Hunting Ursa Major at Big Bear

Camping is one of my old passions. One of those passions that has slowly atrophied away as the years of marriage and kids accumulate. Back in the recesses of my hopes and dreams are the lingering vestiges of family camping ambitions, but they've been little realized in recent years and show a growing patina of neglect. The kids were too young, Stacy too tired, work too busy. One real camping trip in 5 years is not much fuel to stoke the hope furnace, and with each pound gained and each joint joining the stiff-and-owwy club, I've been beginning to fear that my camping portfolio will soon consist merely of the memories of a younger man. But despite the neglect, there are yet still-warm embers buried under the accumulated ash of the burning off of the years. A new tent won at auction and a trial camping run in the backyard have syphoned in a little oxygen to set the coals aglowing. Maybe it isn't a done deal. Maybe a time will come again. Maybe we can yet shake off the dust of a sedentary world and exchange it for the dust of the trail. Maybe there's still hope.

Now faith may be the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen, but faith without works is dead. Faith was put to work two weeks ago.

Knowing that the rest of my summer and fall would not be pretty from a work point of view, I knew I had to strike while the iron (coals?) were hot. (Mixing metaphors is another one of my passions...) My boss most graciously agreed to cover for me and let me take Thursday and Friday off, so I jumped on line and booked the last spot available at Hanna Flats, a campground in the San Bernardino National Forest where Stacy and I had camped a year or two B.C. (before children). Wednesday night was spent throwing massive amounts of household goods into bags while the children climbed the walls and shrieked in excitement, mimicking of course, the wild animals they were sure to encounter on our trip. On the glorious Thursday we got up early and finished packing. I was somewhat disturbed to realized that pretty much the entire contents of our house could, if properly arranged, be stowed in the back of our minivan. Yes, we packed our pillows. (And with each one I threw in the car a little ember of camping coals in my heart went cold...) But you've got to start somewhere. The kids, excited being a most severe understatement, assumed their stations about two hours before our scheduled departure time.

Eventually we had the cargo hold full and we hit the road around 10:30. Hanna Flats is about two hours away, assuming light traffic. We burned an hour which got us as far as Asuza where we stopped to bid farewell to modern day conveniences at the Mecca of all things modernly convenient. From then on out it was full bore, head-down, petal-to-the-metal for the mountains. We could tell we were getting close when we started spotting strange new varieties of alpine flora.

Pinus Technologicus

After 45 minutes of those dizzying, windy mountain roads that Stacy loves so well we found our campground and our designated domicile. It was a fairly open spot with hills directly behind us and a number of trees along the road, but not much shade on the site in general. Hanna Flats had been closed for a year or two because a particularly bad wildfire had ripped through the area. The campground itself was spared, but the fire lapped up to the very edge - that edge being our site, which explained the lack of shade. Looking in one direction from our site you saw the campground with its dense trees; looking in the other you saw relatively open hills with lots of black charcoal sticks pointed skyward. Though some of the bigger pine trees had made it through the fire, there wasn't much in the way of brush or bushes; but grasses and tufts of ground cover were coming back and were actually quite vibrant and colorful, obviously enjoying the unexpected extra view of the sun. It was a strangely beautiful juxtaposition.

The kids weren't out of the car ten minutes before they had met and become bosom buddies with a 5-year-old girl, J, who was camping with her dad the next site over. L and N abandoned themselves to their socializing while Stacy helped me set up our monstrosity of a tent. In short order it was done and we were afforded some time to relax, meet J's dad, and take a short walk around the park before getting down to the business of cooking dinner on a campfire with the help of a teeny-tiny white gas backpacking stove - essentially a Bunsen burner with a bad attitude. Among the provisions that would have kept Ma and Pa Ingles well fed an entire Prairie winter, Stacy had packed some hotdogs, some kielbasa, a can of green beans and some instant potatoes. Even the most disgusting food tastes wonderful when you cook it while camping. I think dropping the kielbasa through firepit grates and into the dirt and charcoal ashes added that gritty something extra that pushed the meal into the realm of sublime.

Right next to our campsite was a rather large pile of boulders - a veritable climbing Taj Mahal for those under ten, and unfortunately, for those with rattles attached to their tails.  We did our best to clear the area, beating on the rocks with sticks and stomping around them.  Finding no stakes to prior reptilian claims, we turned the kids loose to assist nature in the historical process of grinding the boulders into a fine powder, but we did warn them that if at any point they found something that looked like one of Daddy's ash-covered kielbasa, they were to let us know immediately.

Once dinner was cleaned up, we were reminded by the children of past promises made in failed attempts to get them to eat kielbasa à la terre.  They wouldn't eat their formerly powdered potatoes or their carcinogenically-challenged hotdogs, but they sure were all up for consuming hoards of laboratory-developed, petrochemically-enhanced puffs of sucrose.  J's Dad, Brett, threw another log on the fire and the kids miraculously produced a set of bamboo spears perfectly suited for marshmallow roasting.  I complimented Stacy on packing the accouterments among her other massive collections, but she said she'd never seen them before.  I quizzed L and quickly came to find out that they had been extracted from a bunch of little pine trees that had been planted on the fire-ravaged hill behind us - they were holding the 6-inch saplings up.  (Lesson learned:  That which doesn't burn up in fire, will nevertheless suffer defeat at the hands of 6-year-olds.)

After marshmallows L pulled out some of her toys (she inherited the packing gene from her mother) and L and N and J played happily while Stacy and I enjoyed the encroaching evening.

I've always been a bit of an astronomy buff at heart.  Life in LA gives little indulgence, so one of my favorite camping activities is to just sit back with Stacy after it gets dark (and after the kids are in the tent) and watch the sky explode.  Stars and satellites and meteorites in plenitude!  Polaris was framed perfectly in a clearing of the trees and brilliant Ursa Major spent the evening hiking around it.  I brought along a tripod (OK, so maybe there's a bit of packaholic in all of us...) and set my camera up on time-lapse exposure while we kicked back and counted shooting stars.  I was rewarded handsomely.

The beasts of the field knew better than to come skulking around our neck of the woods, and consequently we got a reasonably decent night's sleep in our 1200 sq ft tent.

We slept without the rainfly on and the top of our tent is all a thin transparent mesh, which was both good for watching stars, but bad when the full moon took center stage.  Surprisingly, the bright sun of the early morning had no discernible effect on the majority of the residents.

Eventually the tent showed signs of life and the hibernators emerged to a fine breakfast all ready of pancakes à la carbon. (My backpacking stove has two settings - "burn" and "char."  Dressed and ready, the first chore of the day: a hike with Brett and J up the trailhead that started a few campsites down the road.

Bitterness attends the trail

The night must not have agreed with the kids because the seemed decidedly less than refreshed on hitting the trail.  L and N reached deep and found buried within a suitably sulky mood for the hike and proceeded to whine and complain their way through it.  Some co-workers had warned me a few days earlier of recent mountain lion attacks on small children in Hanna Flats.  (A small fact I somehow "neglected" to mention to Stacy.)  After a few minutes on the trail I was fighting off the urge to whisper, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."  Moodiness is contagious among the 4-to-6 set and soon J had a little cartoon cloud over her head as well.  Thank goodness it was a pretty day and the hike wasn't too severe.  (I pretty much ended up with L or N on my shoulders the entire time.)

Cows in tree form.

Brett and J

Much to the bewailment of L, N and J, a period of forced separation was enacted for the afternoon. We loaded up the minivan and drove the dirt road down the hill to Fawnskin, then circled the perimeter of the lake to get to Big Bear Village. In L and N's eyes a pizza helped atone for the cindercake breakfast, and a couple of hours at the beach made up for most of the trip's remaining offenses.

L, playing a rousing game of  "Hit
Daddy's camera with the wet beanbag."

Attitudes were much improved.  Nobody complained at all when asked to hike to the ice cream shop.

Back at the ranch the kids had a joyful reunion with J and many more unexpected toys were extracted from amazingly well hidden crannies of the car and introduced to the dust and dirt and snake-filled rocks of Hanna Flats.  The campsite next door had a wonderful old oak with bizarre low-hanging branches that extended nearly horizontally for nine or ten feet - perfect for the more simian urges of the youngsters.  The drill was simple.  The kids would mount the branches near the tree trunk, then shimmy their way along the branch highway until they got to the end where whatever parent was available at the time was called into service to catch the dropping child so the process could be repeated.  This could have occupied them for hours...

Dinner this evening consisted of teriyaki shish-ka-bobs picked up in town and grilled over the campfire.  This time I managed to keep them from any suicidal tendencies.

Dinner was followed up, of course (as if we had a choice), with more marshmallows. The baby pine trees were deprived of their structural support once again while the children set about sugaring themselves up. (OK, the parents got a little sugared too...)

Soon enough darkness began to descend; the girls managed to find some glow sticks in and among J's piles of toys - packing inflation seemed to be a real issue at this camp - so they entertained themselves in the dark with their own mini laser show.  Soon it was time for the kids to have the dust beaten off them and pajamas applied to the less sticky parts; once in the tent we had a rousing hour of Prince Caspian by lantern light and then it was off to sleep.  Stacy and I reemerged from the tent to enjoy another peaceful evening of campfire guarding and star-studying.

The following morning we bid our fond farewells to J and her Dad.  It was a teary occasion for those under 30, with many plans hatched for birthday party visits and Sea World excursions.  Stinky and tire, the drive home was nevertheless beautiful, and made more palatable for L and N with the promise of a visit to Aunt Joyce and Mr. Jay's house and a swim in their pool.  I hope they had a lot of chlorine...

Raccoon face.

Recreational Bugs

N has a new game he's all excited about.  You play a bug and jump from leaf to leaf performing silly tasks and avoiding nasty spiders.  Your goal is to attain bug mastery and receive the coveted "Super Bug Scout" badge.

 N feels free to modify the rules on a situational basis.  If you are a butterfly, for example, you can fly right over the sticky spider's web.  If you are the spider itself, you are likewise immune.

I was treated to a game while Mommy was out doing some errands. I got to be the butterfly while N was the common housefly. As we went along N was directed to put his left thumb on a brown spider, and find three bees and then buzz three times. On one of my turns I was requested to tell a story about one of the bugs on the board. I picked the millipede.

Once upon a time there was a small millipede.  He got up one fine summer morning and asked his Mommy if he could go out and play.  "Certainly," said Mommy Millipede.  "Just be sure to put your shoes on first."

The little millipede hurried back to his room and began putting on his shoes.  Can you imagine how long that took?!?  When he was all finished he came back out to his Mommy.

"Mommy, I've put my shoes on.  Can I go out and play now?" he said.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry," said his mother.  "But its dark out now.  It's time to go to bed."

Of Belts and Bards

My wife had the utter audacity to ask me to fix dinner last night. So I BELTed her. It turns out that wasn't enough, so I had to BELT her again. I was just about to BELT the kids too, but Stacy pleaded with me (in between my BELTing her) not to. Her maternal pleas touched my soul and I relented -- if the kids didn't want egg on their bacon, egg, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, they could eat their BLTs plain.

After it was all over, I BELTed myself a couple of times too.

A good BELT is all about fresh tomatoes. My tomato plants are looking a little stunted this year, but they've nevertheless produced a decent first crop of 'matos. I think, however, I'm going to be getting pretty much this one single harvest, so it is important to not waste the opportunity and inadvertently miss out on the whole point of fresh tomatoes in the first place -- BELTs.

But while tomatoes are the foundation and anchor of a good BELT, they don't stand alone on the stage. The BELT is definitely an ensemble production. All the actors must appear, well costumed and seasoned in their roles. First, the bread - a nice white bread; none of those whole wheat abominations - must be lightly and delicately toasted, a nice golden blush on a fair maiden's cheek. The lettuce must be as fresh as a springtime meadow, and preferably a more consummate actor than iceberg. The bacon must straddle that fine line between crispy and tenacious, asserting itself with salty poignancy, but never occluding the performances of its cast members. The egg must draw strength from the performance of the bacon, being seasoned to perfection in the very renderings of the fair meat. All must be staged carefully and dutifully with a gentle spread of mayonnaise, or, to lend an exotic mystique, with a cameo of horseradish sauce. Together, and only together, does the company achieve greatness. A weak showing on any part, and the entire production suffers in toto.

This evening's BELTs were a worthy undertaking, but in the end some slight flaws dimmed the brilliance of the entire spectacle. The bacon I used was Costo's maple bacon. Prior to opening it I imagined something cured with a microscopic amount of maple syrup, just enough to legally allow the advertising reference. But on opening it I found that the bacon was not "perfumed" with a hint of maple, but more or less reeked of it. Upon throwing it into the pan it immediately gave up a lot of juice and left a sticky residue on the bottom of the pan. It was also a very think cut, which at the end of the day cooked up more like thin slices of sugary ham than salty bacon. The cascading failure of it all was that the eggs, cooked in the syrup goo that should have been nothing more than the pure southern sacrament of bacon grease, seized to the bottom of the fry-pan and refused to be unseated save but by the most violent of scrapings. But frustrating though it was (culinary domestic abuse!), the show did go on and the audience seemed to applaud the presentation.

After dinner we piled into the car for yet another thesbian offering:  Shakespeare by the Sea, or in our case Shakespeare-in-a-Torrance-park-which-is-relatively-by-the-sea.  We've been meaning to attend one of the troup's free performances for several years, and finally the planets aligned so that we, like star-crossed lovers, could take in an open-air production of Twelfth Night.

Observation:  Shakespeare in Wilson park draws a significantly different crowd than the fireworks in Wilson Park do.

The kids were duded up in their PJs and we had sleeping bags and blankets in tow.  We got there 45 minutes before "curtain" time, and there was already a pretty big crowd.  We plopped ourselves down on the grass off in right field and settled in as the sun set, the temperatures dropped, and the eucalyptus trees waved gently overhead.  We weren't quite sure how the kids would handle it, but hey - it was outdoors, and if things got ugly there was a swing set a hundred yards away!  Actually, once the show started they did quite well.  L sat transfixed, focused on the stage laughing obediently whenever the crowd laughed; booing as society dictated.  She snickered that all the boys were wearing ballet pants just like hers.  N was similarly focused and from time to time he would turn around to us and quote back an entire line an actor had just spoken.  It was a little spooky, like he was channeling some long dead Elizabethan.

Everything went swimmingly the first act.  At the end of the act there was an intermission during which I took the kids and stood in line for hot chocolates while Mommy kept the blankets from blowing away.  I gladly paid for my four packets of hot chocolate powder and four Styrofoam cups and then stood in the line for the hot water.  When it came my turn I saddled the first cup up to the hot water dispenser and ... drip, drip, drip. The thermos went dry.  The attendant was all apologetic and offered my money back.  Together, through tipping the thermos, I was able to get one of the four cups full, and two of the remaining ones I was able to fill with hot coffee.  (Mocha turned out to be a much better idea anyway!)  I redistributed the left over fourth chocolate powder pack to the three filled cups (Mmmmm, rich!), then split the true chocolate cup into two half-servings and we were set.  The family in line behind us didn't seem to have the same make-do attitude and as we headed on back to our seats I heard them giving the woeful attendant an earful.

The next act started up and not 30 seconds into it there was a crack and the sound system went dead.  The actors didn't miss a beat, but plowed along steadily, projecting for all they were worth.  I was worried at first, but after a minute or two the crowd settled down to a lower level of ambient noise and your ears grew more attentive and you could hear it all well enough.  The sound never came back on, but all in all it was a fun production, warts and all, and we had a fresh and fun time of it.

By the time the play wrapped up L was sacked out and N was awake but whiny.  I flipped L, sleeping bag and all, over my shoulder, grabbed a blanket or two and headed back to the car, Stacy and N hauling the rest of our belongings.  I could hear N's litany of long-suffering complaints the whole walk back.  Once they were stowed soundly in the car we hit the road and headed home, our sights set on our beds.  To sleep; perchance to dream.

I Think We'll Need Another Ecumenical Council

I was quizzing the kids on some catechism questions yesterday. I got some disturbing answers.

DADDY:	How many gods are there?
L:	There are three gods!
DADDY:	<shocked> Really?
L:	Oh wait! No! There's only one God. But He has three friends!

For no really good reason, other than it's convenient, I'll blame this little bit of abomination on Stacy's family. I shall call it the "Trinitarian Harris-y."

Travel Losities

A few random and sporadic notes from last week's business trip:

Monday, July 12, 2010

Going out of town sucks when you can’t bring your family with you. I remember when I was single how bitter I was that my job never called for any out-of-town travelling. Back then it seemed exotic and adventurous: airports and hotels and expense accounts. Fancy restaurants and bars with your coworkers after the workday. Extra vacation days taken to align with the travel so you can sightsee your travel destination. But no matter how much I wanted to, I could never land a project that required any travel. Now, of course, that it is thoroughly abhorrent to me, I travel three or four times a year. I know that that is still small potatoes compared to what a lot of folks I work with have to do, but the timing-irony of it all still gives me what I’d refer to as a “pouty face” if ever it were to show up on my kids.

I’m wrapping up day two of a seven-day stint. Yesterday I flew out; today was the first day of work. It’s hot and humid and foreign on the east coast. My hotel is fine, but nevertheless a hotel.
I called home when I got in and tried to talk to the kids, but they were so sugared up from a day with Aunt Claudia that it was a futile undertaking. She took them to a movie, doused them with adrenaline and confections, and promised to take them places and let them do things that I won’t agree to for at least the next three years. (For L; five years for N…) (Maybe...) (We’ll see.) After three or four minutes of listening to them bounce on their bed and shriek to one another I asked them to give the phone back to Mommy. The real pouty-face-inspiring thing about it all was that Stacy told me Aunt Claudia had given them a play phone today, and all day long they had been walking though the house carrying on long and quite serious conversations with me on it. The Daddy’s always greener…

I dropped a postcard off with the hotel front desk this morning. It had a picture of the Long Beach airport on it. I’d picked it up in the terminal yesterday while I was waiting for my flight. I haven’t had a chance to pick up any local postcards yet, so maybe for tomorrow I’ll jot off a quick letter on hotel stationary. Stacy mentioned that L was in tears yesterday because the “travel picture” she’d drawn for me to take with me on the plane had inadvertently gotten left in the car to be discovered on their drive home. I was kind of bummed when she told me; they really do cheer me up to have them with.

Now it’s off to tug down the overly tight bed sheets of my sanitary and impersonal and quite empty hotel bed, to be followed by a night of inane TV comedy into the wee hours when I’ll finally be able to semi-fall asleep on the overly abundant assortment of alien bed pillows. Travel.


Wednesday, July 14, 2010

When I travel I generally try to pick up something for the kids, and for Stacy too if I can find something interesting. On my last trip I loaded Stacy down with a couple of pounds of interesting loose-leaf teas from a truly old-school tea shop – dark and alchemistic, like a set from a Harry Potter movie. Stacy loved them, and under normal circumstances we would easily and speedily drink our way through them, but we tackled our kitchen remodel immediately thereafter, so they are still sitting in their bags on some half-assembled shelf, unused and lonely, because we have no stovetop on which to boil water. But that’s another story.

I remember my Dad bringing home stuff on the rare occasions when he went on business trips. I don’t remember a single thing he brought back, but I do remember that he brought things. I know that’s kind of a kitschy Americana memory, but in our case when my Dad travelled, it was rarely actually in America. I’m sure, tucked away in corners of my parents’ attic, or in Goodwill stores or landfills, there are copious but forgotten testaments to my Dad’s thoughtfulness from Japan, England, South America and assorted parts unknown.

I had a few minutes before going in this morning, so I walked to a nearby kids’ bookstore I’d seen on a previous excursion. It was one of those independent bookstores that has to work extra hard to create a compelling identity apart from the Borders and Barnes & Noblei of the world. Now I’m not a death-to-Walmart kind of guy, but when it comes to the dying breed of independent bookstores, I do like to support the little guys. (He says with a straight face as he checks whether his Amazon order has shipped or his library hold has shown up at the local branch.) They politely let me bring my coffee inside -- I always ask as I come in, not so much to be a nice guy, but to see whether the shop owner is an uptight jerk; my passion for the little guy tends to evaporate in those cases. I browsed about bit. It looked like they had a preschool or daycare class that met there regularly, which I thought was cool. Off in the corner of the small store there was a marginally stressed looking 20-something lady and a dozen 4- or 5-year olds in various places on the mellowness-to-agitation spectrum, all sitting on a mat having snacktime. As I browsed a bookshelf nearby I began to hear mummers of “Someone’s Daddy is here!” I glanced over and happened to make eye-contact with one little girl. She smiled at me and then leaned over to a friend sitting nearby and whispered “That’s my Daddy over there,” gesturing in my direction.


Friday, July 16, 2010

One workday left, then the long travel day home on Saturday. Flights heading east always go by quicker than flights west. There are good physical reasons for it – the jet stream actually clips half an hour or more from flight times heading east and thwarts progress westbound. But the extra time spent traveling west can’t be fully accounted for by wind speed and good hard science.

There’s definitely a psychosomatic component to it. The relativistic bending of business travel time is the mirror opposite of the similar phenomena I’ve noticed surrounding vacation road trips as a kid. The drive to our coveted vacation destination, though covering the same geographical terrain and comparable road conditions, always took approximately 1.3 eternities longer than the lightning-quick return drive home after all the fun and happinesses have been expended. On business trips my flight “back east” is long but bearable; the reverse trip takes that half hour jet stream offset and parleys it into multiple hours of agonizing psycho-torture. I’ve heard scientists postulate about space/time wormholes that allow you to jump from one spot to another far distant spot at speeds quicker than the speed of light – short circuiting thousands and millions of years of travel time. Being a good conservationist, that leads me to conclude that all the time savings is “made up” somewhere, and I strongly suspect my return flights are subject to a significant about of this time-travel tax.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

To market, to market,
To buy a plum bun
Home again, home again,
Market is done.

My return flight proved to be everything and more than I expected. We closed the cabin door right at 11:50 to secure that statistical “on-time departure,” then sat on the tarmac for an additional 45 minutes until we were cleared for take-off. Then the captain came on the net and said we were being rerouted due to weather, so expect another 15-20 minutes worth of travel time. But luckily my iPod was charged, I was sleep deprived, and Loreena McKennitt was ready, willing and able to serenade me through the heavenly regions.

Whenever I can I fly in and out of Long Beach and avoid the evil behemoth LAX. It’s a sweet little retro airport that looks like something out of a Doris Day movie. We landed an hour late at beloved Daugherty Field and they hauled out the aluminum tarmac staircase and we all deplaned like a multitude of presidents on Air Force One. As I emerged into the dry warm California sunlight at the top of the stairs I was greeted by frantic waving from the observation deck off on the second floor of the airport terminal. Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.

Dreaming My Dreams With You

I starred in my own action movie last night. Unfortunately, it didn't go too well for the hero. The details of the plot are a little sketchy now, but evidently the climactic scene involved me either running with a bomb or me catching one thrown in my direction. As I clasped the bomb to my chest it went off blowing me sky-high and wide awake. In my panicked disintegration I reached out and seized Stacy sleeping to my left, setting that domino a-tumbling. She instantly started screaming for her life and thrashing around, but in a slow-mo running-through-jello sort of way. Even her voice was low and distended, like a Dolores O'Riordan banshee lament in a Cranberries song, or rather, like an Arnold Schwarzenegger death-yell played at half speed. As Stacy convulsed in her alternate universe I screamed at her, not quite up to speed myself, "It's me! It's me! It's me!"

Eventually she came out of her panic and we both collapsed on our backs panting, recovering. That's when we noticed L lying to my right a little shocked and trembling. I asked her what she was doing there and she couldn't remember, explaining that she had a hard time remembering her dreams. As she calmed down she started hiccuping. Stacy, evidently not quite satisfied with the level of ambient adrenaline in the room, whispered in my ear that I should scare her. Never the one to pass up a chance to torture my family, I waited until everything was quiet (save the rhythmic popping coming from L) and lunged at her going "BOO!"

The hiccuping stopped instantly.

Evidently it also pushed some other bio-emotional buttons because all of a sudden she remembered her dream. "Daddy, I was on the deck of a boat. Shooting cannonballs."

And that's were all of this started...