A Much-Needed Vacation

Alex and I needed a vacation.  We whined about our stressed-filled life to six of our friends who also live in La Paz.  They said that they needed a get-away, too.  This gave me a perfect excuse to organize a pre-vacation planning party.  We ate pizzas and agreed on a departure date.  Vacations can be like pizzas.  For some people pepperoni is essential; others prefer artichoke hearts, goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes.  And pine nuts.  We needed to find some common ground.

Ana and Steve don’t camp.  Jeanette and Mike love the mountains where they can hike for miles.  George and Ros prefer the ocean but avoid crowded resorts where waiters hover.   Alex and I favor indoor plumbing.  I looked at Alex and together we said, “Mar Azul.”  It meets everyone’s wants. And it’s less than 1 ½ hours from La Paz.

Ricardo and Cha Cha Troyo own the concrete, geodesic dome, which they call The Igloo, situated at the high-tide line on a pristine beach 30 Kilometers south of Todos Santos. Twelve years ago Alex and I were invited to join the family to spend the day there.

 I remember that day clearly.  We saw the Igloo from highway 1.  We drove through the cement arch and as the car approached the igloo, I heard the surf.   I inhaled deeply and felt my shoulders relax. 

I get that same feeling every time I return to Mar Azul.  And we’ve returned every year.  A few years ago Ricardo built a larger, second igloo near the first but that hasn’t affected the feeling of seclusion.   In fact, when Alex and I pick up friends at the San Jose airport, we often arrange to spend a night at Mar Azul.  It’s a wonderful introduction to Mexico.  In just two short days, our friends who live busy and stressful lives in the States, relax and unwind. Alex’s daughter actually cried when she first saw the beach.

The day after our planning party, I called Ricardo on his cell phone 044 612 141 18573 and reserved both igloos for our two-night vacation.

Last Monday we loaded our cars with coolers, beach chairs, books, bed linens, towels and enough clothes to face any type of weather. We stopped at Karla’s Bakery for pastries and warm rolls (because Pan d’Les wasn’t open yet).  It was an easy drive on the new four-lane highway.  We stopped in Todos Santos to eat fish tacos and bought a kilo of carnitas “to go”. 

As we passed kilometer marker 82, my heart began to race.  Excitement with a touch of worry. Would my friends love the rustic domes and drop-dead gorgeous beach as much as Alex and I do?  Their smiles answered my question.  Then Steve shouted, “Whales!”  We dropped bags and coolers – we dropped everything and began to point.  Whales spouts were everywhere. 

For three days we:  watched whales breach, walked the beach, talked, played games, took photos, and read.   And we ate.  We warmed my chicken mole on the stove and toasted the rolls in the oven.  At night we could read or play Mexican Train because the igloos have 12-volt electricity.  We made campfires and roasted sausages on sticks. At low tide we explored a sea cave.  We walked to the top of Monkey Hill and watched the waves pound the rocks far below. At night the moon lit up the ocean.  I fell asleep to the roar of the surf and awoke to the smell of cowboy coffee.

But good food, conversations, and beautiful surroundings don’t make memories.  No, memories are created by the unexpected.  And I had wanted something memorable to happen although I never imaged that I would be the subject of the memory.  It began so innocently.  I was sitting outside reading and noticed that I began daydreaming about a cup of coffee so I took a short-cut around the back of the igloo and, in full sight of my friends, I tripped, knocked over the 45-pound propane tank and landed on top of it.  As it hit the ground, it hissed in protest and released a cloud of…something.  Alex rushed over, grabbed my hand and dragged my prostrate body about seven feet – yelling the entire time, “Get back, get back, get back!”  In a flash Steve and Mike turned off the gas nozzle.  While the men concentrated on the propane tank, my female friends concerned themselves with the state of my body.  No blood.  No scrapes.  No dislocated arm.  I could be wrong, but I think I managed to create a memory.  

As we headed back to La Paz Wednesday afternoon, we agreed that we got a $600 peso (per night) bargain. We decided that the next time we’ll call Cha Cha’s son, Juan Pablo, who offers his guide services into the nearby Sierra Mountains.    

Next week we’re going to have a post-vacation party.  We’ll make each other copies of the hundreds of photos we shot.  And of course, we’ll order pizza.  Maybe we’ll plan another vacation.  Life is good.

Baby, it's cold outside!

 

February 3, 2011.   La Paz, Mexico.  It’s fifty-six frigid degrees outside at 3:30 in the afternoon.  In the sun.  And the wind is blowing twenty-five miles an hour. Fifty-six is too low and twenty-five is much too fast.    

In 1996 we sold our house in Washington State, quit our jobs, and had a giant garage sale.  We got rid of our work clothes, dress shoes and briefcases.  We also sold our down jackets, boots, scarves and gloves. Alex and I bought swimsuits, goggles and tropical-colored beach towels, the type covered with palm trees.  And we drove south to our desert paradise.

On September3, 1996 we parked in front of our new home and stepped out of our air- conditioned car at 3:30 p.m. We took a breath of La Paz air: a 105-degree steam bath.  Our lungs began to sweat.  Three or four showers a day didn’t help.  It was too hot for the beach so we sat on our patio with our feet in the fountain.  Every so often, we dumped a bag of ice into the water.  We put wet towels over our heads. The house stayed a steady 92 degrees. We hardly slept.  

Just when we thought it couldn’t get any more humid, Hurricane Fausto arrived. Attached to his tail were hoards of flies and mosquitoes. We were living in a Tennessee Williams play.  Without the sex.

It was so hot we didn’t have the energy to complain. Our clunky old air conditioners roared, shook and blew hot air into the house. Finally, we found someone who came and serviced them and the indoor temperature dropped to 86 degrees.  At 11 p.m.

Once our energy returned, we began to whine.  But not too loudly because we’d heard that the rains had arrived in Washington and we knew that Northwest winter wouldn’t be far off.

What we didn’t realize is that winter visits La Paz, also.  We learned that cement-block houses with no insulation, heating or fireplaces are cold.  In December, I went shopping.  Warm sweaters, socks, a jacket, sweat pants, a pair of red gloves, and a stocking cap.  Friends gave me scarves for Christmas.

Today I’m wearing four sweaters, my cap and an alpaca scarf.  In the house.  And I’m still cold.  Alex said, “Judy, it’s too cold in La Paz; maybe we should find a tropical paradise where we can spend our winters.”  But I’ve come up with a better plan.

We have a 10’ x 12’ office equipped with two computers, a printer, TV, DVD player, adding machine, a phone, and halogen lights.   When we close the door and turn on all the electrical equipment, the office is the warmest room of the house.  Tomorrow we’re going to move the microwave oven into the office.  And buy a hot plate and an old apartment-size fridge – the kind that expels lots of heat.  We might install a Murphy bed. 

And we’re inviting you to come visit us.  We’ve got a stationary bike.  We’ll take turns burning calories.  It might be a little tight but, hell, we’ll all be warm. Don’t bother knocking because with all this equipment running, we won’t hear you.  Just come in, but watch for the ice on the stairs.  The office is the room with the closed door. The teapot will be steaming.  And if you have a big fluffy dog who dreams of being a lap dog, please bring her.  We’ll be waiting for you.           

    

Excess Baggage

I’ve made some bad choices this year. 

The first error happened last February, while we were getting ready to travel to Argentina for four months.  We were packing our suitcases.  It was decision time.  What to bring?  What to leave home?

When I was much younger I would have packed shoes.  Lots of them.  Super-high heels, sling-back sandals and sexy boots that were so tight they’d cut off my circulation.

Then, shortly after we arrived in La Paz, my feet began to hurt.  I noticed that Gringos rarely wore fancy shoes.  My heels, sling-backs and boots sat at the back of my closet and became dusty.  One by one, I gave them away to younger Mexican women.  I had joined the “Birkenstocks Generation”.

A few years ago, we took an extended trip to mainland Mexico. The space in my suitcases formerly occupied by my shoes was now assigned to our pillows. I do love my goose-down pillow; it squishes up just right.  And it smells like shampoo and my favorite perfumes. Traveling with my pillow worked fine until last February. 

Now I know that instead of the pillows, what I should have packed was – my scale. Four months is a long time.  And Buenos Aires is a dangerous town for food lovers.  Argentineans traditionally begin their day with coffee and three media lunas (a buttery, sugary roll). My breakfast is normally oatmeal topped with skim milk and sweetened with Splenda.  Which did I choose? Oatmeal or pastry?  Tough decision.  I thought, “What the hell—I’m on vacation.”

Argentineans claim they’re Italians who just happen to speak Spanish.  And their foods of choice prove it. Fresh pasta.  Crusty breads.  Amazing cheeses. And pizza. I was strong.  For a while.   I went from being satisfied with a large salad and one bite of Alex’s pizza to a small salad and one slice of pizza.  And then two slices.  After three months, I didn’t order salad and we were splitting a pizza.

But we walked every day, for hours and hours.  Unfortunately, we’d find ourselves taking a break at a sidewalk café that somehow always involved dessert.

Media Lunas

My jeans became tight.  I blamed the clothes dryer.  My cute little gray jacket developed a tear on the back seam.  I blamed cheap Chinese thread. But, just in case it wasn’t the dryer or the thread, I walked faster and farther.

We returned to La Paz at the end of May.  I circled the scale a few times but just wasn’t brave enough.  For two days I ate salads.  Naked, and before I swallowed even a sip of water, I stepped on the scale.  Lightly.  I opened one eye and looked down.  Up three pounds.  Three pounds in four months.  Not so bad. 

That’s when I made my next bad decision. I took a dance class.  I did a unique version of salsa, hula, and belly dancing. The next morning my right knee was swollen to twice its normal size.  I tried to go for a walk but my knees rebelled. For the first time in twenty-six years I couldn’t exercise.  But, unfortunately, that didn’t affect my appetite. 

The holiday season began. And what can be holier than the heavenly desserts my friends bake? I still eat oatmeal and salads but I’ve discovered that a few chocolate chip cookies smashed on top of the oatmeal are really delicious.  I’ve tried to hide the scones in the back of the freezer along with our leftover King’s Day bread.  But I always find them.  And did you know that King’s Day rosca makes great French toast?

Those three pounds have turned into seven. My jeans are so tight that I can’t sit down after 6 p.m.  I’m afraid to wash them.   Slowly, my knees healed, so I’m exercising again.  But I’m still snacking. A lot.  Especially in the evening. 

Next week’s Tamale Party will be the formal end of the food fest. Then it will be the Cabbage Soup Diet for this kid.  Or the Grapefruit Diet.  I know I can do it – as long as no one invites us to dinner. Or breakfast.  Or coffee.  Seven pounds is a long time to be friendless. 

But we can e-mail.  And talk on the phone.  Call me Thursday morning, February third.  The day after the tamale party. Right after I weigh myself.  And eat a grapefruit.  If I don’t answer the phone, it’s probably because I’ve locked myself in the freezer with the leftover tamales.

We Are Not Mexican.

We are not Mexican.

 

Many of us enjoy Mexican food and music and we’ve even learned to speak some Spanish (with heavy accents), and we celebrate the local holidays but we’re still not Mexican.  There’s at least one thing that sets us apart from our Mexican friends – our sense of time.

No, I’m not talking about the “manana” phenomenon.  I’m talking about our sense of Party Time.

The holiday season in La Paz runs from mid-December through Carnaval. And each occasion is a reason to throw a house party. 

Our first Christmas in La Paz we were invited to Marta and Gabo’s home on Dec. 24^th.  They said to come at 8 p.m.  We arrived at 8:10.  The house was dark.  We sat in the car for twenty minutes and wondered if we’d misunderstood.  At 8:30 we knocked. Gabo opened the door, invited us into the living room and said, “Marta will be downstairs soon; she’s in the shower.”  I sat on the edge of the chair and gripped the Cuba Libre that Gabo had placed in my hand.  Alex drained his in three gulps.  And we waited. 

Soon other ex-pats began to arrive.  We exchanged looks and shrugged our shoulders. Together we waited. At 9:00 Marta hurried down the stairs.  She looked beautiful.  Hair, make-up and high heels – all perfect.  At 9:45 (nearly two hours after we’d knocked on the door) Mexicans began to arrive. By 10:30 the party was in full swing.  The Mexicans were laughing and telling stories but I noticed that our extranjero friends were beginning to droop.  At eleven o’clock Sally and Mike stood.  Marta said to them, “You can’t leave yet.  We’re going to have dinner soon.”  They sat down.  At midnight a delicious calorie-rich dinner was served.   At 2 we drank espresso and ate chocolate rum cake.  When we left the party at 4:15 a.m. Marta’s parents, who were in their late 70s, walked us to our car. They were wide-eyed and seemed energized.

We assumed that we’d be the only people on the road at that hour but we were wrong.  Traffic was heavy.  And the taco and hot dog stands were crowded.  I said to Alex, “Look at all these people – can you believe it?”  We weren’t in another dimension; we were in Party Time – Mexican Style.

That was fourteen years ago.  And every Mexican party it’s been the same.  Arrive at ten.  Eat at midnight.  Don’t expect to climb into bed before three o’clock. 

What must Mexicans think when they come to the typical extranjero party?  Arrive at five o’clock, dinner served at six, dessert at seven, and on your way home by eight.  We laugh and can tell jokes, too, but we subscribe to a Readers Digest version of Partying. 

Some of us regularly go to bed by 9 p.m. but it’s not like we need to go to work in the morning. Others admit that they like to leave a party early so they can go home to relax and unwind.  Could attending a party be an effort for us?

Perhaps it’s a cultural difference?

We’ve been fortunate enough to travel to Argentina, Greece and Italy and in each of these countries dinner (whether at home or at a restaurant) is normally enjoyed after 10 p.m. and live music doesn’t begin until midnight. Yet people go to work, clean their houses, play with their children and still have time for friends.

People in those countries usually work until late in the evening.  Is that a factor?  Could living in extended families inject people with more energy? Maybe drinking strong coffee in the afternoon and again in the evening has something to do with it?   

I have many questions but very few answers.  But I realize that there’s no right way or no wrong way to enjoy a party.  Just different ways.  So, I’ll be happy to come to your party whether it starts at

5 or 10 p.m.   Please, invite me. Just don’t call after nine.

  

      

A Whale of a Tail

It was a weird feeling.  Located somewhere between my heart and stomach.  Sort of like a tickle but more like dread. 

The sensation started moments after I’d said, “Yes.”  The word escaped my lips before my brain realized what my vocal cords had said.

Her young face glowed when she heard my “yes”.  I’d enthusiastically said “yes” to her question, “Would you like to swim with the whale sharks – tomorrow?” 

Jen is the daughter of our friends and is visiting La Paz for the holidays. She’s young, tall and lean; she has the body of a Scandinavian…a natural athlete.  My shape and heritage come from Greece so my center of gravity is well below my waist.  I have never been able to use my arms to pull myself out of a swimming pool.

If you get off the boat, how will you get back in?  Fear was doing all the talking and he was scaring me. The water is freezing at this time of year.  How about jelly fish?  And currents?  If you get off the boat, how will you get back in?  Will there be a ladder?   Even if there’s a ladder, will it have just one step? What if you need to pee? Over and over Fear spoke and I listened.  And as Dread grew my confidence shriveled.

Alex was looking at me. “Judy, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.  What’s wrong?”  I told him about Fear’s tirade.  Alex said, “Don’t worry; I’ll help you onto the boat.  We’ll rent a wet suit so you won’t be cold and no jelly fish will get you.  Bring a really warm jacket with a hood and put it on when you get out of the water.  Judy, please don’t miss this opportunity.”  Alex was almost as convincing as Fear.  Almost. 

Fear held me in his arms that night and in the morning he woke me.  I looked out the window hoping for high winds.  The palm trees slept quietly.  I searched for rain clouds.  Just two happy puff balls. Did my throat feel sore?  Maybe just a little.  And then the phone rang.

Jen’s excited voice convinced me that I couldn’t disappoint her.  Or myself.

At ten o’clock we met across the street from Burger King.  Hector helped us get into the boat.  The wet suit actually fit me (in fact, it was a little too big).  The boat had a three-step ladder.  My big black LA Raiders jacket was warm.  The sea was flat.  After a short fifteen minute ride, Eduardo, the captain, slowed the boat.  There they were – right on the surface.  Huge.  Speckled.  And they seemed to be waiting for us. 

I struggled into my fins and snorkel gear.  Meanwhile, Jen had slipped silently into the water.  My whale shark started to swim away from the boat.  I shuffled my fin-shod feet to the edge of the boat, elbowed Alex out of the way, and flopped into the water.  Alex later told me that he’d never seen me swim so fast.  I was after that big fish.  Then he stopped.  I swam directly over his back.  I lay spread eagle about six inches above him.    I reached down and stroked his back.  Not a bit slimy.  In fact, he felt dry – like velvet.  And then he was gone.

Alex and the boat captain had to help me back into the boat but I was too excited to be embarrassed.  Three times, I jumped into the water and each time was different.  The second time the whale shark was feeding.  His mouth was huge.  His body was almost vertical. 

On the last occasion, two whale sharks were right next to our boat which gave our friends in the boat a perfect photo opportunity.  And, from my position in the water, my eyes were inches away from his long gills.  I had imagined that I’d be afraid of his mouth, his tail or his massive size but no – no, it was those gills that opened and closed, opened and closed that got to me.  This was a life.  Most likely the largest life form that I would ever touch. 

As we headed back to shore everything sparkled: the color of the sea, the tall mountains behind the city and, from the water, La Paz glowed.  We are fortunate to live in a town that tourist pay to visit.  And, thanks to my young friend, Jen, I realize that, although I’ve lived here for more than fourteen years, there are still more amazing things to see and do if I challenge Fear and say, “Yes!” to new opportunities

In The Beginning...

She was taught that “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  And He saw that it was good.”  Gen. 1:1. 

The earth was covered with water until He caused dry land and mountains to rise up.  The barren ground seemed like a blank canvas so He painted a landscape and blew life into it.  Satisfied, He rested.  Although He enjoyed watching the wind blow through the trees, He wanted to see more movement so He formed fish, flying creatures and animals.  Then God came up with a brilliant plan.  Animal life would inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide.  Plant life would absorb carbon dioxide and release oxygen.  A perfect balance. And He saw that it was good.

Then things got messed up.  Somehow the food chain appeared.  Life forms began to kill and eat one another.  Fear and violence were the natural by-products of this system.  Man invented war, in part, to obtain land and a steady food supply.  And man said, “The food chain is good because we’re at the top of it.”

Many years later, in a tiny corner of the Baja, an older woman battled with depression. 

Forty five years earlier, she was an innocent city girl with her head stuck firmly in the concrete sidewalks of Boston.  She’d marvel at the pretty birds and lady bugs – until she married a farm boy who (she later learned) knew how to wring a chicken’s neck and set a fish hook. 

One day she pointed to the sky and said, “Look at the beautiful raven.”  He answered, “Did you know that they rob eggs out of nests and eat them?”  Did he notice her tears?

 Years later she looked toward the Bay of La Paz, “Did you see the fish jump?”  He replied, “They’re jumping because bigger fish are attacking them.”  She felt as if he’d stuck a hook through her heart.

“Honey, the strong kill the weak.  That’s nature.  It’s been that way since the beginning of time.” 

Where once she observed beauty, she now saw violence.  Her mind understood but her more gentle nature resisted.

Then one morning her husband walked into their kitchen and saw his wife contemplating a cockroach.  He walked over and smashed it like a bug. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

“He was afraid.  I could see it in his eyes.”

Her husband shook his head and suggested that she start taking Prozac again.

And so (maybe in a drug-induced state) one night she dreamed up an almost perfect solution to the violent nature of life. In her dream, time flew backwards.  Before the Irish potato famine, before Aztec human sacrifices, before the locust plague of Egypt, and even before the time God approved of Abel’s slaughtering his little lamb as a sacrifice.  Back.  Back. Back.  To immediately before the existence of insects, fish, birds or animal life.

In her dream God was a woman!  Inside Her factory prototypes of new and improved models of earthly creatures were being assembled.  Into each still-lifeless chest a tender heart was placed.  When the switch of life was flipped, compassion flowed along with oxygen-rich blood.  A deluxe-model brain with the ability (and the will) to solve problems in a peaceful manner was inserted into the head.  And a new super-size sophisticated respiratory system was placed in the body.  What was missing was – the entire digestive system. From the simplest to the most highly developed creature, life would rely on oxygen for nutrition.

She interrupted her own dream to protest, “But I love to eat.  What about going out to restaurants with friends?”

“Simple”, her kinder self replied. “Visualize joining friends for a private French feast.  You’re in the Baja but the restaurant resembles a countryside chateau.  You sit on tastefully decorated sofas.  The waiter takes your order and the French doors close. You notice the aroma of fresh wildflowers, ripe grapes and a hint of sun-kissed clover.  You close your eyes, relax and breathe deeply.  Conversation is rich and satisfying. At the end of the evening, you pay the check.  Prices depend on the quantity and quality of French air inhaled. 

“Think of it”, her creative side said.  “There could be All-You-Can-Breathe buffets.  Pick a country.  Located at each chair is a machine that looks like an i-Pod.  Dial the air you want to breathe.  At your side are tiny oxygen-carrying nozzles.   You want Maui beach air?  Select #7.  Your husband wants the Alps with a side of Chinese?  Easy – that’s #12 and #37.”

In her dream she designed the typical home.  Family room, bedrooms and the rooms used for cleansing the body (the bath room).  No kitchen.  No greasy stove.  No dining room. No smelly toilets.   Large windows to let in air.  Pollution a problem?  Although air purifiers do the trick, the environment is protected as if lives depend on it because – because they do. 

Picture it:  tiny grocery stores…just cleaning supplies and air filters.  When you walk your dog there’s no poop to pick up.  No cat litter.  Cats don’t kill birds.  Birds don’t hunt worms.  No slaughterhouses or cruel livestock industry.  The entire food chain collapses.

Although old age and accidents keep the population under control, obesity and digestive-based diseases evaporate into thin air.  

In her dream world “the lion lays down with the lamb and a little child leads them”.  But instead of the boy eating a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch, together they breathe the same air of peace.

She awoke with a smile on her face.  But questions slowly brought her back to reality. Would huge noses and giant chests become fashionable?  How about teeth?  Do they serve any purpose other than chewing?  Flossing is a bore but being toothless isn’t a very attractive alternative. The questions continued.  Maybe the answers will appear in her dreams.  Perhaps tonight.

An Unexpected Gift

We live in a seasonal tide pool.  Each summer the outgoing flow sweeps expats northward.   And we return to La Paz in a wave when temperatures fall in October.  We’re critters who arrive with bags of luxuries:  450 count Egyptian cotton sheets, packets of Indian spices, lap top computers, enough books to get us through the winter and gifts.  Gifts for the women who clean our houses and for our friends who remain here through the sweltering summer clinging to their air conditioners and their sanity like barnacles on the bottom of abandoned boats.

 I’m not often surprised but last night I received an unexpected present.  Our friends, Mike and Jeanette, have a home in Utah and another in La Paz.  They invited us to visit them this summer. Our Miata, Zoom, was bored driving the same San Francisco East Bay roads so we decided a road trip would be a fantastic idea. 

We packed Zoom’s mini-trunk with clothes and walking shoes since Jeanette and Mike are avid hikers. 

We drove through the golden hills of California, gagged driving past the Harris Ranch stench on I-5, won $8 in Nevada, and took 100 photos in Zion National Park. 

Jeanette and Mike welcomed us into their canyon home and their lives.  And for three days we hiked.  The hills of San Francisco didn’t prepare us of the ups and downs of Utah’s 11,000-foot mountains.  Nor were we ready for the winds at that elevation.  As we climbed up, the wind pushed us backward.  Then the wind would suddenly stop and we’d lurch forward.  It was during an extreme wind gust that my Zoom hat flew off my head and landed on a precipitous slope.  The four of us took turns peeking over the edge.  Yes, we could see my hat but we all shook our heads at the possibility of retrieving it.  I said in my most adult voice, “It’s no big deal; I can buy another hat.”  And I was sure that I had convinced them. 

The next day, Jeanette gave me the pick of their baseball-hat collection but none sat quite right on my head.  I chose the one with the largest visor-big enough to hide my loss. 

When we returned to the Bay Area, three Mazda dealerships told me that they’d be stocking Zoom caps for Christmas.  Although I was surprised I couldn’t buy a hat immediately, I had to admit that I didn’t really want a new hat.  The spoiled brat that I try to keep locked in the dungeon of my personality pouted, “I want my OLD Zoom hat back.” 

Alex and I drifted back to La Paz in October along with the incoming tide of Estranjeros.  Mike and Jeanette arrived in the second wave. 

Last night we met for dinner.  I reached up to give Mike a hug and sitting on his head was…my Zoom hat! 

Jeanette and Mike had returned to the peak the week after we left.  And there was my hat teasing them from its resting place on the steep slope.  Mike tried to snag it with a fishing line but couldn’t quite hook it. He decided to try to climb down.  He picked his way down the precipice and snatched the hat, but after sliding and twisting his knee, Jeanette had to throw him a rope so he could ascend safely.  Hand over hand he climbed out with my hat securely in his belt.  Like a real-life hero he saved it from the blistering heat and raging wind. 

Last night, as Mike removed my Zoom hat from his head and I placed it firmly on mine, I realized that this tall quiet man is much more than the person I thought I knew.  He’s determined,  patient, and a risk taker.  An adventurer with a sense of humor.  And my friend.