Machado’s play had three scenes, all set in the same kitchen. In the first, an affluent, pregnant, young woman is preparing to flee Cuba during the revolution of the early 1950′s.  She begs her cook to help her get away and to take care of the house until she returns. She pledges undying devotion to her servant. In the second scene, years have passed since the revolution. The Cuban people have faced great austerity, and the kitchen is showing signs of deterioration. In the third scene, even more years later, the kitchen is even shabbier. The cook has opened a restaurant in the house. The grown daughter of the woman who fled (who looks just like her mother, and of course is played by the same actress) returns to claim the house and berate the cook for not having taken better care of her property, and for having opened the restaurant. She has no knowledge of any special relationship between her mother and the cook.

In Carlos Eire’s memoir there are frequent images of the valuable objects he remembers in his parents’ art and antique-filled  home in the wealthy district of Miramar, and in the even more beautiful mansions of even wealthier Cubans, pre-revolution. There are paintings on the walls and objets d’art in cases and on stands throughout the tall-ceilinged rooms, where the windows are covered with louvered blinds and heavy draperies.

On our first night in Havana, we were taken to the Havana Club, a famous (we were told) restaurant in the Miramar District. Driving through the residential neighborhood, I caught glimpses in the dimly lighted streets of big houses behind high walls. I wondered if one of the houses we passed could have been the childhood home of Carlos Eire. Ilen, our Cuban guide, told us that the government permits families to set up restaurants in their own homes–called paladars. Permit is the operative word. The family-owned restaurants compete with government-run hotels to provide tourists with a different dining experience. The high-ceilinged rooms in this restaurant could have been part of a grand home. This dinner wasn’t memorable–all I wrote in my journal is  that it was served family style, that I drank watermelon juice, and that “The ice cream was the best part.”

We ate in several paladars in the course of our trip. On our third night in Havana, when we were on our own, we went to San Cristobal, a paladar highly recommended by Ilen. No question that this had been and still was a family’s home. In the banjos I peeked behind a curtain across one end of the room and found a bathtub. The walls of the high-ceilinged rooms were covered with paintings, the tall windows decorated with blinds and draperies, several old clocks stood on shelves or hung on the walls.  We ordered from a menu here–it was nice to be able to order individually after many buffet meals–and the grilled shrimp on a skewer were delicious. When we left the proprietor gave each woman at our table a little gift, an old brooch, no two alike. Mine is a little cluster of enamel flowers with rhinestone centers, one little stone missing.

In Trinidad we ate in two paladars in one day. Where we had lunch near the square, there were tables set up in the bedrooms, or perhaps I should say there were beds in some of the dining rooms. These rooms too were lavishly furnished. That night we ate at Davimart, another well-known paladar; he encouraged us to visit his website! We had lobster which I thought was very good, my journal says best meal so far  (it was our seventh evening), but Don was sick that night.

I also wrote that the band at Davimart was the best so far. Every restaurant had a band of its own, even at lunch, usually no more than four or five pieces, sometimes with a singer. We got so tired of Guantanamera!  Even the kids at the nursery school sang it to us.

Every restaurant, and hotel too, always greeted us with a welcome drink, most often  a mojito. Sometimes we were handed a glass with mint, ice, soda and lime juice, and the rum was poured on later. At Davimart we had a rum and honey drink served in special earthenware cups, and at Casa Verde in Cienfuegos the welcome drink was a Cuba libre, rum and Coke. At Las Brisas Resort outside of Trinidad, where we stayed for two nights, there was a list of rum drinks painted on the wall next to the bar. The purple wrist band clamped onto each of us as we checked allowed us unlimited drinks, and so I tried as many on the list as I was able to. Not the best but the most beautiful was unlisted but available at the beach bar. It was called a Blue Lagoon, rum with blue Curacao. Imagine yourself lying back on a terrycloth covered lounge under an umbrella on a sandy beach with a bright blue drink at your side….

As a reviewer of food in Cuba I have to say that the best meals were seafood, but nowhere was the food great. Lots of black beans and rice, lamb that was closer to mutton, lots of chicken. Sandwiches bought outside of the hotel were dry. There was not as much fresh fruit as one would expect, mostly bananas and oranges; on our bicycle-rickshaw ride through the old town, our peddler stopped at a market and brought us an orange. It was juicy and tasty, and it had been peeled on a gadget like the one Don uses to make dried apples. However, the oranges in our sack lunches from the hotels were so dry we couldn’t peel them. Still, the foods we were served were far better than what the Cubans ate. We went into a food store in Trinidad where Cubans lined up to receive their monthly allotments of flour, rice, beans, meat, oil and eggs. All these commodities were not available every day; a blackboard on the wall showed what could be bought that day. Ilen had her family’s ration book with her, so we could see what she was able to buy for her family of three. Reminded me of the ration books during World War II, when I was a little girl. Nobody starves in Cuba, at this time. In the past, it was not so good. Nobody is homeless either, but some of the occupied buildings we saw would have been condemned in Seattle. I hope that conditions continue to improve for Cubans–go there, spend money, write to Congress to lift the embargo!

Cubans had been chafing under Spanish rule through the 19th Century. The Spanish relinquished control of Cuba in 1898 in a war we call the Spanish American War, but which our Cuban guide, Ilen, calls the “Cuban, Spanish, American War.” The great Cuban revolutionary Jose Marti was a leader then, killed in 1895, and the United States came in for only a few months–think Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders famous charge up San Juan Hill. Cuba finally became an independent republic in 1902, but an amendment to the Treaty of Paris gave the U.S. some controls (they called it protection) and Guantanamo Bay. The closest of all the Caribbean countries to the U.S., Cuba became an American playground. Many famous Americans visited or moved there, and also lots of not-so-famous people. The walls of one of our hotels in Havana, Hotel Nacional de Cuba, was practically papered with photos of celebrities in the hotel, including many with Fidel Castro.

After a series of governments rising and falling, in 1953 another Cuban revolution began against the corrupt and repressive Batista government. This was led by Fidel and Raul Castro, whose turn toward communism angered and frightened the United States. In 1960 the United States began an embargo on Cuba, prohibiting all exports to Cuba. In response, Cuba strengthened relations with the Soviet Union. For more than 40 years, there was no trade, and the only way United States citizens could visit Cuba was by sneaking in through Canada, Mexico, or another country. In 1996 the Helms-Burton Act strengthened the embargo, prohibiting private groups from distributing humanitarian aid to Cuba, and in 2004 President Bush eliminated Culture Exchange Licenses to Cuba, prohibiting high school and college groups from traveling there.

I’m going to leap ahead. It’s 2011, there’s no longer a Soviet Union, tourism is the biggest industry in Cuba, tourists abound from every country except the United States, and Cuba can trade openly with every country except the United States. But in this year, some sanity at last. President Obama eases travel restrictions to Cuba, affinity groups (educational, cultural, religious, etc.) are allowed entry, and in January of 2012 I flew, openly, from Miami to Havana on a Grand Circle Foundation People-to-People “Bridge Between Cultures.”

Among the things I learned: the United States has a presence in Cuba. It’s called a Special Interests Section. It is technically an arrangement with the embassy of Switzerland, but that’s a formality. Actually it’s part of the State Department. The United States has three Special Interests Sections, all in countries where we don’t have diplomatic relations: Cuba, North Korea, and Iran. I googled U.S. Special Interests in Cuba and eventually found several photos of the building. (See the link.) We were taken there on our third day in Havana. It is a large, windowless building with the Stars and Stripes flying outside, lots of security outside and in. Our Cuban guide was not allowed to come in with us, no photos of course, and we all had to show our passports to be allowed inside, where a spokeswoman from the State Department explained that a Special Interests Section functions much like a consulate, issuing visas, etc., but it doesn’t have that title. They work, she said, under constraints from both countries. She gave us history from the political point of  view, justifying the U.S. position, but the questions we asked were more about how she lives in Cuba. (She lives in Havana, has a car, carries on daily living in the city; many of the employees in the section have families with children who go to school and spouses who have jobs outside of the Special Interests Section.)

One week later, on our last day in Cuba, we had a lecture on the embargo from the Cuban point of view. I felt sorry for our lecturer; he was not an official from an agency or government, but an engineer who had strong feelings about reaching out to Americans. His English was not great (lots better than my Spanish) and maybe we overwhelmed him with our questions. When he brought up the five Cubans in American prisons, I asked why Cuba was keeping Alan Gross imprisoned (Gross is an American Jew who came to Cuba to help the Jewish community set up a communication system). He didn’t have an answer.

By this time, we had heard many Cubans speak against the embargo–artists, musicians, dancers, others we met as part of the cultural exchange, people who wanted to extend their audience into the States. There was a thread going through their discourse–that the only people in favor of the embargo are wealthy Cuban-Americans living in Florida who are making a lot of money because of the embargo. There was the belief that these entrepreneurs export American goods to South American countries, from whence they are shipped to Cuba. Is that a bizarre idea? I don’t know.

Enough of politics. You can’t go to Cuba without being aware of the embargo, but there was so much more to my trip. Next post, I’m going to write about food.

(Much of the information in this post came from the Grand Circle Foundation catalogue, Cuba People-to-People Journeys, www.grandcirclefoundation.org/cuba)

We left Seattle just after three days of snow, when most of the city had shut down, and had five days to spend in Florida, in Everglades and Biscayne National Parks, and also in Miami and Miami Beach, before we met our group and flew off in a chartered Delta plane for Havana, along with several other groups of Americans. Entering Cuba was easy; our American guide, Tatiana, handed us packets that contained our visas, roundtrip tickets, and forms to be filled out–Immigration, Customs–and we were on our way. In Havana, we tried to give these forms to officials, but they just waved us away. The United States government used to forbid its citizens from visiting Cuba–they had to sneak in from Canada or Mexico–but last summer the rules changed. Now American citizens in affinity groups–religious, cultural, etc.–are allowed to visit. Not as tourists–oh, no, not that–but for cultural exchanges. That’s what we were doing, exchanging, being cultural ambassadors, while we toured around.  And also American citizens are not supposed to visit Cuban beach resorts, but one of the hotels we stayed in sure looked and felt like a resort–sandy beach, non-stop entertainment, purple wristbands that gave us entree to everything and all we could drink! I want to write more about Cuba later, but for starters, here’s one of our cultural exchanges.

In Cienfuegos, we started out at the “jardin de UNEAC, which stands for Union de Escritores y Artisans de Cuba, and is pronounced ‘oo nee ac‘. We had a talk by the president and some of the artists. UNEAC supports five different creative endeavors: painting, sculpture,  film, dance, literature. Then we had a Q and A with him and some of the artists.  (I asked a lot of questions about writers and publishers.)” That quotation was from my journal. One of the artists whose wife is a writer/poet asked us to stay after the afternoon dance recital (a children’s programs that is part of UNEAC) to meet her. Then

Camilo and Goldie with Matryoshka

we toured some of the artists’ studios. In the studio of Camilo Villavilla Soto, Artista plastico, we saw a ceramic sculpture piece that we really liked. There are two systems of money in Cuba, one for Cubans and the other for foreigners. We agreed that we would go back to the hotel to convert our dollars to the special Cuban Convertible Pesos called “kooks” and he would bring the piece to the afternoon visit.That visit turned out to be one of the most meaningful encounters of our trip.

My sculpture looks like a Russian matryoshka doll that is also a grenade. I think that when Camilo created it, he was thinking of all the hidden entities, secrets possibly good or bad, inside such a doll and also of the potential destruction of a grenade. I think of it as a protest against the Russian presence in Cuba–of course they are gone now, but still it was a daring political act to make such art, and maybe not such a safe thing for him to do. And the other reason why I liked the piece so much is that I have a small collection of matryoshka dolls, the first from a visit to the Soviet Union in 1977.

Goldie with her Matryoshka dolls

Camilo brought the grenade/doll to the garden, and after the darling children and their parents had packed up and gone home, Camilo, our guide American Tatiana, Don and I, the poet and her artist husband, and two or three other artists sat for perhaps two hours talking about  getting published there and in the states, about editors, about publicizing and marketing our work (she relied a lot on readings),  about the lives of artists and then more broadly about all our lives. I showed them my pictures of my family, including one that showed my collection of matryoshka dolls. The artists, some of them, had had shows in the U.S., all in east coast cities, and they said that musical and dance groups also had toured. Very few had traveled beyond the other coast, but of course they all said they

My collection

would like to. We’re grateful to Tatiana for translating; her family is from Peru, and she grew up bi-lingual, so while she is fluent in both Spanish and English, it isn’t easy switching from one to the other.

I plan to write more about Cuba soon–people ask about the food, the hotels, etc., but now I’m just going to show the pictures of my new matryoshka, in my collection.

Last summer I took a course with Road Scholar on the scablands of eastern Washington, studying how giant lakes, damned up by glaciers, broke loose and carved the deep coulees that are there now:  the Grand Coulee where the dam is, Dry Falls once many times greater than Niagara, and many features of the Columbia Gorge. As we toured we found many erratics,  each “a rock somehow transported and dropped some distance from its original home” (David Alt,   Glacial Lake Missoula and Its Humongous Floods, 2001). These rocks were not all pebbles; some were the size of a two story house.

Now I know of two of these rocks, right here in Seattle. When I lived in a neighborhood called Wedgwood Rock, near Eckstein Middle School, there was a big rock up the hill from my house. I knew that if that rock broke loose it would roll down 72nd NE right into my house–of course it would take a humongous earthquake to break it loose. In early Seattle days, people would make an excursion of going out to see Big Rock. You can see it easily. Go to 28th Ave NE, between NE 75th St and Ne 72nd St. The rock is covered with foliage and 28th curves around it. Please don’t bother the neighbors who have the rock in their front yard.

The second rock, you can’t see. Believe. While we were walking down Broadway with our regular walking group, George Guttmann stopped us in front of Casa del Rey Apartments and told us this story: Many years ago, he had been working on a construction project to dig out a street level space under that residential building which at the time was up a small slope next to the sidewalk. As they dug, they found an enormous rock, so big that removing it would be very difficult, and of course blasting it, which was common with big rocks in early Seattle, was out of the question. So they secured the rock with ropes to keep it in place, and dug behind it and under it until they had a gigantic hole. They rolled the rock into the hole and covered it. It’s still there, under the floor. As you step across the level threshold at the retail space under Casa del Rey, think about that rock and ponder–how many big rocks lie under the surface of my city? In my neighborhood? Under my house?

Bread pudding was originally a Depression Era treat. Cookbooks from those times say, if you have six slices of bread leftover, and if your chickens are laying, then all you need is some milk and some sugar or honey, and even less of that if you don’t have much, and you can have bread pudding.

That’s basic. We have developed certain criteria for good bread pudding. It should not be too dense, but it also should not be loose–that means, that it should hold a square shape and not sag into a lump, but it should give way under gentle pressure from a spoon. It should not be too sweet or too bland, but it should be tasty without resort to a sauce. The flavor should be more complex than plain sweetening–at the least, vanilla or cinnamon. If it has a sauce, that too should not be too sweet, but flavorsome. Brandy or bourbon sauce is good, if it’s not too sweet. The bread pudding should not lose the character of whatever it was made of–so it should still look like chunks of bread, croissant, cinnamon roll, whatever. A dense mass of unrecognizable stuff is not good. Additions like raisins, nuts, chocolate chips are all good, but not necessary.

The best bread pudding we ever tasted was made at a restaurant no longer in existence. Jeff and Susan Pedersen had a cafe within their Petroleum Museum in Seattle. A friend and I celebrated our 60th birthdays there, with a Depression Era menu: oysters, baked salmon, bean salad, bread pudding–all those items were Depression foods in Seattle, where oysters were free for the gathering and Indians went door to door selling salmon for twenty-five cents apiece. The bread pudding Susan served was made of chunks of pound cake, real cream, sugar, and chocolate chips.

The best bread pudding we have had recently we enjoyed just ten days ago, at BOKA KITCHEN & BAR, on First Avenue in downtown Seattle. The texture was just right, the taste was just right, the square of pudding rested on creme Chantilly (whipped cream) and was topped with ice cream–cardamom or cinnamon or something exotic. The whole was topped by a delicate, almost transparent praline made of sugar and nuts, standing on edge in the ice cream. What a great treat!

No, I don’t make bread pudding! How can I compete?

Don and Goldie at Arches National Park

What do you think when you see this picture of Don and me? That we are enjoying a moment of  quiet repose, soaking in the scenery of Arches National Park and breathing in the dry desert air?

We are standing at the fenced off entrance to the Fiery Furnace waiting for the ranger who will lead us through this area so convoluted with slot canyons (narrow passages), fins (slim vertical rocks), and other rocks that casual visitors are not allowed into the Furnace by themselves. The park service requires that you sign up for a ranger guided tour or obtain a special permit. Tourist books call the Fiery Furnace a maze or a labyrinth; it is also one of the most incredible and spectacular spaces in the park. The route through requires scrambling and squeezing through tight spaces. We had each paid our non-refundable $25 for the trip, there was a waiting list of people who didn’t make the quota, and in the picture I am wondering if this trip is something I really want to do.

I was sick. I had left home with “a little cold,” and the heat (over ninety degrees every one of these September days), the altitude (over 6,000 feet), and my dehydration from the first two had made my little cold much worse. I seemed to be constantly coughing, and I had already started on my second box of cough drops for the day. On the other hand, I knew this was probably the only time in my life that I would have the opportunity to go through the Fiery Furnace. I felt miserable, so of course I chose to go with the ranger. I coughed my way through: I scrambled, crawled, and squeezed. I ate cough drops. Near the end of the tour, the ranger had the group spread out on a flat area, surrounded on all sides by straight rock walls. She told us to lie back and look at the sky, while she led us through the millions of years of history of this remarkable place. It was a beautifully meditative moment, and I was out of cough drops. I coughed and coughed. Finally another hiker offered me her supply. At the end of the tour, I apologized to the ranger, I apologized to the other hikers. They were generous and lovely. They said I had not disturbed them, they said I was wonderful, a role model, a real trooper. We want to be like you when we grow up, these young people assured me.

What does this incident have to do with the movie, “172 Hours,” about a single hiker trapped in a slot canyon who amputated his own arm in order to escape? Only that we watched the movie and I was reminded of the Fiery Furnace, I thought again of how dangerous the wilderness can be and how fool-hardy it can be to take chances there. After the Fiery Furnace, I dragged through the rest of our time in Colorado, went on to my 60th high school reunion like a zombie, and when I came home my doctor told me I had pneumonia.

Brightwater had been in the news for several years before it was finally completed. First the usual problems of where to put it–NIMBY–not in my backyard. Then there were construction problems, like when the high-tech European drill that was supposed to dig the long tunnel through which treated water would flow from the plant to Puget Sound broke down, and all the digging stopped while we waited for parts from Europe. Like that. But now the plant is almost complete, so complete that it’s open for tours, on Mondays for adult groups, by reservation, and during the rest of the week for school groups.

Photo by Jon Ostrow

So there we were, fourteen of us, decked out in yellow hard hats and bright green  vests, gathered in the Environmental Education Community Center, ready to spend two hours walking, climbing stairs, and looking at pipes–lots of pipes, giant pipes, small pipes, white pipes, silver pipes and even purple pipes. Purple pipes are significant–they carry the reclaimed water that is 99% purified, used to water the extensive landscaping of the grounds and to flush the toilets, but not fit to drink.

We learned about separating bio-solids from liquids, to make rich compost that is trucked to the wheat fields of Eastern Washington, and each of us received a small bag of compost to enrich our own gardens. We walked–fast–through the intake house where the fresh sewage comes into the plant, but that was the only place in the whole plant that was stinky. And no stink gets out! There are air cleaners that keep the bad smells inside.

The Important 4 P's

Outside the pipes and buildings there are acres of landscaping with paved walking paths and native plants. Artworks abound, especially in the Education Center, where we returned to turn in our vests and hats, and study the amazing art. The Art Plan for Brightwater was completed in 2003; a photographer began documenting the work, from demolition of structures to completion, in 2004. The art work was commissioned by 4Culture, the arts administration of King County. I can’t resist this last comment: our guide told us that the most popular exhibit for school children is this one: a toilet, with a sign that read, Any Thing That’s Not One of The Four P’s–Poop, Pee, Puke,or toilet Paper–Should Go Into Trash. It made us stop to think–don’t flush facial tissue!

The Brightwater Treatment Plant is in Woodinville, WA, off Highway 9 at 228th St. SE. To make arrangements for your group to visit, go to:  www.kingcounty.gov/environment/wtd/Education/PlantTours.aspx

I wrote about removing the Elwha dams on the Olympic peninsula in a post last April (scroll down to read it if you’ve forgotten). Two dams on the Elwha River, the Elwha Dam (1913) and the Glines Canyon Dam (1927), produced a lot of electricity but destroyed a fantastic fishery,  even though state law at the time required dams to be built with some provision for a by-pass for fish. Now there are other, bigger, less destructive producers of electricity for the area, and the river can be returned to its original state. I wanted to see the dams before the destruction begins, in September 2011. Two weeks ago we drove to Port Angeles, WA, on our quest, but we had a disappointment. The road to the Elwha Dam, which is the lower of the two, was closed on the very day we arrived! A pleasant but firm young man in a hard hat told us that we were not allowed to either walk or drive the one mile to the dam. Nuts!  We drove on to Olympic National Park where the Glines Canyon Dam is located; on the way, we stopped at an overlook to see Lake Aldwell, behind the Elwha Dam. Then on into the park and the dam. Chain link fences kept us from walking onto the Glines Canyon Dam, but I put my camera right up against the fence and photographed through it. Then we drove a little higher to stand on the banks of Lake  Mills, behind that dam. Maybe I’ll go back in a few months when the destruction of the Elwha Dam has begun; the contractors have promised that there will be a safe viewing site. Meanwhile, don’t wait. What’s on your list?

The Snoqualmie Tunnel is on the Iron Horse Trail alongside I-90 which crosses Washington state east to west. The trail, on the roadbed of the old Milwaukie Road electric railroad, is now a state park also called John Wayne State Park—I don’t know why. The two-and-a-half mile long tunnel is open only in the summer, and had been closed for several years, so when I learned that it would be open this summer, I put it on my list. Not many members of my hiking group shared my enthusiasm, but one friend, Sandy, wanted to go and my husband volunteered too, I think because he didn’t want us to do it alone. A week after the Elwha trip, we were dropped off by a friend at a trailhead for Annette Lake (Exit 47 on I-90), and took that trail up about a mile to the intersection with Iron Horse. It was a long, steep, woodsy, narrow trail up, but the Iron Horse was wide, gentle, gravel, designed for bicycles as well as hikers. (Horses, too, we saw the evidence.) We walked the Iron Horse about a mile to the western portal. The tunnel is so straight that we could see the lights at either end all the way through, but it was totally dark. Don took our picture with a flash, but not much shows up. The walking surface inside the tunnel was very smooth and hard, wet in places from dripping water, but no holes or barriers to trip us. Sandy and I each had a headlamp and a handheld flashlight. Don didn’t turn on his light at all. We walked through, from west to east, and then about a mile further to meet up with friends and our car. Been there now, done that. Check!

Later I remembered a time when our oldest, at four, went out to play next to our trailer while we were still eating lunch. He came back drenched to the armpits.  We were at a beach, but the tide was way out. We never did figure out where he had been, but we were so grateful that he was safe!

My heart goes out to the families who lost their children. I began to think of ways parents I interviewed for Camping With Kids safeguarded their children in camp, especially when they had a task, like cooking, that took their attention. Some of them used a harness and a long strap or rope (yes, a leash!) to keep a child close to a tree or a tent pole or the leg of a table, just so he/she remained within sight and conversational distance. Some used a very long rope to create a play space, tree to tree to table leg or tent pole. Others carried portable enclosures or play pens. Some took turns being the designated parent to be the child-watcher. For children who might leave a tent while their parents are still sleeping, my informants recommend attaching a bell to the zipper of the tent, or sealing the tent closures with duct tape.

On one of my favorite websites, Yogi Bear’s Jellystone Park Camp-Resorts, I found a link to National Water Safety Month. Water Safety Month was May, but where I live, in Seattle, only polar bears are swimming in May. Most of us wait for the 4th of July to begin swimming outdoors, unless we have access to heated pools. The list I found on that site, Water Safety Tips from our friends at the International Swimming Hall of Fame (ISHOF), would be useful in any month, especially in the summer. Many private campgrounds and even some state parks have  swimming pools, but even where there are lifeguards, the final responsibility for children’s safety remains with their parents. Most of the instructions I copied below, from the “Simple Step Saves Lives Program,” hold true near any body of water, so where you read “pool,” think also lake, stream or beach.

Staying close, being alert and watching children in and around the pool

• Never leave a child unattended in a pool or spa and always watch your child when he or she is in or near water
• Teach children basic water safety tips
• Keep children away from pool drains, pipes and other openings to avoid entrapments
• Have a telephone close by when you or your family is using a pool or spa
• If a child is missing, look for him or her in the pool or spa first
• Share safety instructions with family, friends and neighbors

Learning and practicing water safety skills

• Learn how to swim and teach your child how to swim
• Learn to perform CPR on children and adults, and update those skills regularly
• Understand the basics of life-saving so that you can assist in a pool emergency

Golden Agers with Golden Larches

My hiking group has been hiking together for more than 15 years. During that time, of course, many people have come and gone, but the original two are still part of the gang–my husband Don and me. In the picture, nine of us are at the top of Maple Pass; the photographer, Jon O., set the camera and ran into the top row.

It takes only two really committed people to start a hiking group. Don and I  hiked with our children on weekends when the the kids were young, but when they were all in school we began to hike  in the middle of the week on his day off. Soon we were joined by a few of my good friends, women whose husbands didn’t hike. Don was a super good sport to put up with my friends. They were good friends but not good hiking companions. Someone might announce, when we met for the day or even when we were on the trail, “I have to be home early, we’re going out tonight.” Or “I can’t go that far away. I have to get home to prepare dinner for my husband.”

Hiking with these people, we were very limited in our destinations. Don and I knew that, living in Seattle, with two national parks and the Cascade mountain range only an hour or two away from home, there would be lots of great opportunities if only we drove a little further or stayed out a little later. Neither of us liked to come home tired after a hike to face the prospect of cooking dinner; stopping for dinner at a restaurant on the way home would give us a chance to relax and rest after the hike, and come home happier. We made an announcement: from now on, no rushing home early for evening events. We would go farther, stay out longer, and stop for dinner on the way home.

My friends accepted these new conditions! At first they prepared dinner for their husbands before they left home, but they soon stopped. They discovered that these gentlemen were ignoring the dinner in the fridge and going out for pizza or burgers. So for several years there were five of us, Don and me in the front seat, and three ladies squeezed in the back.

As time passed and we grew older, we were joined by some retired men, whose wives also appreciated their night out, and by several retired couples, newly arrived in town. Now we often have three carloads, instead of one. I have 33 names on my email list of people interested in knowing about our hikes. Not all of them hike–some are members of other hiking groups, with whom we share information. I send out a notice on the weekend of where our next hike will be and where we will meet. People respond by email to let us know who is coming.

Our hikers carry their lunches of course, and also water, hats, extra warm clothing and rain gear, and we all have good boots and walking sticks. Some also carry first aid kits, maps, sit-upons and phones.  We usually have between 8 and 12 on a hike, but sometimes as many as 18. The median age of our group is probably 75. In fall, winter and spring we go on urban hikes (one man calls them “urbane”), stopping for lunch at a nice cafe or restaurant. In summer, we head for the mountains. We used to set our limits at 8 miles round trip with 2000 feet of elevation gain. Now we go no more than 6 miles, with up to 1000 feet of gain.

I like to explore new territory so I am always on the alert for hiking information from park departments in cities and counties surrounding Seattle. I subscribe to Washington Trails, an excellent organization with a magazine and website full of suggested hikes, and I trade destinations with other hiking groups. Several of the people in our group are also good planners, especially for the urban hikes, so we are never short of destinations.

We have only one problem: as we have aged, many of our members no longer feel up to driving an hour or more to the trailhead. We are recruiting younger members who are willing to drive. We’re like that commercial: “Drivers wanted.” I have had to turn down people who wanted to join us, because there is no more room in our cars. So if you are looking for a hiking group, pick one other person, decide who will drive, and go have fun! The others will find you.