Hiking the WCT: Day 8, 14 June 2009

[Welcome to Day 8, my final day of Hiking the West Coast Trail.  Please see my previous posts (Day 0, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6, Day 7) for the start of this little adventure. Remember, all photos can be clicked on to see a full-size version in all its glory, as well as see any fine details I may refer to.]

Perfectly packed (so as to be balanced on its own) backpack.  I've got skills now!

This was it.  Day 8.  We were headed back to civilization.  Boo.  Hiss.  I'm trying to calculate when I would have actually been ready to go home because I was most definitely not ready to leave on Day 8.  Obviously, there's that point that you reach when you've stayed too long and it's different for everyone.  It's probably safe to say by Day 30,  I'd have been ready, if for no other reasons than to take a very long hot shower and go to a quadruple-feature at the movies.  Oh, wait! And to see my family.  That's right, I have a wonderful husband and three terrific children, all of whom I would see tomorrow!

You see, I tend to be rather focused on whatever thing I'm currently into.  For all of October, I listen to my Halloween play list, decorate like crazy, read horror novels and even change my phone screen and Kindle skin to something suitably horror-ific, like a spooky tree or vampire fangs. The point is, I tend to enthusiastically embrace whatever my current adventure is, be it Halloween, Oscar season, or our 2007 family trip to New Zealand & Australia (when I watched every New Zealand & Australian film I own on DVD in the weeks leading up to our departure.  That included all 3 Lord of the Rings films, The Piano, The World's Fastest Indian, The Man From Snowy River, The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,  Muriel's Wedding, and all three [then] of Baz Luhrman's films, Moulin Rouge!, Romeo & Juliet, and my personal favorite, Strictly Ballroom.)  I'm sorry; I digress...again.

So I gave myself up to the amazing experience of hiking the West Coast Trail. To live, to be free for a little while, to run wild.  I'd be back home in Austin, back to my family again soon and they'd get me back as good as new, probably better, but for now I deserved to be here utterly and completely, without guilt or apologies. (Of course that didn't stop the tears when I called at the ferry station later that day to say we'd made it back and heard my two year old daughter say "Mommy come home.")  I'm a free spirit up to a point...and that point was drawing poignantly near.

Jen testing out another fishing net hammock before departing Michigan Creek Campsite.

We had a hard 7:30 departure that morning as we said adios to Michigan Creek because we had to make it to the trail head at Pachena Bay - 0 km mark!! - by 12:30 pm to get John & Carter back in time to make their plane.  That was a full 12 km in half a day and only slightly less than our maximum distance the entire day before of 13.5 km.  We hiked inland on the trail proper the entire distance except to stop at KM 10 to visit Pachena Lighthouse.

Though less impressive than the picturesque Carmanah Lighthouse, Pachena did have its charms.  Arriving from the trail you don't have the opportunity to admire the distant silhouette, but there's a quaint, white-picket-fence gate you enter through and this whimsical sign post showing the direction and distance to countries all over the world. (And the back sides are all labeled with different locations as well.)

No need to ask for directions.

Now look at the photograph below. I'd like for you to imagine what I'm doing to get this angle.  The ground sloped down away from the lighthouse and I kept trying to get both Mother and the entire beacon in the same shot.  I finally laid down in the grass spread-eagle, with my cheek planted to the moist turf to make it happen.  I Am Victorious!  (Never mind the sniggering and good-natured cat calls from behind me by the gang.)

Mini-Melly

Despite the constant forest hiking and the lack of high profile obstacles [that would be the surge channels and ladders], we still saw amazing things that last day.  We seemed to be in a section of the trail that must be exposed to the strongest winter winds because there were more giant felled trees in that 12 km distance than in all the rest of our forest hiking -- we'd be tromping along when directly in front of us this enormous, overgrown mass of tangled limbs and looming earth would materialize. It was the root ball of a felled tree.  I counted 15 of these gnarled beasts and those are just the ones in whose shadows we passed.

M & K told us that in the winter of 2006, there were 17 storms in November alone as opposed to the more typical 3-4.  There was concern that the park would open late because Parks Canada didn't know how extensive the damage was until they got out on the Trail that April.  Normally, in this northern-most forest section, nearing Pachena Bay, roughly 100-200 trees fall during the winter months.  But that year, there were at least 3000!  We just kept passing tree after tree after tree that had fallen across the trail and been later cleaved directly where it bisected our path.

 

Kelly beside the massive root ball of a felled tree

And just about the time I'd think we'd seen every type of trail boardwalk there was, we'd be surprised by something else unique.  This area was almost like horizontal ladders that zig zagged through the forest, including these stair-step planks laid shingle-style over a tree trunk that spanned one section.

Next there was no boardwalk, hardly even a trail, and although I'm quite certain Mark and Kelly knew precisely where they were headed, to us it seemed like you looked for a massive sawed off tree and skirted it until you could see the next one ahead.  And the next one.  There was a bit of a forced march feel that day and though it shames me to admit it, I found myself thinking (for the only time save the last hour of Day 3, just before reaching Walbran Creek) are we there yet?  I was definitely losing some of my thrill of the trail, not because we'd been hiking it for 8 days or because I was having any less spectacular of a time, but because it was impossible not to think about the fact that it was almost over.  This time tomorrow, we'd be at the airport, headed back to civilization.  Time would speed back up.  The restorative sounds of rushing surf and whispering trees would recede, replaced by the more caustic urban ones - gritty engines, jarring cell phone rings, too many voices.  And I would be back to squeezing just one more thing in.  One more errand, one more project, one more commitment.

 

 Thankfully, somewhere near this point in the downward spiral of my traitorous thoughts, another colossal tree blocked our path, this one piled high enough on top of smaller felled trees, to allow us to climb both over and under simultaneously.  Time for a photo op!  [And Bam! Just like a toddler, I'm distracted by the big, flashy thing in front of my eyes and forget how depressed I was starting to get. Whew!]

 

 It is not an oxymoron to climb both over and 
under a tree simultaneously. (At least not on the WCT.)

 If you are starting to wonder why I've fewer pictures of Melly this day and more of myself, no, it's not because I'm feeling under-represented in the photo department nor am I maxed-out in the mom department; I'm actually protecting her.  I'm not kidding here. This is about a 7.5 on the self-sacrificing-for-your-mother scale.  If you do the math (8+1), we haven't had a real shower in 9 days, our soap has run out (because someone kept extravagantly insisting we had to use it for our underwear.), and I guess it was warmer that day because every picture I seem to have of my mother she is sans toque.  And you may recall that Melly herself said she tried to keep either her toque or her Tilley on her [scary] hair at all times.  So, she is thanking me right now for showing my hideous hair, not hers!!  Or, mostly, at any rate...

The last physical KM marker!  (There's not a 1 or a 0)

Proud Mamma

Like so many of the unique idiosyncrasies of hiking the WCT, we had to leave the forest for the beach, in order to head back into the forest at an invisible trail head entrance where we would then reach the official trail head at KM 0.  We had reached the throat of Pachena Bay, a very roughly teardrop-shaped bay with a wide, flat, shallow expanse of shore where we were essentially finished, though not quite, for those of us with a middle name of Stickler...

All eleven of us (thanks to reuniting with our good pal Simon who waited
for us to say goodbye and take our group photo.)

Another 1/2 kilometer back inland and there we were: The Finish Line! [And here I've been saying it wasn't a race...] It was 11:54 am on June 14, 2009 and we had successfully completed hiking the 75 kilometers of the West Coast Trail!  Hoo-rah!  Yes, we are known in many circles by many names, but feel free to just call us Rock Stars.

Rock Star One & Rock Star Two

After much rejoicing, photo-opping, and pack-removing, we wandered into the trail head hut where Mother and I each purchased a commemorative 100 Years Pacific Rim National Park/West Coast Trail pin.  Once again we met up with Simon who had passed us in the forest at his much faster solo pace.  In addition to joining in our triumphant photo session, he had a bit of news to share.  Simon had heard from two German guys (Seriously, this is how it is on the WCT!) that one of the nefarious speed hikers from Day 6 -- and I imagine it was the more arrogant, dark-haired one who had barely acknowledged us, he'd exuded so much disdain -- had hurt his knee. I hope it was some emasculatingly [Yes, I realize that technically, this is not precisely a word.  But it should be.] trivial incident where he simply planted his inappropriately runner-clad foot and twisted his unprotected ankle, crashing down on his unsuspecting knee.  [I know, that was petty; I sincerely apologize.  Consider it a grievous (but only momentary) lapse in my otherwise altruistic judgment.  I'm better now.  Honestly, I wish all hikers well, wherever they may roam!  Except snotty I'm-not-really-a-hiker-and-I-think-I'm-better-than-you hikers.]  Thankfully, however, most people you meet on the WCT are friendly and the desire to share information is strong so there was usually a brief greeting and the occasional exchange of news such as upcoming trail conditions or animal sightings.

And you (or at least we!) seemed to bond incredibly quickly. Case in point: I came across the following quote in my journal: "Met up with Simon for the rest of the nights at camp." It was written on Day 6, which meant we only had two more nights plus Day 8.  And yet Simon seemed almost as much a part of the gang as the rest of our group.  In my experience, there were really no strangers on the West Coast Trail.  Of course, if you ask my husband he'd say that I'm the kind of person that likes knowing people. I like that I know most of the folks at my gym by name.  I like being part of a community.  And I liked feeling like I wasn't a stranger on the West Coast Trail.  I felt like I belonged there. [contented sigh]

Simon was looking to catch a ride but unfortunately we had no room in our van and had to make our final goodbyes.  Exhausted but exhilarated by our collective accomplishment, we traveled the 78 km down Bamfield Main, the uber-bumpy non-paved logging road that leads from the trail head to Nanaimo.  A number of folks slept on the drive but Mother and I chatted off and on with Kelly and Lauren while Mark drove.  We started food-dreaming aloud, and K & L mentioned Nanaimo Bars, named for the Vancouver Island city to which we were headed.  Intrigued by the "chocolate, coconut, custard" description, I made a note in my journal to research them later.

When we got to Nanaimo, we made a quick stop at pay showers for John & Carter to clean up before dropping them at Budget Rent-a-Car so that they could make a hasty getaway to the Comox, BC airport to catch their early flight.  Then we headed to Safeway, where Bill's lovely wife and mother met us. We made our hugging farewells to Bill and as they headed off, the rest of us made a beeline for the restrooms inside Safeway and then to the deli line to get mammoth sandwiches.  Despite vigorous, repeated hand-washing, the cracks of our palms were still dirt-stained; lasting evidence of our Herculean efforts, I like to think.

 Clockwise from bottom left: Melly, Wenke, Mike, and Jen (only my left since I'm taking the picture!)

Once at the Nanaimo ferry terminal, we had quite a bit of time to kill before the next Tsawwassen ferry departed so we lined up our packs against the windows, arraying ourselves in a circle on the floor, in the space between two rows of seats, sharing snacks and playing a card game called 31.  (It felt very much like being around the campfire again, familiar and cozy.) Mother and I both called home from a payphone since we hadn't been in contact since leaving Vancouver.  Naturally, I cried on the phone and upon returning to The Circle, everyone sympathized as I told them why I was upset.  Clearly related to me, Kelly got choked up too as I haltingly relayed Vivi's 2 1/2 year old "Mommy Come Home" speech.  Mark affectionately called her LCM - Little Crying Machine, which made me laugh because a) hello, I'm clearly another LCM! and b) it reminded me of one of Rand's very old, very silly nicknames for me!  The terminal started filling up as it got closer to boarding time, but, surprisingly, we still managed to maintain a very roomy area.  I really don't think it had anything to do with our diminished hygiene over the past 9 days.  We still didn't smell.  My hand to God.

 

I can't believe I didn't take a single picture on the ferry that day.  I have a couple of Mother and I on deck of the inbound ferry but we look far too fresh to be convincing here at the end of our trip.  Besides, what I really want is one of the last 8 of us (Mark, Kelly, Sue, Mike, Wenke, Lauren, Melly, Jen), content in our grubbiness, amiably lounging in our little section of the ferry, already starting to reminisce.  [And you wonder why I take five-bazillion photos?... in the hopes of avoiding just such an omission as this.]  We ended up back in story-telling mode and Sue entertained us with an absolutely hilarious story to which I cannot, for the life of me, remember the details, but I noted in my journal as the "bringing towels/owning brothel" story.  It was something about carrying clean towels as she walked through town and some man asked her about them and her sassy, on-the-spot response was that she owned a brothel and... Damn it!  I'm clearly missing the punch line but it was too good not to mention, even half-remembered, here.  [Note to self:  In future, journal even more meticulously and obsessively!]  And If Sue writes me back to refresh my memory, I'll update, I promise!

At one point, Mother and I went on walk-about, taking a gander in the ship's cafeteria.  There was a long line as we waited to purchase cold drinks, standing beside various refrigerated cases.  And what did I happen to spot on one of the glass doors? A neat, little typed label: "Nanaimo Bars"!  Back at our seats, after telling the gang what we found, everyone was mystified that I didn't buy one, but I explained that I didn't want to be disappointed by a less-than-perfect version that might disenchant the delectable dessert for me before I ever actually made it, so I would just wait and find the recipe online and try it at home. [Which I did.  And they are awesome.  Here's the recipe, if you want to try them.  But I warn you: they are addictive.  Truly the work of the devil.  At least he's an excellent chef.]

 

 Last shot of my hiker alter ego

Once back on the mainland and in our big white van, we dropped off one after another, saying goodbye to our new friends. Sue was traveling on to Cambodia and Vietnam before heading back to England and Wenke was hoping to go back to Chez Monique to interview Monique before flying back to Germany.  And I believe Lauren was returning to her rafting guide duties in Calgary.  We didn't have to say goodbye to Mike just yet as he was staying at our same motel and we agreed to meet up for a late dinner after the three of us cleaned up.  When Mark & Kelly dropped us off, we reclaimed our excess baggage that had stayed in the van (Our Vancouver Starbucks mugs, culled clothes, my hiking book and...extra soap!!) and made our sincerest, most heartfelt goodbyes with promises to keep in touch.

The shower I took that evening was quite possibly the best in my life: long, nearly scalding, and I washed my hair three - gasp! - times, just because I could!  Dinner with Mike at Fogg 'N Suds across the street was lovely - Mother and I enjoyed bacon, cheese, and scallion pierogies and employing our own version of Mark's no-ice-cream-on-the-trail sentiment, we both indulged in slushy Pina Coladas.  Mmmmm…  After a relaxed meal, followed by big bear hugs from Mike, we parted ways and headed to bed for a fabulous night's sleep before our morning flight home.

Technically, it was now Day 9 since it was Monday, June 15th and Mother and I were back at D/FW airport after flying jointly back to Dallas.  We hardly spoke the entire flight as we furiously wrote, remembering detail after detail, filling in the last pages of our journals (along with both sides of an unused barf bag and 2 cocktail napkins crammed full of tiny scribbling for me), pausing only to look up at each other when needing to confirm various tidbits. We'd shed our Indiana-Jones-style adventuress garb and had donned our everyday wear but don't be deceived by our commonplace appearances, those were just our Mother/Daughter/Wife disguises.  We were still the wild-and-crazy-hell-on-wheels-the-fun-never-stops-take-us-to-the-egde-of-the-volcano-and-throw-us-over-and-we'll-bring-you-back-a-rough-hewn-basaltic-blade-with-which-we-made-our-escape women that you've come to know and love.  [I'll admit to an eensy bit of hyperbole there.  And, okay, yes, I did recently re-watch Cast Away. So?]

And in the immortal words of The Terminator: I'll be back.

Look for our next adventure in Fall 2012!  We're tackling the mountains of British Columbia this time:  Hiking The Chilcotins.  [And I promise not to remodel my house again, thereby slowing down my writing & posting to a near glacial pace.]

Hiking the WCT: Day 7, 13 June 2009

[Welcome to Day 7 of Hiking the West Coast Trail.  Please see my previous posts (Day 0, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5, Day 6) for the start of this little adventure. Remember, all photos can be clicked on to see a full-size version in all its glory, as well as see any fine details I may refer to.]


Day 7 would be our longest day of the hike with 13.5 km to travel from Tsusiat Falls to Michigan Creek, our final campsite that night.  Knowing we had a lot of ground to cover, we all instinctively packed up quickly.  But before we'd even had a chance to start taking down our tents, we had a surprise visitor:  a river otter dashing straight through camp, not 8 m from Mother and me.  It came up from the water and bounded over the logs toward the woods.  Miraculously, I managed a couple of photos but with my less-than-high-speed film and the misty dawn, the otter was always just a furry blur.  So much for my miracle.

After breakfast (the usual oatmeal & dried apricot and mangos except for Kelly who was still enjoying her mashed potatoes) and final mugs of coffee and tea, we made our farewells to the cave and it's constant companion:  Rock Face Bear.

We left Tsusiat Falls before 8:30am - ahead of schedule! - heading straight up the ladders we'd practically slept under.  ( I neglected to realize this until after our previous afternoon's bathing and changing, which had been lazily done on the far side of the tent, rather than within, out of sight of any nearby campers.  Until, that is,  I looked up over the top of the tent, spotting the ladders we'd be climbing the next morning, complete with hikers descending.  Luckily, they were far too busy watching their feet to have any chance of spotting a brief flash of my bare backside far below.  Modesty?  What modesty?  After a week in the bush, there is no such thing as modesty.)

Tsusiat Falls Camp Exit

 

Tsusiat Falls Camp down below; Melly up top!

Once up the ladders, we were back on the Trail proper, flanking the long beach below.  We soon found ourselves crossing above Tsusiat Falls, where you could see the white horizon line of the deceptively still water before it plunges over the edge.  [Insert visual of Romancing the Stone waterfall plummet here, minus the dingy Renault R4.]

Before long we were hiking back up at the edge of the world, soaking up the ocean-to-sky vista.   My hyperactive imagination was revving once again, looking down at this shallow cave in the cliff face, sure to be water-filled by high tide, sealing whatever forgotten pirate treasure had been secreted away within.  If we could have gotten to it, I'd have loved to explore it first hand. [The cave, not the imaginary booty.]

Can you see any battered skulls amongst the rocks?

Looking back - Hole in the Wall
 

Possibly my favorite view of the day was looking back from one of the farther-reaching cliff points to see Hole in the Wall in the distance.  Earlier in the morning it had been obscured, either by the terrain or the heavy fog, but it gradually cleared enough to take this atmospheric photograph which I think best illustrates its relative location to the island itself and just how far it seems to reach out into the ocean.  If I were using this particular spot as a film location, I would certainly utilize this time of day's moody, sodden greyness to maximize the sense of isolation and potential for disaster.  [Just add a few creeping cannibals disengaging themselves from the shadowy rocks and drawing ever closer to the unsuspecting hikers passing underneath and voila...  the next great indie horror picture is born!]

Is that a cable car I see before me?

Descending in elevation again,  it was time for another river crossing.  Remember Day 3? [I know.  It was a long time ago.  Try to remember.] Well, we were finally encountering another cable car at Klanawa River.  Time for me to show my quality. (A la Faramir from Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings.)  Once again, Mother and I crammed ourselves as well as our BAPs into the cable car, but this time... This Time I pulled us completely across.  Just me.  [Dramatic music swells; time for an emotional montage showing past obstacles and failures including our pathetic first crossing when we sat idly doing nothing... and then the musical crescendo peaks as we triumphantly reach the distant bank and a huge grin transforms my currently drab, unpainted face as I victoriously pump my fists in the air.]   Naturally,  I don't have a photo of us.  Someone else in the group took one but so far everyone has failed me (yes, gang, I'm talking to you!) so you'll have to settle for a poor substitute (below).  [Or maybe you would prefer the alternate version with a more ominous score where John and Carter sabotage our cable car, we plummet to our untimely deaths, and they raid our packs for extra soap and oatmeal, but search in vain for the extra West Coast Trail Granola they think we were hoarding.]

Cable Car stand-ins:  John & Carter

Lauren pulling everyone else along

With the river at our backs, we were once again hiking the sandstone shelf of the coast, near km 22.  Almost immediately we spotted an adorable, reddish brown mink, darting across our path.  Much like the initial rush of pleasure created by a bite of really good chocolate, wildlife sightings always give me a sudden jolt of excitement, an unexpected treat that just makes me inexplicably and undeniably happy. [I should probably be concerned that the previous analogy reveals an obsessive-sounding relationship with chocolate but who am I kidding?  That's hardly a well-guarded secret.  Besides, you know exactly the sensation I mean.]  In addition we saw quite a few small crabs skittering amongst the uneven holes of the shelf, as well as numerous fossils including this one of a small starfish.

We hiked the beach for another 2 clicks until we reached Trestle Creek where M&K had planned a packs-off break, expecting to show off the big anchor that has been beached on the rocks there for at least 2 decades -- so long that it's even marked on the official West Cost Trail Map distributed by Parks Canada and photos of it are found in most WCT books.  And yet...it was no where to be found.  Searching in vain, we finally found part of the heavy chain to which it was attached hidden amongst the rocks, so it would seem it was buried in a rock slide during the winter months as M & K confirmed that it was still in it's usual place last September when they made their final hike of the season.  I don't mind saying I was a little disappointed.  I know it was just an anchor, but still, it was supposed to be there.  But not to worry, I'm a glass-is-half-full kind of girl so at least when they reprint the trail maps, ours will be vintage!

Shipwreck relic

Today's section of the trail was rich with shipwrecked history even by the Graveyard of the Pacific standards.  We skirted the impassable headlands knows as Valencia Bluffs, named for the iron steamer that went down there.  Once past and back on the beach again, we rested while Mark read us a harrowing account of the Valencia's plight, in which all but 9 of it's 160 or so crew and passengers died, including every last women and child, after the ship hit a reef and emergency evacuation measures failed.  Between Mark's powerful words, the grey skies, and turgid-seeming sea, it was a very moving story to hear sitting on that beach, looking out at the very waters where such a tragic accident occurred.  Since I tend toward a more light-hearted tone, I won't go into further detail but if you are so inclined, I encourage you to check out the wikipedia link above which is quite thorough. 

After Valencia Bluffs, we hiked inland for another km or so, mostly on forest-crowded boardwalk, before the Trail led us to Tsocowis Creek, where we crossed bridge #27.  (Later, Simon told us he took a picture of the first bridge of the trail from the south end where we all started: #128.  That's a lot of bridges [but still substantially fewer than the ladders!])  We'd already hiked 9km today, mostly forest and sandstone shelf and it was only one o'clock.  Time for lunch.

  Believe it or not, the official sign is misspelled as it's "Tsocowis Creek" (no a)

Melly up top

Looking down from Tsocowis Creek Bridge

After crossing the Tsocowis  bridge where there's an unobstructed view of the creek cascading down, we feasted on the beach far below.  Our lunch today was tasty 6-bean salad with dried apricots as well as flavored havarti & pepper jack cheeses, cucumbers, red peppers and rice crispy treats for dessert.  The view up to the bridge was lovely and deserved longer lingering but with 5 km still ahead of us before we reached camp, nearly all of it coastal, we needed to get moving. 

Lunch spot below Tsocowis Creek Bridge

The afternoon was long and tiring and I think reality was starting to creep into my thoughts adding to my melancholia.  Despite having a full day of hiking tomorrow, tonight felt like the end, with our last night of camping on the Trail together and I wasn't ready for it to be over.  We spotted another otter in the shallow surf shortly before reaching camp at 4 pm.  We'd made it to Michigan Creek!  And there was much rejoicing!

We all tended to our tents and gear as usual while Mark & Kelly got the fire going and the water boiling.  For some reason, Mother and I struggled with our tent placement, which looking back I want to attribute to our slight feeling of emotional disequilibrium but was probably simply due to the fact that though flat and broad, tonight's expanse of beach was a tad more sloped than on previous nights.  We kept setting it up, lying down to test the angle, shifting the tent and repeating.  Once we were satisfied with our sleeping arrangements, we headed for the kitchen, toting our usual complement of mug, bowl, and spoon in addition to my mystery "crust" in the D7 ziploc that I'd acquired in our food bag restocking at Chez Monique.  It was a bit colder that night and as we settled in by the fire, I noticed we were all wearing our water proof jackets and in a rainbow of colors.  (We talked about getting a photo with our hues arrayed in the traditional ROY-G-BIV line-up but never managed to make it happen.  That was probably my idea.  That doesn't make me OCD, does it?)

Tonight Kelly was lead chef and our dinner was especially yummy-sounding:  Garlic Rafielly, which she described as similar to alfredo.  It was filled with sun-dried tomatoes, peppers, onions and ground beef and was delicious.  After we finished off the last of the pasta, she started on dessert and my mystery ingredient made its debut as the graham cracker crust of easy blueberry "cheesecake", layered with a cream-cheesy layer and blueberry drizzle on top.  This was made in a large shallow plastic container that had been used daily as an all-purpose serving/mixing/washing bowl and was wide enough to easily subdivide into 12 narrow wedges.  Which left 1 spare slice since our group totaled only eleven.  The solution?  The nightly Pub Quiz, of course!  The winner would earn the extra piece!

Notice the foreground where everyone's bowls are impatiently 
arrayed on Sue's lap eagerly awaiting the cheesecake!

Our Glasgow-Manchester friend, Simon, made a well-timed entrance at that point, garnering a spot in a 3-way tie between he, Kelly, and Mark although Kelly ended up winning by solving an extra Mensa puzzle in one of Sue's papers as even the nightly "snorter" didn't break the tie.  Kelly won fair & square but instead opted to share the winning piece, so it was passed around and we all had an extra bite!  The culinary surprises didn't stop with dessert, however, as later that night Kelly started boiling a fresh pot of water for Chai Lattes!  (And I swear, I didn't write anywhere on my initial paperwork how much I love chai!)  She brewed chai tea bags in the hot water and then added powdered milk.  It lumped almost like curdled milk but still tasted fine so we just fished out the milky clumps. (Remember, this is day 7, actually day 8 when you count our first day 0, so our standards have, how shall I put it, been... realigned.) I was delighted and as it turns out, it's Mark's favorite hot beverage too so although everyone had a mug, Mark and I savored 2 or 3 each!

Rare photographic evidence of me with my journal

Our last night by the fire, we all seemed to unconciously stay close together, chatting and teasing, watching the water out past the surf where we kept spotting grey whales surfacing.  I remember how contentedly we all sat, hip to hip, nursing our mugs.  Mark or Kelly passed around a notepad for all of us to put our email/phone/address to send everyone later in order to keep in touch.

It wasn't until Mother begged off at 10 pm that I consciously felt time ebbing away again so for the first time, I stayed up past her to savor my last night on the West Coast Trail a little longer.  Later, once in our tent, snuggled down in my sleeping bag, I laid awake listening to the rhythmic waves as long as I could, not wanting to fall asleep. Not wanting our adventure to end.

Peas in a pod. (L to R: Carter, Kelly, Sue, Melly, Jen)

[To keep reading, here's Day 8]

Death by Thorough

thor·ough  [thur-oh, thuhr-oh]  adjective

1. executed without negligence or omissions   2. complete; perfect; utter:   3. extremely attentive to accuracy and detail; painstaking   4. having full command or mastery of an art, talent, etc.  5. extending or passing through

House remodeling is amazing.  You get to pick exactly what you want and how you want it (assuming the cost isn't so high that you have to sell all your organs and your children's too).  I love... choosing. Ask anyone.  But my husband is an engineer and if you know any engineers, then you probably know where I'm headed.  When Rand gets involved with any of my projects (Our.  I mean our projects.), the process slows to a grinding halt and sometimes even reverses.  This is the truth.  The equal and opposite truth, however, like all great forces, is that he also makes everything better.  Better quality, better style.  Better period.  But that better comes at a near-fatal price. And lately, to be frank, that price is feeling just too damn high.

Take, for example, last night.  We were supposed to be choosing ceiling fans.  Nine little fans.  You can count them on your fingers.  No problem, right?  Especially when we have a "preferred" company/website that our builder suggests and our house is supposed to be ready to move back into in about 6 weeks (assuming we can actually commit... to fans, drawer/cabinet pulls, and paint colors, that is...)  We had even already done our preliminaries, or should I say, I had.   I had researched the size of fan needed for each of our rooms.  I had noted if they needed a light kit.  I had identified the probable finish for each.  And I had even done some solo searching and flagged a bunch of options that suited our joint style, thinking (Insert maniacal, uncontrollable laughter, please.) we could review those together and then Rand could search around seeing what I might have missed, thereby leading us to a well-thought-out, but fairly painless decision which could be emailed directly off my to-do list by 10 pm, still allowing for just enough time to squeeze in last week's True Blood before bed.

Now, let me interject a vital piece of information here: I am very particular.   [This is like Dr. Simon Tam (of Firefly) telling the crew of Serenity that he's very smart so that they appreciate the magnitude of his sister River's brilliance which far surpasses his own not-insignificant intelligence.]  If you know me at all (or have read even one of my essays) then you know I rarely just take what I can get.  I like things a certain way.  Just so, might be a neutral way of putting it.  That pretty much applies to everything -- how I fix my hair, make a sandwich, wrap a gift, decorate my house.  And I was lucky enough to find a mate who appreciates all of these things too. (Well, only partially with the hair; he likes the end result but thinks I take far too long grooming if it involves him waiting for me.) But there's a catch and it's a big one.  One that most women with spouses who don't care never seem to realize:  When your partner cares, then it becomes a Joint Decision, which is the deceptively-simple-sounding-but-in-reality-truly-exhausting Conclusion to the extremely painful Negotiation Period, which depending on how much both parties care (and we both care a lot), can be a nearly unending phase, much like the world's most litigious divorce proceedings.   Again, let me clarify here.  This is not about my husband and I not agreeing or having divergent tastes, like many couples.  In actuality, we are quite similar in our stylistic sensabilities as well as our Standards.  And yes, that requires a Capital S.   Seriously, it's not about deciding between the mohair chaise and the Eames chair.  It's about choosing the exact right shade of leather for the Eames chair or maybe if there's a slightly newer version with cleaner lines, a less substantial base, or slightly thinner cushions.  Oh, and can we choose which way the grain of the leather runs?  Those are the sorts of subtle details that we jointly labor over... for hours, sometimes days.  It's sad, I know.  I mean, mostly I love it. Truly! And I know when we finally move back into our house, it will all be worth it, but right now, I just want to commit to our damn hardware so we can actually guarantee our move-in date prior to Halloween and I can still host my big costume party when my house more closely resembles a gothic museum, complete with strategically placed cobwebs, specimen jars, mummies, and foreboding messages that mysteriously appear under ultraviolet light. (Try to curb the anachronistic finger-pointing please, it's just decorating after all, not Set decorating.)

So, back to the fans.  Not only did he not even look at the preferred website, let alone my flagged choices, he started with a "how to find the best ceiling fan" type of search, as if we were back in our house (instead of a tiny 2 bedroom apartment with 5 people, 1 dog, and 1 cat), idly researching replacement fans because we had nothing better to do (besides watching True Blood, that is.)  This sort of thing happens all the time.  I ask him a simple question which should involve a moment or two of thoughtful consideration followed by a reply but for him takes 45 minutes, 2 computers, and quite probably graph paper, after which, it is no longer relevant because said action item has now expired.

Rand then found a downloadable, but not sortable or linkable (and with no images) spreadsheet of Energy Efficient fans broken down to show the various energy usages when on low, medium, and high speeds.  It was a most impressive document (as I'm sure all documents are originating from EnergyStar.gov) but impossibly long and I literally got a tightening in my chest and a tick in my left eye every time he toggled over to scan through it yet again.  And naturally, every single fan that had excellent ratings was either verrrrrry expensive (imagine Pretty Woman snarky-saleswoman voice) or was your typical traditional style, something suited to a covered porch on a sultry New Orleans night, with too many curlicues or -- gasp -- leaf-shaped blades.  Not us, in other words.  Did we end up finding our nine fans?  Yes, we did, but it took four more hours, and more than double our planned budget (because, contrary to popular opinion, Jen is not the only person in this family that appreciates expensive things.)

I should feel great, right?  Well, I sort of do, but that's because it's 10 am, I'm temporarily over my lack-of-sleep, sitting contentedly at my computer drinking chai in my lounging clothes, writing.  Present Jen is rather pleased with herself.  But even as I type, there is a hovering specter, dark and foreboding, looming just outside the blurred edges of my peripheral vision.  It is Future Jen.  (Think Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come but instead of a scythe she's holding a can of Whoop Ass and a copy of our Remodel Master Spreadsheet.)  Future Jen has to deal with the next step in the process: "Drawer and Cabinet Pulls, Towel bars, etc." which, though smaller in scale and seemingly less important than fans, are by their very nature, many in number and nothing avoids the ever-searching Eye of Rand. (I know you saw this one coming; go ahead and envision the Eye of Sauron.  I'll wait.  In fact, seriously, click on that link; there's an awesome image that makes it even better.)  We have already spent countless hours looking at hardware in showrooms, sketchbook in hand, copious notes taken and thumbnail sketches committed to paper.  We've searched online, comparing the Lowe's and Home Depot Brands to the pricier high-end versions in addition.  So it should only take us, what, 6 hours?  If we start at 8 pm, right after soccer practice, we can finish by 2 am if we're lucky!  That leaves paint for Friday night.  Or rather the slightly longer All Weekend as it will require one or more visits to both Lowe's and HD to get paint swatches to then take to our empty, half-finished house to see how those colors look in the real light of our home  (at more than one time of day, no less) not just the pallid fluorescence of our apartment.

[And that doesn't even take into account discussing with our children the shades for their rooms.  Vivi we can probably easily sway as long as it is some pink or purple hue with an appropriately fabulous-sounding name like Iridescent Sunrise.  Cooper is actually quite easy going so he'll most likely agree to whatever we suggest if offered in an enthusiastic and convincing manner.  Our first born, Will, will be the problem, of course.  And I say both problem and of course with nothing less than the same equal mix of love/frustration/pride in my voice that I use when speaking of my most excellent husband.  Will is such his father's son, it is truly remarkable.  And exhausting. (Not that I can avoid foisting some of the blame on myself, it's true.  Being the eldest of two Type-A parents is somewhat a mixed blessing... for all of us, I dare say.)  And, yes, he loves to hear about all the house details every step of the way, jumping in to heartily interject his opinion on any given topic even when it is most pointedly not requested.  Yet another reason for Future Jen to be somewhat less than a picture of patience later tonight whereas he's currently off at school while Present Jen enjoys the momentary solitude of our abbreviated abode.  I can already hear Future Jen starting to grumble and sigh audibly...]

   .......................                

If given a choice, I think I'd prefer Death by Chocolate or Death by Margaritas.  Or even Death by Avocados.  (mmm...avocados...) But seeing as how I'm still very much alive, I guess I'll stick with Death by Thorough since it's been working for us this long.  Life couldn't get much better than this, no matter how many computers Rand might attempt to have at his furiously fast fingertips.

Nora Ephron is my new hero.

 It's the verge of Valentine's and you know what that means, right?

No, it does not mean that I am writing romantic love notes to tuck under my sweetie's pillow nor does it mean I am hand-stamping 25 Valentines for Vivi's class or wrapping little Valentine's goodies to tuck in the kids' lunch bags tomorrow.  It also does not mean that I have just successfully helmed Vivi's Butterfly Birthday Bash for her 4th birthday but still have her family birthday on the actual day later this week to tend to.  And it certainly doesn't mean I'm focused on a huge volunteer event at Cooper's school that requires 2 months of preparation, coordination, and a mob of dedicated parents to pull off come the second week of March.

Oh, I'm doing all of those things, alright, but as Nora Ephron would say, "Those are just the facts.  What's the lead?"  Meaning, what's the point of all those facts?  What is germane to my diatribe, is that I am currently in my own, personal, writer's Pit of Despair.  You see, I seem to have a semi-annual schedule to my writing, or at least my serious writing.  I don't mean my usual journaling or my idea flashes that I jot down when they strike.  I mean my Writing, with a Capital W, when I spend 2 or more hours at the computer most days/nights (usually when 1 or all of my family is sleeping), and actually make some notable progress, not to mention post a blog here or there.  Unfortunately, I only seem to be able to manage that six months of the year.  From late September to mid-March, the real world, my non-writing world takes over starting with Halloween preparation, then both Rand's and my birthdays, and too many hours of Christmas projects to enumerate here, in addition to your usual, normal shopping/wrapping/decorating tasks.  Nipping at the heels of the holidays, is Will's birthday followed by his sister's, all the while, I temporarily become a permanent enough fixture at the school that occasionally I'm asked if I work there.  The insanity (maybe I should say my insanity given that some [much?] of it is technically self-induced) wraps up around mid-March when Cooper's birthday ties a neat little bow around this overstuffed bundle of events.

So, back to the Story Lead.  (If you don't know much about Nora Ephron, before writing movies like Silkwood and When Harry Met Sally and writing/directing movies like Sleepless in Seattle and Julie & Julia, she was a journalist; she wrote for the New York Post and Esquire Magazine just to name a couple.) My lead might sound something like this:  Over-committed Mother of three pines for the Spring and Summer, when she can dig out her Writer hat, rumpled and musty though it may be, air it out, fluff it up, and set it squarely on her head, pulled down snugly, hopefully to remain there despite the Texas heat, until at least September 15th.

Okay, so clearly I'm not a journalist.  Succinct is not in my vocabulary, I know.  But still, I'm hoping you get my point.  All you have to do is graph my blog postings to see the truth in this.  I have 9 postings in the Oct-March range versus 12 in April-September.  But really that should be 8-13 as the sole March post I have is last year's Oscar Countdown which is an anomaly.  Besides, that's a fast-and-furious-I-must-write-and-complete-this-now-in-order-to-maintain-any-sense-of-timeliness essay so I had to get that out.  And, of those remaining eight, not even one is a West Coast Trail blog which are by far my longest posts.  "I could explain it better but I'd need charts and graphs and an easel." (If you give up and don't know the movie this is quoted from I encourage you to [re]watch it.)  Maybe a simple word count comparison of my combined posts over the past 3+ years would illustrate my point better:

•  April-September: 32,422 words

•  October-March: 13,358 words

That's almost a 3:1 ration.  Just think if I could improve my Fall/Winter numbers!  Nora would probably just tell me to download and install Freedom on my computer, to restrict my access to the internet for a set period of time and keep me focused on my writing.  Unfortunately, Freedom doesn't deny my family access to me so at this point I may just have to sleep less, at least until my little Vivianna starts Kindergarten in a couple years.  Besides which, I find accessing the internet is usually integral to my final editing.  If I'm not double-checking the spelling of a word I really think I should know from memory [that would be "germane" today], I invariably need to cross-reference something, or in this instance, suddenly search for a word count tool.  And if I had a nickel for every time I have linked to imdb.com, I would quite possibly be a billionaire. Okay, well for sure a millionaire, then.

I guess I should talk about Nora a bit more if I don't want the BPTP (Blog Post Title Police) breathing down my neck.  The thing is, I actually am talking about her in my own painfully circuitous way.  I belong to the Austin Film Society which is how I heard about Nora Ephron coming to speak at Austin's historic Paramount Theater.  I knew instantly I wanted to attend but wasn't sure anyone else I knew (besides my sister, Janie, living 1500 miles away) would be interested in a writer's talk besides me which, of course, I now realize was silly.  You see, although I love her films, I had never read any of Nora's books.  (Yes, in the past 3 days I have since rectified that dreadful gap in my mental bookshelf.)  Anyway, I did my usual theme-immersion to get myself in the mood by watching a number of her films leading up to last Thursday night's event including Sleepless in Seattle, Hanging Up, and Julie & Julia.

In the end, I invited a friend that has Paramount contacts which turned out to be a major win as she hooked us up with "meet & greet" passes which allowed us access to a lovely little banquet room at Stephen F Austin Hotel around the corner from the theater immediately following the event.  There we were led to a swanky silver-service of coffee, tea, liquors, and tasty morsels laid out alongside a handful of small, round tables where we could chat and mingle with one another (we talked with an interesting pair of short-film-makers about what we thought of Nora's talk [Fabulous!] and why we were there [inspiration and entertainment mainly]) until Nora Ephron herself arrived soon after, flanked by a professional photographer and what I would call her Handler, whose job it was, apparently, to smoothly yet firmly encourage over-exuberant fans to move right along thank you very much.  I am pleased to inform you that we were not in that offending category.  We tried--or maybe it would be truer to say I tried--to be the cool fan, the one that isn't starry-eyed by the fame.  The one that isn't desperate to have you sign her book despite the previously announced "no autographs".  The one that puts her camera away when she hears Nora wants only professionally photographed photos with the fans.  The one that has something interesting and not simply gushing to say when it's her turn to shake Nora's hand.  I think I was successfully exuding a very convincing cool-fan vibe up until the point that I asked Nora (after the obvious and required "You were just wonderful, so inspiring to women!" introductory greeting) what she thought of the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother that is causing such a brouhaha in the media, and coincidentally what we're reading for my Book Club right now.

[You see, Nora's topics that night included her experiences in journalism and film, writing, motherhood,  marriage and divorce, as well as her love of books and reading in general.  She joked (or maybe not) that she is extremely well-informed and well-read.  Ask her about anything; she's read it.]

So, I decided to test that assertion and ask her if she'd read the Tiger Mom book.  Which, of course, she had.  And she hated it.  Or at least she proceeded to expound at length about it in a very negative fashion, concerned I think, that we loved it.  (As yet I have no opinion since I have it on my Kindle but have not had time to read a word, being too preoccupied reading Nora's books.  Ask me in another week and I'll definitely have an opinion.)  By the end of her--dare I say rant?--my friend and I were wishing I'd said something else and feeling a tad guilty about holding Nora's attention for so long.  Not so guilty, however,  that I didn't ask if we could get a professional photo (which hopefully my friend can track down a copy of through those contacts of hers I mentioned.)

As expected, Nora was interesting and hilarious, but what took me by surprise was not that I was fascinated by her stories about her early writing career or anecdotes about working in the film industry which I was, utterly and completely. [In When Harry Met Sally, although Nora wrote the the famous orgasm scene very close to what it is in the film, it was Meg Ryan that suggested it be in a public setting and that she simulate having an orgasm.  Likewise, Billy Crystal came up with the "I'll have what she's having" line.  And to spread around the credit even more, it was the director, Rob Reiner, who cast the older woman who said the famous line:  his very own mother.]  No, the awe-inspiring part was that she seemed to be speaking directly to me, telling me what I needed to hear:   It's never too late.  Make it happen.  Reinvent yourself.  (and a whispering undercurrent of write, write, write.)  As it turned out, this sense of "now's your time" seemed to speak to most of the women in attendance.  She cited Julia Child, who not until age 50, published her famous Mastering the Art of French Cooking.  Chatting after we agreed that most women we know would have loved her talk as well, we thought.  Not to mention a few men. 


Nora's parents were well-known stage & screenwriters, having penned numerous screenplays including Carousel and one of my very favorites: Tracy & Hepburn's Desk Set.  Growing up in a writing-focused environment, Nora's mother was apparently very fond of the phrase "Everything is Copy".  Which is true but not what Nora wanted to hear when her boyfriend just broke up with her.  [Or in my case, when my kids got lice from school and I spent Christmas at my parent's house, vigilantly checking heads and laundry, utterly mortified at bringing the infestation into their home.] 

"Everything is Copy".  I've known this truth but in a nameless sense.  I'm delighted to now be able to succinctly - succinctly!!! - convey that point,  much like one of my movie quotes where someone else's words say it perfectly.  Wait a minute, aren't my words supposed to be sublime?  Clearly, I have a long way to go.

October 16th

October 16th.  Do you know what is noteworthy about today?  Take a guess.  Go ahead.  Try.  

[Apparently it is the first, official day they start selling eggnog in the grocery stores.  (Or at least in Austin.)  I know this because I found it...today.  I realize that alone doesn't prove anything, however, having discovered in the past year or two that they start selling eggnog in October, I've been keeping an eye out for it and with 3 kids I swear I go to the grocery store nearly every day.  (And I definitely went yesterday as well as Thursday and there was nary an Eggnog in sight.  Trust me, I tried to will it into existence right there on the spot.  Twice.)  Still unconvinced?  How 'bout this:  I started this blog entry last October and then was overcome-by-events so that by the time I could get back to it, it was too late to be accurate.  So, yes, I saved it for an entire year, anticipating today.  Vivi and I were at HEB this afternoon when to my delight I spotted a modest row of eggnog jugs in the sea of milk, waiting hopefully for someone to take them home, despite the insanely early time frame, given that most people only seem to be interested in drinking nog at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Luckily for them, there are people like me.  Okay, well, maybe there's just me, I don't know.  Bringing one home, I safely stashed it in the fridge, awaiting the quiet, uninterrupted, ideal moment that I could fix myself my inaugural Chai Eggnog Latte.  (Cheggnog in Starbucks parlance.)  Six hours later, I sat down to my MacBook Pro in the semi-dark solitude of a quiet-but-for-my-mellow-music house and pulled up last year's in-progress entry.  The date listed on that post...October 16th.  Freaky, yes? ]

 Oh my.  That first sweet, nutmeggy waft. 

Its creamy warmth caressing my lips as it slips between them.  Its heavenly richness, almost a buttery toffee flavor, tantalizing my tongue as I savor the liquid before swallowing.  (I realize I sound just a tad obsessive.  It's just enthusiasm.  Really.)  My very favorite chai all year long:  the first Chai Eggnog Latte of the season.  Which leads to another obsession enthusiastic passion of mine...Halloween.  (Let's see, are the requisite signs present?  Elaborate costume requiring items ordered from at least 3 different online companies. Check.  My house extravagantly decorated to the point that Rand has started saying it looks like a Halloween store.  But the world's classiest Halloween store, right, Honey!?  Check.  My kitchen counter attempting to hide stashes of spiderweb cupcake papers, black string licorice, tiny candy eyes, brain ice cube molds, and various other interesting food-related items of the season.  Check.)  My stress level is revved up way beyond my normal type-A-ness into holiday-overdrive-mode, which of course, starts on or before October 1st when your fall/winter holiday season kicks off by hosting a huge costume party.  But I digress.

I can't decide if Starbucks is my favorite treat or my worst vice.  I didn't drink any caffeinated beverages until an old friend of mine introduced me to an iced chai latte about 10 years ago... and then there was no going back.  Starbucks enables the "high maintenance" mentality of the Sally Albrights of the world, of which I am most assuredly one.  But it took me a little time to become an expert in HMBO (High Maintenance Beverage Ordering).  First, I just ordered a Chai Latte.  I soon realized I could request nonfat.  Then, I discovered that certain locations add water [the horror!] to their chai mix + milk recipe so I started adding the "No Water".  I finally got tired of tepid teas two minutes out the door so I learned to ask for "Extra Hot".   My regular order (not on a daily basis, but a couple times a week) became Grande Nonfat Chai Latte Extra Hot, No Water.  Hence my blog name.  Funny thing is, that is no longer quite accurate.  (I'm so high maintenance, I've moved into another tier; you might call it Extreme Maintenance or possibly Ultimate Maintenance?)  I became frustrated ordering my Extra Hot, No Water only to find that it wasn't particularly hot, let alone extra!  So, being the chatty woman that I am, I asked one of the chummier baristas that I know and who always makes my chai appropriately Extra Hot -- and by that I mean, if I'm not ever-vigilant taking my first sip, I scald either the tip of my tongue or the roof of my mouth  (which I manage to do about every other week, on average.) -- about the Extra Hot modifier.  He informed me that EH is supposed to be 180 degrees and that the normal beverage temperature is 160 but that often times if baristas are in a hurry and because they are starting with the colder chai mix + milk, they tend to underheat it.  Plus, frankly, "Extra" anything is subjective as it's based on the normal standard.  (161 degrees could, technically, be considered Extra Hot.) In short, he said I should be ordering my chai as 180 degrees specifically.  I'm actually tempted to order it slightly higher, say 185-190, as it's still not always quite hot enough but I realize I'm edging toward the Freak side with a capital F when I say that.  Not that I mind publicly flying my Freak Flag, I just don't need to scream and yell as I wave it. 

My new-and-improved standard is:  Grande Nonfat Chai Latte, No Water, 180 Degrees.  It doesn't roll off the tongue nearly as well, does it?  Initially, I fretted that my blog name was now outdated, but then I realized it's perfect.  It's very obsoleteness is a symbol of my constantly-evolving desire to make everything just so.  Besides, If I tried to redo everything I ever realized was not-quite-perfect, I'd never work on anything new.  (And then I'd have to rename my blog Revisionista.)