- Phone call with Grandma Judy
- Strawberry sprinkle pancakes
- Winter forest walk
Showing posts with label seattle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label seattle. Show all posts
Monday, January 12, 2015
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Hiking the PCT
With the hype from the book, Wild, by Cheryl Strayed being adapted in to a Reese Witherspoon movie this winter, the Pacific Crest Trail has gotten some attention. It's a magnificent trail with a rich (near 100-year) history, and reaches from Mexico to Canada along the west coast. In the book, Strayed recounts her experience hiking from Southern California to Oregon. The details had me intrigued, and I was really eager to check it out for myself!
One day, while out exploring our new (beautiful!) state, Mike and I happened upon a trailhead for the PCT. Mike had sprained his ankle, so the best we could do in the world of exploration was drive around the country. As soon as my heart rate settled, we decided on coming back and hiking once the ankle healed enough.
Yesterday was the day! We packed our backpacks with our new hiking standards -- peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and granola bars (protein is key!) -- and headed out into the wilderness. It's always a good 10 degrees cooler in the mountains, and the crisp air hit us with an invigorating force once we stepped out of the car. After depositing a quick permit describing the names of our party and duration of our hike (this box was directly next to the board providing the phone number for the WolfBear hotline and ranger conditions summary), we headed out.
Once we figured out which direction to go (5 minutes of back-and-forth-ing later), we were quickly engulfed in the lush foliage and fresh wood smells. The whole hike was gorgeous, but my favorite part by far was a rocky section of the trail where we had panoramic mountain views, and an occasional glimpse of waterfalls and cute little furry woodland creatures (none of the bear or wolf variety, thankfully).
We spent about 4 hours out on the hike, and I'm eager to go back! I felt a small connection with Cheryl, sharing the experience of the order of nature and feeling so small, but also so free. I truly feel best in those wide open spaces with the fresh air and vast skies. I love this beautiful state.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
The Piers
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| View through the binoculars! |
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| Because Seattle. |
Monday, August 4, 2014
25 and Alive!
I woke with that special, stirring feeling that only comes once a year. Already, the excitement for the day ahead began brewing, and my energy summoned itself at once. My birthday. Not any birthday, my 25th birthday.
I see this as an opportunity to take pause. 25 feels like a collection; a placemark. I'm a quarter century old, and yesterday felt like a beautiful day of time-between-time. We escaped to Whidbey Island. As we boarded the ferry that would take us there, my worldly thoughts dissipated and made way for calm. Sure, I was buzzing with excitement, too, but I was also forgiving myself of thinking of anything that I could have been thinking of.
The ferry ride was over nearly as soon as it had started. It's a very short distance between the mainland and Whidbey, but driving off the ferry, we found ourselves in a totally new world. Everything seemed slower, simpler. The lettering on the sign of "Whidbey Middle School" was hand painted. Signs for the fair adorned the roadsides, and the smell of salty air lingered everywhere. Also, for being in such a mountainous area, Whidbey was notably flatter. Soft rolling hills and wide open farmlands reminded me a little of home, and further determined my love for wide open spaces.
Our first stop was the Whidbey Fair. Mike paid our admission as I fiddled with the camera, equipped for the day. Inside, the smell of fresh funnel cake, french fries, corn on the cob, and all the other delicacies of the fair set the mood just right. We ambled through the animal stalls, admiring big beautiful horses and teeny, bouncing goats. There was even a cat stall.
On the far end, a woody smell drew us closer as we discovered a series of events all themed by wood, somehow. First, the pole climbers. I've never seen anything like it. Two guys climbing a ridiculously high telephone-style pole with sharp-edged shoes and a rope. No harness, no net, only a 4-foot-high pile of woodshavings below to cushion any tragic falls. Then, a man to the right was carving an eagle with a chainsaw at an alarming pace. His work was detailed and beautiful though his tool was clunky and large. In the center, a square pool held the log rolling. I've seen it in movies and never believed it to be real, but here it was. I was stunned at the talent of these kids. Closest to where we sat, two men got in position for a log-chopping contest. They each straddled a small log, armed with an axe, and waited for the call. Then, they both started chopping with a fever, eventually breaking through their pieces. It was a true small-town fair, and it was so cool to be part of.
Our next stop was downtown Langley. After a glass of wine at a bistro, Mike and I ducked into some of the shops. Soap stores, art galleries, candle-makers, Middle-Eastern importers, and other shops all lined up on the water's edge. But we were hungry, so we did a quick search and drove out to what seemed like the middle of farm country, where we reached Gordon's on Blueberry Hill. It looked like a house converted into a chic little restaurant, with windows that gave away the whole view of the surrounding area, including a beautiful peek of the water. I had chicken with cheesy grits and a waffle. It was DELICIOUS.
After a quick stop in Meerkerk Gardens to peek at the famed rhododendrons (which were, in fact, gorgeous), we made our way to Ebey's Landing. On the way we, small two-lane country roads, blasting classics like "Jack and Diane" and "Let's Hear it for the Boy." Overcome with the beauty around me and the great music, I did something I've never done, but have always wanted to. I popped out of the sunroof, held out my arms, and took in the whipping wind, the salty air, and the warm sun. "25 and aliiiiiive!" I shouted, as Mike turned up the music.
The landing was beautiful. A big, grassy bluff led down to a small, pebbly beach, offering a great view of ships, ferries and cruiseliners in the distance. A steep walk up the bluff offered a different perspective, high above the beach. A narrow little path led us up and down the sandy trail, with frequent stops for birthday kisses and beautiful views.
After we came back down, we drove another short distance to a perfectly westward facing beach, where we had the whole thing to ourselves. We talked and snapped photos as the sun went down. Watching the last sliver of it pass over the distant mountains punctuated the day. It had been full, it had been fun, and I was exhausted.
We drove back to the ferry, then back home, then straight into our tiny, cozy little apartment. We had a pizza delivered and ate it in bed while watching a movie. It felt like a sleepover party. As I nodded off next to my husband, I checked through all my birthday wishes and felt loved. What a great birthday.
I see this as an opportunity to take pause. 25 feels like a collection; a placemark. I'm a quarter century old, and yesterday felt like a beautiful day of time-between-time. We escaped to Whidbey Island. As we boarded the ferry that would take us there, my worldly thoughts dissipated and made way for calm. Sure, I was buzzing with excitement, too, but I was also forgiving myself of thinking of anything that I could have been thinking of.
The ferry ride was over nearly as soon as it had started. It's a very short distance between the mainland and Whidbey, but driving off the ferry, we found ourselves in a totally new world. Everything seemed slower, simpler. The lettering on the sign of "Whidbey Middle School" was hand painted. Signs for the fair adorned the roadsides, and the smell of salty air lingered everywhere. Also, for being in such a mountainous area, Whidbey was notably flatter. Soft rolling hills and wide open farmlands reminded me a little of home, and further determined my love for wide open spaces.
Our first stop was the Whidbey Fair. Mike paid our admission as I fiddled with the camera, equipped for the day. Inside, the smell of fresh funnel cake, french fries, corn on the cob, and all the other delicacies of the fair set the mood just right. We ambled through the animal stalls, admiring big beautiful horses and teeny, bouncing goats. There was even a cat stall.
On the far end, a woody smell drew us closer as we discovered a series of events all themed by wood, somehow. First, the pole climbers. I've never seen anything like it. Two guys climbing a ridiculously high telephone-style pole with sharp-edged shoes and a rope. No harness, no net, only a 4-foot-high pile of woodshavings below to cushion any tragic falls. Then, a man to the right was carving an eagle with a chainsaw at an alarming pace. His work was detailed and beautiful though his tool was clunky and large. In the center, a square pool held the log rolling. I've seen it in movies and never believed it to be real, but here it was. I was stunned at the talent of these kids. Closest to where we sat, two men got in position for a log-chopping contest. They each straddled a small log, armed with an axe, and waited for the call. Then, they both started chopping with a fever, eventually breaking through their pieces. It was a true small-town fair, and it was so cool to be part of.
Our next stop was downtown Langley. After a glass of wine at a bistro, Mike and I ducked into some of the shops. Soap stores, art galleries, candle-makers, Middle-Eastern importers, and other shops all lined up on the water's edge. But we were hungry, so we did a quick search and drove out to what seemed like the middle of farm country, where we reached Gordon's on Blueberry Hill. It looked like a house converted into a chic little restaurant, with windows that gave away the whole view of the surrounding area, including a beautiful peek of the water. I had chicken with cheesy grits and a waffle. It was DELICIOUS.
 |
| view from Gordon's |
 | |
| The flowers at Meerkerk |
The landing was beautiful. A big, grassy bluff led down to a small, pebbly beach, offering a great view of ships, ferries and cruiseliners in the distance. A steep walk up the bluff offered a different perspective, high above the beach. A narrow little path led us up and down the sandy trail, with frequent stops for birthday kisses and beautiful views.
After we came back down, we drove another short distance to a perfectly westward facing beach, where we had the whole thing to ourselves. We talked and snapped photos as the sun went down. Watching the last sliver of it pass over the distant mountains punctuated the day. It had been full, it had been fun, and I was exhausted.
We drove back to the ferry, then back home, then straight into our tiny, cozy little apartment. We had a pizza delivered and ate it in bed while watching a movie. It felt like a sleepover party. As I nodded off next to my husband, I checked through all my birthday wishes and felt loved. What a great birthday. Thursday, July 24, 2014
The Haystack
We began with all the hope and vigor of two newbies ready to prove their worth in the arduous yet rewarding task of climbing a mountain. We had been in Seattle for two weeks, and the momentum was palpable. We had settled (mostly) in our apartment, we already took two great hikes with beautiful views, I secured my full-time job, Mike landed his studio for teaching, and I had met a friend. We felt unstoppable.
Driving out of urban sprawl and reaching the vaster and vaster fields of green, with big hills undulating and turning into mountains, I breathed steadily and already victorious, imagining the lines of my boasting that I had climbed to the very summit of Mt. Si. It wasn't really all that hard. I just kept going, slow and steady, and here's this picture of me on top of a mountain! The celebration began before the qualifying event, to be certain.
Joined by my aunt, uncle, and little cousin, we began our 4-mile hike through the woods and up, up, up. We seemed to be moving impossibly slowly for the heaviness of breath and bodily exhaustion we were feeling. Back in Chicago, a 4-mile hike meant a brisk walk on an entirely horizontal path, finishing with little more than a few beads of sweat and dusty shoes. Here, in this new place, it meant a foot-by-foot effort of escalation, every moment a personal commitment to the summit above. Seeing the hikers on their way down gave us hope; their smiles a spoiler of the reward ahead. Every once in a while we'd ask, "Are we close?" A smile and a soothing answer urged us onward. And upward. And onward.
Impossibly, it seemed, we reached the top. The sun broke through the last layer of trees above us and revealed a sight incomparable to the flat plains of Chicagoland. We were in Seattle. We made it. The mountains beyond us were now our home. We made it. We did it. But, we had not, in fact, completed our immediate task at hand. A vertical climb in a wall of rock, called the haystack -- the true summit of Mt. Si, lay ahead of us. For most, where we stood signified the end of the hike. For me, with a fresh zest of accomplishment and confidence, it wasn't enough. I pressed on, urging my husband to follow. The rest of our group stayed back to check out the scenic overlook.
I reached the rock wall first. I heard voices from the top. So close. A man who had just descended told me "It's really not that bad." I looked at the vertical wall ahead of me, latched my hands on, and began to climb. One foot up, one hand up, one hand over, one foot over. Mike reached me and gazed up, surely uncertain but ready to follow. Once we were more on the wall and less on the ground, the nerves began spinning. Just a little further, I urged myself as I moved my limbs, less surely now, to the next handholds.
Then, I did what one shouldn't do. I looked down. Mike shuffled over the rock below me, our backpack swinging and teetering this way and that, the ground far below and the summit just as far above. In that moment, all my confidence turned into desperation and horror. What have we done? What have we done? I barely had to share this to realize that Mike was in complete agreement. Each of us was waiting for the other to break. We were nearly twenty feet off the ground, and both suddenly stricken with panic. What have we done?
We stopped at a small nook, just barely big enough for us both to sit in, and decided to comfort ourselves with the PB&Js we had brought along. It felt doofy, really, to be sitting on the almost-top of a mountain, too scared to reach the top, munching on the sandwich choice of a six-year-old. Yet, here we were. Several hikers unsteadily descended as we watched, their clenched faces and wide eyes no match for the haughty, confident voices they employed. Young broskis in their twenties, jabbing each other about being pussies for being scared. It all made sense now. This was damn scary, and kind of stupid. We munched slowly, regretfully. After a few moments of silence, a couple in their fifties emerged into our view. The man was slowly and kindly guiding the woman down. He flitted across the rock with the ease of a mountain goat. She didn't even seem scared. It wasn't fair.
"Easier on the way up, eh?" I urped, uneasily.
"Oh, yes," the man replied. I watched with intense jealousy as they made their way to the ground. To safety.
"Great job -- ehmm, now it's our turn, I guess!"
"Want some help?"
"No, really, we're fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, maybe you just want to hang out down there and make sure we make it down alive?"
"I'll be right up."
He reached us nearly immediately. He started directing, and I was suddenly out of the confines of my PB&J nook and back out in the sunlight, moving across the rock. His words and my actions were suddenly in harmony, my nerves still sharp, but less so now. He alternated between Mike and I, helping each of us find the next handhold and foothold, explaining to us about "cross pressure" and and other impressive climber-jargon. His knowledge both impressed and shamed me. My newfound safety made room in my conscious, exposing the real stupidity that egged me on this far. I chastised myself as I descended. I reached the bottom with a sense of gratefulness, both for solid ground and for this kind man, who completely unnecessarily helped an overconfident couple down the side of a treacherous mountaintop.
In the end, I don't regret trying. I never would have allowed myself to walk back down that mountain without at least trying. Mike and I roiled in laughter later that night as our heads hit the pillows, our bodies sore and exhausted from our day of climbing. What in the hell had we been thinking? Where did that confidence come from? What made us think we were qualified to scramble up the nearly 90 degree haystack atop a mountain? The same zeal that made us move out here, to see what we've seen, to get stuck on the side of a mountain, to feel the electricity of teetering on the edge of sanity for a thrill. I married the right man.
Driving out of urban sprawl and reaching the vaster and vaster fields of green, with big hills undulating and turning into mountains, I breathed steadily and already victorious, imagining the lines of my boasting that I had climbed to the very summit of Mt. Si. It wasn't really all that hard. I just kept going, slow and steady, and here's this picture of me on top of a mountain! The celebration began before the qualifying event, to be certain.
Joined by my aunt, uncle, and little cousin, we began our 4-mile hike through the woods and up, up, up. We seemed to be moving impossibly slowly for the heaviness of breath and bodily exhaustion we were feeling. Back in Chicago, a 4-mile hike meant a brisk walk on an entirely horizontal path, finishing with little more than a few beads of sweat and dusty shoes. Here, in this new place, it meant a foot-by-foot effort of escalation, every moment a personal commitment to the summit above. Seeing the hikers on their way down gave us hope; their smiles a spoiler of the reward ahead. Every once in a while we'd ask, "Are we close?" A smile and a soothing answer urged us onward. And upward. And onward.
Impossibly, it seemed, we reached the top. The sun broke through the last layer of trees above us and revealed a sight incomparable to the flat plains of Chicagoland. We were in Seattle. We made it. The mountains beyond us were now our home. We made it. We did it. But, we had not, in fact, completed our immediate task at hand. A vertical climb in a wall of rock, called the haystack -- the true summit of Mt. Si, lay ahead of us. For most, where we stood signified the end of the hike. For me, with a fresh zest of accomplishment and confidence, it wasn't enough. I pressed on, urging my husband to follow. The rest of our group stayed back to check out the scenic overlook.
I reached the rock wall first. I heard voices from the top. So close. A man who had just descended told me "It's really not that bad." I looked at the vertical wall ahead of me, latched my hands on, and began to climb. One foot up, one hand up, one hand over, one foot over. Mike reached me and gazed up, surely uncertain but ready to follow. Once we were more on the wall and less on the ground, the nerves began spinning. Just a little further, I urged myself as I moved my limbs, less surely now, to the next handholds.
Then, I did what one shouldn't do. I looked down. Mike shuffled over the rock below me, our backpack swinging and teetering this way and that, the ground far below and the summit just as far above. In that moment, all my confidence turned into desperation and horror. What have we done? What have we done? I barely had to share this to realize that Mike was in complete agreement. Each of us was waiting for the other to break. We were nearly twenty feet off the ground, and both suddenly stricken with panic. What have we done?
We stopped at a small nook, just barely big enough for us both to sit in, and decided to comfort ourselves with the PB&Js we had brought along. It felt doofy, really, to be sitting on the almost-top of a mountain, too scared to reach the top, munching on the sandwich choice of a six-year-old. Yet, here we were. Several hikers unsteadily descended as we watched, their clenched faces and wide eyes no match for the haughty, confident voices they employed. Young broskis in their twenties, jabbing each other about being pussies for being scared. It all made sense now. This was damn scary, and kind of stupid. We munched slowly, regretfully. After a few moments of silence, a couple in their fifties emerged into our view. The man was slowly and kindly guiding the woman down. He flitted across the rock with the ease of a mountain goat. She didn't even seem scared. It wasn't fair.
"Easier on the way up, eh?" I urped, uneasily.
"Oh, yes," the man replied. I watched with intense jealousy as they made their way to the ground. To safety.
"Great job -- ehmm, now it's our turn, I guess!"
"Want some help?"
"No, really, we're fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, maybe you just want to hang out down there and make sure we make it down alive?"
"I'll be right up."
He reached us nearly immediately. He started directing, and I was suddenly out of the confines of my PB&J nook and back out in the sunlight, moving across the rock. His words and my actions were suddenly in harmony, my nerves still sharp, but less so now. He alternated between Mike and I, helping each of us find the next handhold and foothold, explaining to us about "cross pressure" and and other impressive climber-jargon. His knowledge both impressed and shamed me. My newfound safety made room in my conscious, exposing the real stupidity that egged me on this far. I chastised myself as I descended. I reached the bottom with a sense of gratefulness, both for solid ground and for this kind man, who completely unnecessarily helped an overconfident couple down the side of a treacherous mountaintop.
In the end, I don't regret trying. I never would have allowed myself to walk back down that mountain without at least trying. Mike and I roiled in laughter later that night as our heads hit the pillows, our bodies sore and exhausted from our day of climbing. What in the hell had we been thinking? Where did that confidence come from? What made us think we were qualified to scramble up the nearly 90 degree haystack atop a mountain? The same zeal that made us move out here, to see what we've seen, to get stuck on the side of a mountain, to feel the electricity of teetering on the edge of sanity for a thrill. I married the right man.
 |
| Mike managed to snap this photo. The man who helped us and his girlfriend, before our descent. |
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Seattle Times
Mike and I are just finishing out what has been a wonderful scouting trip to Seattle. For years we have dreamed of making this transition and moving out here, and I couldn't be more thrilled about it finally happening. My sense of adventure is tingling with all the new opportunities!
This weekend, we celebrated one year of marriage (which is a milestone in itself), but we also lined up an apartment to live in! Queen Anne is a beautiful neighborhood on a (very) tall hill. It has beautiful old houses as well as a quaint downtown area. Our apartment is new, which isn't all that surprising. A lot of people have been moving to the city, so housing is competitive but there are lots of nice new buildings with great features! Ours has a private terrace that our back patio opens up to, as well as an amazing rooftop deck with mountain views.
Now that the apartment hunt is finished, we have been able to enjoy the trip like tourists. We're so excited to make this city our home!
Now that the apartment hunt is finished, we have been able to enjoy the trip like tourists. We're so excited to make this city our home!
Like the sunglasses in my pics? They're by Nectar. You can get 10% off a (already cheap) pair with code: lovenectar. They have tons of fun designs and colors - perfect for summer! I'm loving them as a fun alternative to my standard black ones.
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