But that must not be allowed to obscure the fact that the relationships, duties, and daily work that God has given to each of us right now is a divine and holy calling from the Lord.
    ...
    The doctrine of vocation, though it has to do with human work, is essentially about God’s work and how God works in and through our lives. Finding our vocation is not just “finding my lifework,” nor even “finding what God wants me to do.” Though these may be part of the vocational cross we have to struggle with, finding our vocation is largely a matter of finding where God is, the God who hides himself in our neighbors, in ourselves, and in His world. Once we notice the Hidden God and realize how He is at work—in the workplace, families, the community, and the church—and when we realize the part we play in His design, we have found our vocation.

click for full size, 2.6 MB panorama

Last weekend I spent a day hiking on Mount Baker: Railroad Grade, Trail #603.2 (Forest Service, no Hiker Bob link (site was down)). The trail starts at 3300 ft (according to Green Trails #45), and Kiel and I estimated that we hiked in 4 miles and lunched at 6000 ft-ish.

Railroad Grade is cool for a few reasons:
-- It just is. You’re above the tree line, and the views are sweet. Go on a sunny day for best results.
-- There are two other trails that share the trailhead: Scott Paul; Park Butte. One is just 1.5 miles more, the other is 6 miles more. You can do Scott Paul as a loop.
-- Nostalgia. 11 years ago, we summer interns got a hot tip from Sam and took a Saturday off (we worked... a lot...) up on the Railroad Grade trail. The party included Russell, Brian, Eric, and me. Being a home-body from Michigan, this was new. Mountains in the horizon were not part of everyday life, nor was the ability to make yourself part of that horizon.

I’ve lived 9 summers in Washington since my first trip up Railroad Grade, and not one has gone by without my thinking about “that trail I took back then.” Finding this trail was something of a quest of mine. Thanks again to Sam and his mad memory skillz for helping me re-find it last week.
 
There was always one scene from the trail that really stuck out, and I was able to re-experience it:

The trail follows the top of a ridge for nearly a mile and leads to Easton Glacier. On one side of the trail, there’s a steep drop-off to the rocks and dirt of the Metcalf Moraine; on the other side, there is a fairly steep slope of green ground cover, sporadic trees, scurrying marmots, and spots of snow that hadn’t got the memo that it was 80+ degrees F. And all this competing with Mount Baker itself which is right there in front of you.

Another thing I remember was the cool chain and wood bridge over Rocky Creek a little over a mile from the trailhead. When I heard the trickle of the creek, I pulled my camera out to capture the bridge coolness only to find that, after rounding the corner, there was no bridge. It had been washed out in the spring floods. All that's left is one of the bridge's supports (see in the picture on the right).

For your FYI: because this trail is so cool, lots of day-trippers visit. There were at least 70+ people on the trail that day. This isn’t the trail for people looking for solitude--this is the trail for people looking for fantastic views-itude.

Holy smokes, folks. You gotta check it out. The trail lives up to the hype.

When the wife and kids go on vacation, the bachelorized men may drink, smoke, avoid laundry, watch TV, have barbecues, and eat take-out. They may also often feel bored, aimless, and lonely.

I swear I’m not making this up. It says so right here. Yeah, I know... I can’t believe it, either.

[Update 11:47pm 14 Aug 2006: Broken link fixed.]

Canadians make funny signs:

We performed our fantasy football league’s double-blind draft order picking the other day. Out of 10 teams in the league, I pick last. Yippee.

We even shot video (3 minutes, 3.33MB, wmv) so that we could show that it was all on the up-and-up.

I promise not to turn this blog in to a “Why my fantasy football team stinks this year” blog. No, I wouldn't do that to my (now 3!) readers.

This year, it’ll be a “Why my fantasy football team crushes everyone else who thinks they can beat me” blog. Yeah, that’s what it’ll be.

I had someone give me some pucky over my admission that I have, in fact, seen an episode or two of Gilmore Girls. Apparently GG is a ‘girl’ show, and, as a guy, I should either pooh-pooh it or pretend I don’t know about it.

Here and now, I publicly state the following:

• I have seen the show.
• There were times I enjoyed the show.

I can admit this because I’m secure in my manhood. Sensitive, but manly. Rugged and manly, yet sensitive. Strong, rugged, manly, sensitive... and secure. I’m a veritable wellspring of strongly rugged sensitive manliness. Eat that.

I’m not a writer (as you can tell, I’m sure), but I can tell that a good script makes a TV show work. Actors’ abilities can only take a lame story so far. For a TV serial, you need a good story, a decent arc, and smart lines here and there. Characters with whom you can identify come out of good scripts.

The TV shows that I tend to like most are those with witty lines and real (often sarcastic) characters. The better of these, though, are the throw-away lines spoken quickly and semi-randomly. And these lines aren’t belabored--you have be paying attention in order to hear it. Someone says it; it’s funny; they move on.

Shows I know and like that do this: Scrubs; House; West Wing; Gilmore Girls; Sports Night; M*A*S*H (note: only one ‘girl’ show on this list). And now I add Firefly.

Some other TV shows try to do the one-liners (the Laws & Orders; the CSIs; Without a Trace), but their lines usually fall flat to me. Maybe the writer is working too hard at trying to be memorable, pithy, or ironic. I’m not saying I could do better than these; in fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t. But that doesn’t mean I have to like lameness.

But this wasn’t supposed to be about trashing poorly written TV shows. It’s about rejoicing in, and enjoying, good scripts, whatever the target audience. And that I’m manly.

Update 1:22pm: Another good show: The Tick (animated) (I have no opinion on the live action show.)

I have been sitting here at my computer for a bit, just kinda staring at the monitor.

And now Todd is thinking, “But I see you ‘just staring’ at your monitor all day long.” Touché. But this is different. Something is off, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. And this has been going on for more than a couple of weeks.

And I’ve been beginning a lot of sentences with conjunctions.

The best way I can describe this... thing... is the word ‘restless.’ I’ve been feeling this at work, with friends, and in just about everything else I’ve done recently. There’s this nagging feeling that I should be doing something more, something better, something right, or just plain something else.

Although it’s quite possible that I’m nearing mid-life for members of my family, I’m not going through a mid-life crisis. My proof: My haircut is the same now as it was in the 7th grade; I did not sacrifice my son’s tuition money after the divorce to buy a metallic silver Porsche 911 Carrera S Cabriolet in order to attract the lay-deez; I’m not dating some brainless “pretty little thing” half my age; my ears remain firmly unpierced.

(Full disclosure: I have no son. I am not now, nor ever was, married. I am not dating anyone (and if I were, I'd prefer a brainy gal). I'm trying to make fun of the stereotype. Or whatever.)

It has been an interesting year, though: Ol’ Pops had his chest ripped open so they could fix his heart; I had a real estate sale that lingered (and you think *one* mortgage is a killer... sheesh...); I’ve had to deal with some personally challenging spiritual issues. Today, most of this is resolved: Dad is doing great; the house is all but officially sold; and forgiveness is mine. Seems like things should be all peachy, no?

So I just donno. I don’t mean to leave you hanging, but I’ve got nothing for ya. I’m not really sure what I’m missing. Except for training camp coverage on the NFL Network--I’m well aware that I’m missing that. Apart from that, though, no clues.

From Restless (RealPlayer) by Brooks Williams (album: Skiffle-Bop):

All the days I have wasted
chasing down the winds of empty praise
And all the times I have lost
searching for riches in abandoned mines

(Chrous)
My heart is restless it finds no peace
I was made for you

Some days my faith is a mighty river
Some days my faith is a barren land
Oh Lord please tell me why
Maybe then I would understand

I promise... next time, I’ll return to talking about “what I did yesterday” stuff, since I know it’s the mundanity that keeps you (both of you) coming back.

With Fosteronomo’s family out of town, he and I went on a weekend camping trip in the Cascades. I dubbed this trip, “Cat’s Away Camping Trip 2006.” Our eventual destination: Snowy Lakes.

Fosteronomo could be such a sorry lad... he’d be eating bean burritos and working late if I weren’t around to help fill this time of temporary bachelorhood. But I digress.

We knocked off work a little early on Friday and made it to the Rainy Pass trailhead (elevation: 4800 feet) off of Washington Highway 20 around 6:20 pm. We hiked in 4-ish miles to the second campsite, which is located below Cutthroat Pass where the trees start to thin out. We spent both Friday and Saturday night there.

Saturday morning started chilly, but it quickly turned in to an incredibly cloudless blue sky with temps near 80 F. We headed out to Cutthroat Pass (6800 ft) where we ate second breakfast, gained a little more elevation before a seriously steep descent to Granite Pass (6200 ft), and finished our inward trek at Snowy Lakes (6750 ft). It's like you can reach out and grab jet contrails from up there. Off in the not-too-distant distance we saw smoke from the Pasayten Wilderness fires.

Campsite to Snowy Lake distance: 6.5-7 miles. Total roundtrip distance for the weekend, says Hiker Bob: 23 miles.

According to plan, we packed up camp Sunday morning, but with adversity. Precipitation started Sunday around 5:30 am, and it included some sleet. Re-engaging those muscles and joints that we destroyed the day before wasn't a figurative walk in the park, either.

There was no burn ban, so we built a campfire each night. Pipes were smoked, coffee was sipped, bull-pucky was exchanged. The temperature both nights was in the 40s. The howling wind on the second night was really cool--we didn’t feel it, but we could hear it swirling above us in the trees and up the basin walls that surrounded us.

Pictures follow. Click 'em for full-size images.

Mighty men ready for action:

The view above Granite Pass looking out towards Snowy Lakes and Methow Pass:

 
Foster cooling his dogs:

The hills are alive with the sound of music:

Staged photo of mountain man Jimbo crossing Porcupine Creek:

Click here for Foster's Google Earth overlay and details. Click here for a lousy screenshot of something sorta similar.