Yes, I know: I haven’t been writing. But that’s not actually true – I have been writing. Just not posting, because everything I’ve started writing so far about this summer’s little adventures has fizzled. Whenever I’ve started to write them up to share with you, I get a couple of pages and then it feels like what I’m writing is just “blah blah then we did another thing and blah.” No life, no movement, no point. So they’ve ended up sitting in the buffer, piled on top of the last damned thing I started writing but didn’t post, then scrolled down below the fold, out of sight and forgotten. It’s not writer’s block, it’s…

One part of my brain says not to fret. That when I’ve got something actually worth sharing, the words will come to life, and the story will tell itself. Another part says push on through. This blog makes no guarantees of quality, interest or, as the disclaimers say, suitability for any given use. So why not share whatever comes out of my head, as incomplete and uncompelling as it is? (No need to raise your hands; I know the answer to that question.)

But with that disclaimer, I’m going to try for an abbreviated catch up of the summer so far. Nothing breathtaking here, just a little of what I’ve been up to since I last wrote. Mostly because, (teaser alert), I’m likely going to have other things to start writing about shortly.

June

June, you should know, tends to be a pretty good month up on the peninsula, surpassed only by July and August, with September trying but never quite succeeding in passing on the outside. The mud has finally dried from the trails, the skies are blue, and the days are inconceivably long. In town, the farmer’s market is a social and gastronomical whirlwind. The streets are full of tourists, and waterfront is sketched with kayaks, rowing shells, schooners and skiffs.

Devon’s up for the summer, busy getting her glass studio set up on Water Street. She’s got a small – by which I mean actually tiny – show later this summer in Berkeley, and is eager to start producing art for it. Between little excursions, I’ve been playing catch up on the farm. Broken infrastructure, stagnant plans, rampant cheatgrass and thistle. Sure, there’ve been trips into “the city,” and a fly-in down in Oregon. I played hooky last month and flew to Victoria (that’s Canada) for pie. And repeated the feat last week, taking Devon on a day trip up to Kelowna, BC for lunch and a hike with friends. But mostly I’ve been sticking close to home, trying to get things on the farm going in vaguely the right direction.

The problem of summer here in the Pacific Northwest is that “here” is fabulous, but there are so many other places nearby that are also fabulous, and are calling ever more loudly.

We’re still hoping to take the Orca (D’s camper van, for new readers) on a loop around the peninsula. Quinalt for salmon berries, Ruby Beach just because it’s awesome and otherworldly. Maybe Ozette and Tatoosh, maybe a soak at Sol Duc. That’s the joy of a camper van: you don’t actually need to decide ahead of time.

Walla Walla

Last month I saw a note somewhere on the socials that a couple of folks from Pole were hosting a sort of “Antarcticans campout” at their place in the hills east of Walla Walla. Every year I resolve to spend time exploring what lies on the far side of the Cascades, and every year seems to pass with that resolution unfulfilled. I don’t think I recognized a single name on the campout list – perhaps they’re from the other Antarctica? – but driving out to Walla Walla to meet some random Antarcticans sounded like a fine excuse to make good on my intentions, so off we went.

Up across Snoqualmie Pass into the early onset of smoke season on the east side, stopping as whim took us: Ginko Petrified Forest State Park? Sure. Ice Harbor Dam? Eh, maybe not.

Camped beside the Snake River the first night, then on to Walla Walla itself to lollygag along its delightful downtown, stalking the whimsical sculptures that dot Main Street. Lunch at an old family-run Italian restaurant hidden in a residential neighborhood (“It’s the meatball panini you want, not the sub” said the guy at the antiques shop, “And tell ’em Craig sent you.”)

We were still a little early by the time we rolled the Orca up the canyon to “Stella’s Homestead”, but there was already a line of Sprinter vans set up along the creek, and the milling about of Tilly-hatted, cargo-shorted folks of all ages. It had that air.

We parked and said brief howdies to our new neighbors prior to heading up to “the house” to register. About an hour and a half later we had still made no progress toward the house, but had close to a dozen new ice friends – John, Laurie, Jenny, Celia and and and… Right. These are folks from the ice: stories and connections are our lifeblood. Getting food, nametags, etc. – we get to all those as time allows.

As the afternoon progressed, I did cross paths with a couple of folks I actually knew from the ice, and plenty more with whom I got to play “Now, how do we know each other?” Denver? Or maybe when I came through MCM on the Hazmat Cruise back in 2017? But the real gold was making myself shut up and listen to the stories of the real OAE’s – folks who deployed back in the 80’s and 90’s. Folks who were there when the stories most of us have only heard secondhand actually happened.

Stella’s is nestled in a gorgeous little valley carved into the hills east of Walla Walla by the south fork of Coppei Creek. Above its wooded banks are unthinkably many miles of wheat and wheat and more wheat. Stella’s actual name is Cheryl – the Stella thing is a nickname picked up in high school that just stuck (how does that work? :). She took over running the property a few years ago from her mother, who still lives in the main house. The actual farmland was sold off a while back, and all the old farm buildings – of which there are enviably many – have been converted into stunningly gorgeous and cozy housing for guests. An envious person might find themselves wistful.

Amid the stories there were nooks to explore, hikes to take, games to play and music to make. How could anyone be surprised that so many Antarctic folks are artists and musicians? 

Alas, the weather didn’t do us a lot of favors. There wasn’t much rain, but even when the sun was out, an unseasonably cold, wicked wind whipped up the valley. There were, of course, the obligatory jokes about how Antarctica had made us all weather wimps.

By Sunday, though, the tug of Water Street and the farm had begun to call, and we said our goodbyes, piled into the Orca and chased the sun back across south-central Washington’s amber fields of grain.

Flying

Yeah. June is a lovely time for flying in the Pacific Northwest. As I mentioned, I’ve played hooky a couple of times, flying up to Canada for day trips. It takes a bit of legwork, filing the international flight plan, the online pilot and passengers declarations, calling both US and Canadian customs to coordinate departure and arrival times, but once you figure out the steps, it’s surprisingly simple. Even if the paperwork takes longer than the fifteen minute flight between Port Townsend and Victoria’s Sidney International Airport.

The official excuse for the first trip was a trip into town for pie at the Victoria Pie Company. The local flying club was happy for me to leave the plane with them while I caught a cab into town, ate pie, wandered, bought tchotchkes, had coffee and wandered around some more. On a whim, I called US Customs again and verified the legality of bringing pie back, then swung back by the Victoria Pie Company for some take-home.

The next trip was just last week, conceived initially as a scouting expedition. D’s parents will be visiting us in August, and from there were going to head up to see family friends in Kelowna, in south-central BC. It’s a gorgeous drive up through the rugged North Cascades Highway. But at over six hours, there can be a bit more gorgeous than you’d like to sit through when you have places to be. So D and I, generous souls that we are, decided we’d scout out what it would be like to replace that drive with a 70-minute flight over, rather than through the Cascades. Got picked up at the airport by our friends and treated to a lovely Mediterranean lunch followed by a hike up into the hills south of town they’re involved in protecting from development. A little late afternoon refreshment, then we piled back in the plane and flew home, the early evening light playing off jagged peaks below us.

All the rest

The rest of it? As I said, day hikes around the fort and up in the Olys, paddling around the bay, and picnicking with friends. Slumming it down on the deck at Water Street while hiding from all the work to be done around the farm. Actually helping do some of the work around the farm. Goofing off at the town’s almost weekly goofy gatherings: the Rhody Festival with its pet parade and bed races. Field Day, with face painting, watermelon-eating contests, and the annual “community portrait.”

The teaser

I’m writing from Seat 17A on Alaska Airlines flight 1214. Headed down to Los Angeles for a couple of days. Hoping to see our son, Jeremiah, who’s there for an internship this summer, but mostly to accompany my mother to Germany for a couple of weeks in Berlin.

Berlin? Yeah. My mom’s been heading to Berlin for work almost every summer for the past couple of decades, and has developed a deep fondness for the city. Every fall when she comes back, there are more tales of wonder, of her colleagues there and things she’s learned and saw. And each year I’ve promised I would come next year to get to see “her Berlin.” And it really was finally going to happen…in 2020. Well, she decided retire from “official” work last fall, but couldn’t bear the thought of missing Berlin again after such a long time, so off she’s going, for fun this time, and this time I am going with her. I’ll keep you posted. I promise.