Author Archives: Maria Langer

Finally Unpacking My Heirloom Lamps

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I unpack two prized possessions and tell the story of why they’ve been in boxes for three full years.

On Wednesday, I finally unpacked two of my most prized possessions: my antique lamps.

I have two of them, a Jefferson and a Handel (no, not a “Pairpoint Puff,” whatever that is). Their style is called “reverse painted” — scenes are hand-painted on the inside of a glass lampshade. When the lightbulbs under the shades are turned on, they light up the scene. They’re absolutely gorgeous, especially when lighted in an otherwise dark room. They date back to the 1920s, when they could be had for about $20-$30. They’re worth considerably more now.

Jefferson Lamp Handel Lamp
Photos of my two lamps in my old home. These must be old shots; the coatrack behind the Handel was replaced in the mid 2000s with a lodgepole coatrack my wasband gave me for Christmas.

Note from Grandma
I took a picture of this note from my grandmother as a keepsake and it’s a good thing I did. It was evidence that I’d gotten the lamp prior to my marriage. The piece of tape with my name on it was stuck on the lamp for years; my grandmother wanted everyone to know that I should get the lamp when she died. In the end, she gave it to me four years before she died and I brought it from New Jersey to Arizona on the plane.

I got the Jefferson (the smaller blue one) from my grandmother before she died in 2002. I bought the Handel from my godfather, an antique dealer who specialized in lamps, a year or two later. The two lamps were accent pieces in the living room of my Arizona home.

Until I packed them.

When I got home from Washington in September 2012, my main concern was packing up my belongings in preparation to leave my home. You see, my husband at the time had found himself a new mommy/girlfriend online while I was gone, a desperate old whore 8 years older than him — yes, I know because everyone says it: bizarre — who would take my place in his life. (Or try to.) My now wasband had assured me that he wanted a quick settlement so we could save money on legal fees and get on with our lives. I figured I had just a few weeks to pack up my belongings and move out. The ones that meant the most to me would be packed first: the lamps and my Navajo rug.

An Update on the Divorce Book

My divorce was finally settled about a month ago — more than three years after my husband told me, on my birthday, that he wanted a divorce. It was a crazy, traumatic part of my life that I’m still in disbelief about. How can a good and reasonable man become so angry, vindictive, and delusional?

Back in 2013, I blogged about the contract I’d been offered for a book about the divorce. The book was delayed until the divorce was completely settled. For a while, I didn’t want to write it anyway — there was too much pain when I thought about how my wasband had thrown away the incredible life we were on the verge of having together. (As Adele says in this song, we could have had it all.) But as my new life got better and better and I saw how much I’d been able to achieve without him, I realized how much he’d held me back. I was truly so much better off without him. And while the pain of his betrayal will always be with me to some extent, I can now laugh with my friends over the things he and that old whore did to try to force me to settle, especially during the first year of the divorce process. And the appeal. And his attempt to get the appeals court to reconsider their decision. He’s crazy — that’s clear. And the story is incredible. It would make good reading.

A project for this winter? I think so. I think it’s time. And I have plenty of blog posts, email messages, and court documents to back up my tale. I think I might even get a chance to reveal the slutty 30-year-old lingerie photos the old whore sent him as part of her seduction routine. The playing cards I had made with those images are a real hit with friends. I wonder if he uses the two decks I left behind for him?

It’s a shame, really. As it turned out, my wasband wasn’t the least bit interested in a reasonable settlement. Not only did he want the paid-for house and everything in it, but he expected me to pay off the $30K balance on the home equity line of credit, give him another $50K in cash, and walk away with my business assets and retirement funds — most of which had been acquired before our six-year marriage. When I refused, and he refused my generous counteroffer, the lengthy (and costly) divorce battle began, made even lengthier by his repeated failure to comply with court orders and his delaying of the divorce court dates. So, as a result, I was stuck in the house until May 2013, with plenty of time to pack. I could have packed the lamps last and enjoyed them those last eight and a half months at home.

(And if you’re wondering how it all turned out, my wasband lost. And he lost his appeal, too. And he wound up paying me more than I’d asked for in my counteroffer back in December 2012. So much for saving money on legal fees. It cost him more than $200K than it could have to end the marriage, and he didn’t even get to keep the house. What an idiot. I swear he wasn’t this stupid — or greedy — when I married him. He must have picked up those traits from the old whore.)

Anyway, my lamps and rug were packed first. I packed them carefully, with plenty of packing paper and bubble wrap in a huge box. I nestled the two shades, one inside the other, with bubble wrap between them. The lamp bases went below them with their tops boxed up and cardboard separating their part of the big packing box from the glass shades. The rug went on top. I also packed the wooden “building” that goes with my Hummel nativity set — another heirloom item — along one side of the same box. (The figurines were also packed early on, but in a separate box better suited for their size.)

Boxes in Hangar
I stored my possessions in my old hangar until they could be moved to Washington. This shot was taken the day I moved out of my Wickenburg home: May 30, 2013.

The box with the lamps went right from the house to the hangar I rented at Wickenburg Airport. They sat there, on a pallet in case of flooding, for a full year.

Moving Day
The movers to my Wickenburg hangar in September 2013.

In September (no, not June) of 2013, movers transported everything in the hangar from Wickenburg Airport to Wenatchee Airport, where I was renting another hangar. The boxes remained stacked up in the new hangar.

Wenatchee Hangar
Most of my worldly possessions were stored in a hangar I rented in Wenatchee from September 2013 through June 2014. Boxes, vehicles, cargo trailer, and boat on right, furniture on left, helicopter with ATV in center for easy access to door.

Items Stored In Building
Here’s a shot from above after my friends helped me move everything into my building in June 2014. What a mess!

In June 2014, my friends helped me move everything from that hangar into my new building at my new home. The boxes were stacked haphazardly all over the back of the building. I moved them into the middle of the building and later, when I needed to get the RV in, moved them to the shop area. Sometime during the winter, I organized them by room so I could find things I needed to get at.

With all of these moves, the lamps’ box had been somewhat crushed by having other boxes stacked on top of it. I became a bit afraid to open it up. I was worried that the lamp shades — remember, they’re made of glass — had been damaged.

But this week, I decided that it was time. I had some friends coming from Auburn for a visit to see my new home. I’d already had custom end tables made and they’d been in my living room, looking bare, for about a month. There were only three things the living room needed to be finished: windowsills, a coffee table, and the lamps. The room would look more finished with the lamps. I wanted the room to look as finished as possible before my friends arrived so I had to get the lamps in place.

I unpacked the lamps on Wednesday. I still can’t believe how much paper was in that box. I certainly do know how to pack! And I’d worried for no reason: they were in perfect condition.

It took me four trips to bring them up from the garage: one each for the lamp bases and one each for the shades. I wasn’t taking any chances. I’d carry each one carefully.

I put the Handel on the table closest to the kitchen and the Jefferson on the table closest to the deck door and my desk. (Another heirloom lamp, my monkey lamp, is already on my desk.)

They looked beautiful in my nearly finished room. I took a picture. On Friday, I shot a video of the room and shared it here on Saturday.

Lamps in Living Room
The lamps, one on either end of the nine-foot sofa, almost complete the living room.

Reverse Painted Lamps at Night
My lamps look best at night, when they provide the only illumination in a room.

Last night, I settled down for an hour or so on the sofa in front of the TV. I remembered the lamps. I killed all the lights in the room and turned on both lamps. They cast the perfect amount of light for an evening of relaxation in my new living room.

After three years in a box, I finally get to really enjoy them.

The ironic part about all this: I’ll get more use and enjoyment out of them here, in a room I use every day, than I got during the 10+ years they were in my Arizona living room, a room I only used when I had guests. And every time I light them up, I’ll think about the people I got them from: my grandmother and godfather, both now gone.

Thanks Grandma and Jackie! I’m taking good care of them.

Construction: My Almost Finished Living Room

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A video tour of my living room, which is now almost done.

Yesterday morning, I made a video of my living room setup. Thought I’d share it with folks who want to take the tour:

On May 20, 2014, I began blogging about the construction of my new home in Malaga, WA. You can read all of these posts — and see the time-lapse and walkthrough movies that go with many them — by clicking the new home construction tag.

I admit that I sometimes refer to this as my “trophy room.” That’s because the red leather sofa, TV, and stereo surround-sound system came from the condo my wasband bought as a place to live during the week when he worked in Phoenix. To this day, I’m not sure why he agreed to let me have them. The only reason I included them on the list of personal property I wanted was so I could give them up in the bargaining process. But he agreed to the whole damn list — after stewing on it for months — in exchange for me moving out of the house. Joke’s on him: I had to leave anyway for my summer work and my RV and helicopter were already onsite in Washington.

My Living Room
My almost-finished living room; a very pleasant place to hang out.

The leather sofa is very comfortable and has a sofa bed tucked into it. My ex-sister-in-law, who I’m still in contact with occasionally, gave me two of the four pillows on it as a housewarming gift. The rug, storage “bar” behind the sofa, and black leather cushions on the chair are new from IKEA. The lamps are heirloom items — more on those in a future blog post. The rest of what’s in this video are a mix of new items I bought over the past three years and items moved to Washington from my old home in Arizona.

The room is almost done. I just need two things:

  • Windowsills. I have temporary window sills in place under most windows. I was going to make them out of 1×12 lumber and actually finished a few of them, but my friend Don offered me slabs of wood that match the tables he made for me. I can then make windowsills out of that. Trouble is, Don needs to get his friend with the bandsaw on the program to get me the slabs. Then I need to cut, stain, and finish them. It’s a big project and I don’t expect to have it done anytime soon. So I have trimmed 1×10 and 1×12 planks for temporary use. I probably won’t bother staining them, so I can use them for something else in the future.
  • Coffee table. Don made me custom TV table and end tables. They were cut from power poles that survived a fire back in 2010 or 2011 near the Rocky Reach Dam, upriver from Wenatchee. They have a lot of personality, with actual scorch marks on the live edges. I like them so much I’ve asked Don to make me a matching coffee table. We discussed it in some detail yesterday. I hope to get it within a month or so.

The jury is still out on the rug. I bought another one at Pier 1 that I’d like to try. This one might be okay with a coffee table over it.

And yes, I know I should get a universal remote. But honestly: I don’t watch very much television. The view out the windows is much more enjoyable.

The place is coming together. It’s already a far more pleasant home than the one I left behind in Arizona.

Motorcycling with “Biker Bob”

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A weekend motorcycle trip with a good friend.

We’d been talking about doing it since spring 2014: riding our motorcycles on the Cascades Loop. That’s a scenic drive on Routes 20 and 2 in Northern Washington State that goes through the Cascade Mountains. Here’s a great description from the Cascade Loop website:

Beginning just 28 miles north of Seattle, circle through the Cascade mountains, along the semi-arid Columbia River Valley, past glacier-fed Lake Chelan, through the wildlife-filled Methow Valley and North Cascades National Park, and into the Puget Sound. We are a path into nature, a road through friendly towns, and a rest stop at the end of your day with comfortable lodging and delicious Northwest cuisine. The Cascade Loop is the best road trip vacation in Washington State!

Cascade Loop
Here’s what the Cascade Loop looks like on a Google Maps image. Wenatchee is in the southeast corner.

Of course, you don’t have to start in Seattle. You can start anywhere on the loop. And since the loop goes right through Wenatchee, it makes sense for people who live in that area to start there.

The Back Story

Who’s “we”? My friend Bob and I. I met Bob back in the summer of 2013, during Century Aviation’s annual hangar party at the airport. It was a memorable party, mostly because (1) I was on crutches and (2) the cliffs up behind my future home were on fire and we could clearly watch pine trees exploding into flames from the airport only 4 miles away. Bob works for the local PUD as a quality control inspector at building sites. He’s been riding motorcycles his whole life. He prefers cruisers, like a typical Harley Davison, but these days he’s riding a sweet Moto Guzzi. He keeps his bikes — he always has a few of them — in pristine condition.

We talked about doing the ride, but never did it. That’s because it never got on my calendar. The summer ended and fall came briefly before it got very cold. Highway 20 closed for the season.

In the meantime, we traveled together to visit Bob’s friends Liz and Brad for Thanksgiving weekend. They live in Friday Harbor, which is on San Juan Island out in the Sound near Seattle. It was a long drive on Route 2 to the ferry. Bob drove his truck, which is only two-wheel-drive but had brand new tires. That was a good thing because my snow driving skills suck after years of living in Arizona and it snowed in Stephens pass on the way home that Saturday. So when we started talking about the Cascades Loop again in spring 2015, Liz and Brad’s house became a potential destination.

I told Bob that if it wasn’t on my calendar, it wasn’t going to happen. So in May 2015, we put it on my calendar for the last weekend in August. From that point forward, I scheduled everything around it to ensure it would happen. We made plans with Liz and Brad so they’d expect us for the weekend. I even made ferry reservations.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature wasn’t going to let us do the trip as planned. She threw some lightning down near Twisp and Newhalem in mid August. That started a number of wildfires that soon got out of control. WADOT (Washington State Department of Transportation) closed down Route 20. We waited patiently for them to reopen it, but it didn’t look as if it would happen.

Keep in mind that the main goal of the trip was to ride the Cascade Loop — including Highway 20. I’d done part of it earlier in August with Kirk on a camping trip, but I really wanted to do it on my motorcycle with Bob. I’d already ridden the other half of the loop — Route 2 — multiple times. I was prepared to postpone the trip for another time. But Bob didn’t seem interested in postponing it. And since I looked forward to a motorcycle trip — my Yamaha had been gathering dust in the garage for almost a full year (!) — we did the trip.

The Ride Out

I brought my motorcycle to Bob’s place a week before the trip. He said he wanted to look it over for me and I had no problem with that. I think Bob really likes to tinker with motorcycles.

I’d been having a problem with a wobble in the front wheel since I had new tires put on in the spring of 2012. I’d bought good tires — Metzelers — but Bob seemed to think one of them was defective. He ordered a new tire for me. Unfortunately, it didn’t arrive in time to get it mounted, so I stuck with the tire I had. The wobble wasn’t really that bad anyway. (More on this in the Postscript below.)

Penny on a Motorcycle
Here’s Penny on the back of my motorcycle. This shot was taken right before we left on the ride home, but it shows the setup with my hard luggage and Penny’s crate atop the back seat.

On Friday morning, I arrived bright and early in my truck with Penny and my luggage. I’d packed a few changes of clothes and toiletries and a my journal in my big zipper tote bag, which would fit comfortably in one of my bike’s two Givi hard bags. I’d put the Givis on back in 1993, when the bike was new; it’s remarkable how much the bags have changed since then. I also had a smaller bag with snacks and food for Penny. Yes, Penny the Tiny Dog did come with us — she rides in a hard-sided dog kennel bungee-netted to the back of my bike. I also had the red waterproof shell I’d bought as an outer layer for cross-country skiing. (Mother Nature was being extremely uncooperative by throwing rain into the forecast for the weekend, too.)

We loaded up and I wore my leather motorcycling jacket for the first time in at least eight years. It fits a bit loosely now after my big 2012 weight loss, but is very comfortable and quite warm — even without the cold weather lining, which I’d left home. All I needed under it was a t-shirt. Bob wore his Harley boy leathers — t-shirt, leather vest, and leather jacket. He made fun of my hiking shoes — he wore worn cowboy boots — but I explained that I needed traction when I stopped and my cowboy boots didn’t cut it. He told me he wanted me to lead and to keep on the right side of the lane. We’d ride in a standard staggered formation and he promised not to crowd me. That was all fine to me. I was rusty and I knew it would be a while before I was back up to speed — literally and figuratively.

We stopped for gas in north Wenatchee before getting on Route 2 and heading west. I had a stop to make in Leavenworth — I needed to pay for the closet doors I’d ordered from a supplier there — and I took the opportunity to don my waterproof jacket and tuck some plastic around the outside of Penny’s crate. It was a good thing I did because we hit rain between Leavenworth and Stevens Pass. By the time we got there, however, I was feeling quite comfortable on the bike again — comfortable enough to pass all the cars in front of me so they wouldn’t spray me with road water.

The ride was uneventful and admittedly not very pleasant. Although I was mostly warm and dry within my layered jackets, with my full-face helmet keeping my head dry, my jeans were a bit wet and my hands were cold in my summer-weight gloves. Not the best riding conditions. But as we headed down the west side of the mountains, the rain cleared out and and it warmed up. I’d be dry soon enough.

Bob took the lead when we stopped for a light in Skykomish and guided us off the main road. It was around 10 AM at this point and I was hungry. I guess he was, too, because he stopped in front of the Cascadia Inn, which was still serving breakfast. There was a fenced-in yard beside the restaurant and after asking permission, I let Penny loose in there. She (predictably) sat by the gate, waiting for us to come back out. I had a nice bacon and eggs breakfast, saving a bit of it for Penny, who doesn’t eat well when we travel. She chowed it down when we came out forty-five minutes later. We took a short walk to stretch our legs, then mounted back up and continued on our way.

Because we were taking Route 2 rather than Route 20, we faced a choice on getting to Anacortes, which is where the ferry would take us from to Friday Harbor. We could either ride north on the I-5 corridor to Anacortes or ride slightly south to Mukilteo to catch a ferry to Whidbey Island and ride up the island to Anacortes. Neither of us wanted to take I-5, so we did the Whidbey Island route instead. I let Bob lead the way.

One of the great things about being on a motorcycle on Washington State’s ferry system is that you get to go right to the front of the line. Bob bypassed the dozens of cars lined up for the ferry and went right to the fee booth. He paid for two ferry tickets and took off. I was fumbling a bit with my headphones so I was about 20 seconds behind him. When I got around the bend to where I thought he’d be waiting, he was gone! The ferry had begun loading and they directed him right on board. I wasn’t so lucky. They made me wait. I was the last one on the boat before it set off.

We met up once we were underway and Bob scolded me for not staying closer to him. But who’d have thought the boat was there and ready to load right up? No worries. We joined back up just past the town on the other side.

It was a nice ride though the hills of Whidbey Island. I’d been there only once before: with my wasband and his cousin at least 15 years before on a trip to Seattle. I didn’t remember much about the trip except stopping at some sort of farm and at Deception Pass.

Ironically, I think we stopped at the same farm that Friday. It looked familiar, although there weren’t nearly as many vegetables and flowers as I remembered from that trip long ago. We walked around a bit in search of ice cream and settled on pie with ice cream at an outdoor cafe. Penny, on her leash, sat with us and tried hard to reach a duck that wandered through the fenced-in area.

Deception Pass Bridge
The bridge at Deception Pass. I think I took the same photo — but from the other side of the bridge — the last time I was there; I really like the symmetry of the bridge at this angle.

We also stopped at Deception Pass. That’s where we took a short walk — probably a mile round trip — and I took some photos. Bob’s not much of a hiker and he did look a bit funny walking on the trail in his leather motorcycling clothes. I guess I did, too.

Dinner at Anthony's
The obligatory dinner photo.

Our ferry reservations were for 8:20 PM. It was about 4 PM when we finished at Deception Pass. There was another ferry at 4:45 and I was game to try to go standby on it. But Bob didn’t want to hurry. Instead, we rode into Anacortes, stopped at a supermarket to pick up a bottle of Jaegermeister (which Bob apparently likes), and zeroed in on Anthony’s. Although it’s a chain, it’s one of my favorite places to get a nice seafood dinner. (I always grab a meal or at least dessert at their SeaTac location when I pass through.) Because there was a wait for a table, we sat at the food prep bar. They had a really great deal on a four-course meal and we each ordered that. My salmon with shrimp was amazing and the “burnt cream” for dessert was perfect.

Another stop at Safeway and then on to the ferry terminal. We paid for our tickets and rolled up, as directed, to the beginning of the line. There was another motorcyclist there who wasn’t very friendly. He told us that the ferry was delayed 30 minutes. Soon afterward, it began to rain — a light drizzle that kept up for the entire hour we waited. It wasn’t heavy enough to seek shelter, but it wasn’t light enough to ignore. By the time we got on the ferry — first on! — we were wet and chilled.

Waiting for the Ferry
Our bikes parked at the front of the line, waiting for the ferry. Can you see Penny?

I fell asleep on the ferry. There’s ample seating there and Bob had led the way to a pair of facing benches. He stretched out and, after a while, I did the same. Penny stayed in her box on the back of the motorcycle; dogs aren’t allowed in the passenger area unless they’re crated and I wasn’t about to take her crate off the bike.

In the Ferry
180° panoramic view of the inside of the ferry. Bob was already asleep on the bench when I shot this.

I heard the pitch of the engine change and woke up with a start. Bob was already awake. It was about 10:15 PM. We went back down to the bikes. I made the mistake of not starting mine up right away. I forgot that it needs to warm up. The result was repeated stalling to the point where I was holding up traffic. Then some issues with the throttle control. Not fun when you’re half awake and the pavement is wet. But I finally got things sorted out and followed Bob the last three miles or so to Liz and Brad’s house. Bob opened the door to their barn and we rolled in as we’d been instructed. Liz came out to meet us. When we went inside, the various discomforts of the trip were quickly forgotten.

At Friday Harbor

The next day started rainy, cleared up, and then got rainy again.

Bob and Penny
Bob grabbed Penny and sheltered her from the wind while we sat atop Mount Young and took in the view.

We had a nice breakfast of bacon and eggs, then headed out while the weather was dry, for a hike up Mount Young. It’s about a mile each way, with a 600-foot climb on the way out. We took our time on the climb up, stopping at one viewpoint along the way. Penny was a champ, very well behaved off-leash and obviously having the time of her life as she ran circles around us. At the top, the wind was absolutely howling, with gusts that must have topped 50 mph. (Indeed, wind storms knocked out power to thousands and killed two people in the Seattle area that day.) I took some photos of the view, as well as this great photo of Bob holding Penny. I also had a close call when I slipped on some wet moss and fell, twisting my knee and ankle pretty badly. Fortunately, I was able to walk normally within a few minutes. (Must remember to be more careful.)

From Mount Young
The view from the top of Mount Young looking out toward Vancouver Island on that blustery summer day.

Afterwards, we ran some errands in town — including getting me a pair of rain pants for the trip home. We stopped at the farmer’s market, which was smaller than usual because of the weather, and the market, where we picked up some groceries. Then back to the house where we snacked for lunch.

And then, because the day was so rainy and gray, we all napped. I slept for a full three hours!

When I woke up, Bob and Liz were making peach cobbler. Football was on the schedule for the evening — a preseason game between Seattle and San Diego. Liz and Brad’s son and grandson came over. We had pizza and watched the game, fast forwarding through the commercials via DVR and Brad’s skill with the remote. The Seahawks won.

The peach cobbler was amazing.

The Trip Home

We were up early the next morning. We needed to leave for the ferry terminal by 7:15 for an 8 AM boat back to Anacortes.

Group Photo
Bob, Liz, Penny, and I, waiting for the ferry at Friday Harbor. The weather was just beginning to break there when we left.

Bob and I got to the head of the line right on time and shut down for the wait. I took Penny for a walk to grab a cup of coffee. When I got back, Brad and Liz were waiting with Bob. Liz would be taking the boat over with her son and his family; they’d all go to a birthday party somewhere on the mainland. Brad took this photo of the four of us (including Penny); I look like a wreck with my four layers of clothing and helmet hair!

We all sat together for the 90-minute ferry ride back to Annacortes. It was beautiful outside with the bright sky and low clouds.

Friday Harbor
I shot this photo of Friday Harbor as the ferry pulled away from the terminal. It was going to be a gorgeous day there.

I had some trouble getting my bike started (again) when we got off the ferry, but not bad. I was determined to drop it off for maintenance later in the week.

We’d decided to head east on Route 20, which was due to reopen at noon. But with rainy weather forecasted, neither of us wanted to take that longer route home. Instead, we’d head south on Route 9 from Sedro-Woolley to Route 2. Of course, that plan went astray with detours for a bridge repair near Big Lake. We got a chance to see all the damage caused by the previous day’s heavy wind as we used Google Maps on my iPhone to navigate around the area, skillfully avoiding I-5. It was a pleasant ride, despite the navigational challenges, and it stayed dry the whole way.

Stuff Yer Belly
This might explain why obesity is such a problem in America.

Back on Route 2, we stopped at a cafe in Gold Bar for lunch. It was just about noon and we had a short wait for a table. I had breakfast food — I do so love chicken fried steak and eggs — and, again, saved some for Penny. While we were inside, the sky opened up and it absolutely poured. But by the time we came out, it had cleared up again. We took Penny for a walk and donned our rain gear. Well, I did. Bob was all in leather again — he’s a real hard core biker guy. I know I looked ridiculous in the yellow rubber pants and my bright red jacket, but I also knew I’d be seen no matter how bad the weather got.

By the time we started the climb up to Stevens Pass, I was glad I’d suited up. It was raining pretty hard and got downright cold. (Hard to believe just a few weeks befofe it was pushing 100°F every day.) Just when I started cursing myself for not buying warmer gloves, we reached the pass and started down. At 3000 feet elevation, the rain stopped and it started getting warmer. The sun was peeking through the clouds by the time we reached Leavenworth. And it was actually warm by the time we crossed the bridge into East Wenatchee.

We rolled into Bob’s driveway as Bob’s girlfriend, Alison stepped out the door. It was a very pleasant surprise for him. I hope she hadn’t been waiting long. I think it was about 3 PM when we got there.

I unpacked my bike and loaded the truck. I didn’t stick around to mess up Bob’s homecoming. Penny and I made a quick stop at the supermarket and headed home. We were back by 5 PM.

It was a beautiful day.

View From Home
I relaxed on the deck, taking in this view for a while after getting home. Honestly, it’s so beautiful here that I don’t know why I leave.

Postscript

I headed out of town on Tuesday for yet another trip — this time to Portland with Kirk. On the way, I dropped off my motorcycle at the local Yamaha dealer to check into the wobble and throttle problems.

The shop manager called Friday to tell me what they’d done: balance the front wheel and give it a tune-up. He asked if it had old gas in the tank. I admitted that it had some but that I’d topped off the tank three times in the past week. He told me — at least three times — that I needed to ride the bike more. “What it needs,” he said, “is to be ridden.”

Message received. I’m planning my next trip now.

Heck, I’m due to attend a weekend-long mushroom seminar at the North Cascades Environmental Learning Center early next month. Maybe I could get that Route 20 ride out of my system then?

The Wild Horses of the Yakama Nation

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Thousands of acres, hundreds of horses.

Yesterday, I flew my helicopter back to the Wenatchee, WA area from some maintenance done in Hillsboro, OR. In a perfect world, the weather would be clear and the air calm and I could fly a direct route that would take about 90-100 minutes. But as we all know, the world is not perfect and, once again, I had to take a longer route, this time to skirt around the edge of some very nasty rain showers that stretched west/east from Mt. Saint Helens to route 97 and north/south from Mt. Rainier to the Columbia River.

A direct route, which I’ve done twice back in 2012 (see video), takes me between Mt. Saint Helens and Mount Adams. Yesterday’s route had me following the Columbia River from Vista House east of Troutdale to just past Hood River. From there, I headed northeast, right on the edge of the rain, keeping a sharp eye out for lightning that would indicate thunderstorm activity. Although I didn’t see any flashes, radar in Foreflight and my RadarUS app clearly showed some very dense cells off my left shoulder all the way and the rain was intense. The air I flew in was remarkably calm, though, and I only flew through rain as I followed the route of Route 97 northeast of Goldendale, where it goes through a pass. From there, I cut away from the road, aiming for Sunnyside. I modified my route to go around the south-east corner of the restricted area northeast of Yakima and fly home along the Columbia River from Mattawa.

Hillsboro to Wenatchee Route
Here’s a rough sketch of my route, drawn in Skyvector. The red box is a TFR for firefighting; oddly, the rainstorms were centered right over that box.

It was over the Yakama Nation (not a typo), between Route 97 and Route 12 that I saw the wild horses. I knew they were out there, of course. You can often see herds from Route 97 between Toppenish and Goldendale. But east of the road is where most of the horses seem to live.

The land forms there remind me of the Hopi Mesas in Arizona, long, flat, finger-like mesas stretching to the southwest, where the land drops off in a steep slope. The horse herds are dotted mostly along the mesa tops, although I did see a few herds in between. I flew over them, perhaps 300 feet up, and was close enough to clearly see the coloring of the horses I few near. Most herds seem to include a youngster or two who took off, running back to mama, when he/she heard me coming.

When I say there were herds of wild horses, I’m not talking about two or three herds. There were at least that many herds on each of the mesas I flew over. Each herd had 5 to 20 horses in it and I must have seen at least 20 herds. That’s hundreds of horses.

Wild Horses
I had my GoPro “nosecam” going while I flew. Here’s one of the shots captured along the way. The video clips show how some herds ignored me while others took off running at the sound of my approach. And no, unlike other pilots — a famous Phoenix area news pilot comes to mind — I don’t chase the horses with my helicopter.

Now some folks who see the horses along the road seem to think that they’re not wild. They confuse a new fence likely erected to keep open range cattle off the roadway with a fence to keep the horses on someone’s property. But having flown over the area, I can assure you that these horses are not fenced in. I flew for miles, covering thousands of acres of land, and didn’t see any homes or ranch buildings, no feeding stations, few two-track roads, and no additional fencing. These horses don’t belong to any one person. They’re wild.

Like the wild horses on the Navajo reservation in northern Arizona. Or those along the Verde and Salt Rivers not far from Phoenix. Or the ones along the Gila River, west of Chandler, AZ. And in who knows how many other places?

Seeing things like this is one of the perks of being a helicopter pilot able to fly in some of this country’s remote areas. I’d love to do tours to show off the wild horse of the Yakama Nation. Unfortunately, like so much of the incredible scenery I get to fly over on long cross-country flights, it’s just too far away to be affordable to the typical Wenatchee sightseer.

My Tree of Life

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A Navajo rug with a story behind it.

One of my few prized possessions — indeed, one of the very first things I packed when I returned to Arizona in September 2012, expecting the quick divorce my wasband claimed he wanted — is my Navajo rug. This is the real deal, woven by a woman named Rena Mountain who lives on the Navajo Reservation at Cedar Ridge, AZ. Ms. Mountain is known for her pictorial rugs and seems to be an expert on the Tree of Life design.

Re-Hanging My Rug

I unpacked the rug about a week ago to show Kirk. I’d been thinking about it for a while, wondering where I could hang it, and I didn’t want to pull it out until I was ready. But I also wanted to show off this prized possession to someone I thought might appreciate its beauty. (I’m not sure how impressed Kirk was.) I knew that finding a place to hang it would take some thought.

One of the great things about my new home is the windows that line most of the walls. But those windows leave very little room to hang art. They also let in a lot of sunlight — much of it direct at certain times of the day and year — that can fade colors and cause sun damage. Where could I hang it where I’d enjoy its beauty while protecting it from direct sunlight?

And if you’re wondering why I don’t just put it on the floor — after all, it is a rug — you’ve probably never owned something so beautiful and relatively valuable. Simply said, this isn’t something I could imagine walking on. Ever.

I finally decided to hang it in the hallway across from the bathroom door. There’s a little stretch of hallway there and the walls of the hall perfectly frame the rug’s 45 x 60 inch size.

Back in Arizona, I’d hung it in the living room near the fireplace with velcro on a piece of wood that fastened directly to the wall with screws. I’d sewn the soft side of the wide velcro strip to the back of the rug using big, fat, easy-to-remove stitches. I’d stapled the rough side of the velcro strip to the wood using a staple gun. Then my wasband had drilled holes in the wood and, using molly bolts for extra support in the drywall, screwed the wood strip onto the wall. When I’d taken down the rug, I’d taken down the wood strip, too. I’d even, by some miracle, kept the molly bolts and screws. So I had everything I needed to re-hang it in my new home.

Tree of Life by Rena Mountain
My Navajo rug, hung in its new home.

I did this yesterday afternoon, using my stud finder to confirm that a stud was not available and a level to make sure I mounted the wood strip properly on the wall. The whole job, including fastening the rug to the wood strip, took just 10 minutes.

And it looks great. I can even reposition the track lights in the hallway to shine directly on it if I’d like to.

I posted this photo on Facebook when I was done. Almost immediately, my friend Jeremy asked for the story behind the rug.

How did he know there was a story? There is and it’s a pretty good one. I promised a blog post — this one — to tell it.

The Story behind the Rug

It was in September of 2000 or 2001. Or possibly 2002. I’d been living in Arizona for a few years. My writing career was building momentum and I’d finished my Quicken book, which ruined ever summer, a few weeks before. I had free time and was eager to get away for a while after working too many 12-hour days at my desk to get the book done on time.

I don’t remember who came up with the idea — it might have been me — but I decided to take a road trip with two friends to the Navajo Nation Fair in Window Rock. This is an annual event, like a county fair, but its held on the reservation and has a definite Navajo flavor, with lots of Navajo arts and crafts, food, and dancing. Along the way, we’d go exploring on the Reservation, visit the Hopi Reservation (which is completely surrounded by the Navajo Reservation), and do whatever struck our fancy. In other words, we make things up as we went along. I love traveling like that.

My two companions for the trip were Shorty and Martin.

Shorty was about 10-15 years older than me, a real cowgirl who spoke with a Texas drawl and had been married four or five times. She was short (hence the name), lean, and kind of gnarly, with skin browned and somewhat wrinkled from too much time in the sun. She was currently between husbands, living in her pickup camper in a friend’s yard, with her horse staying in a pen there. Over the two or more years we were friends, she’d move from place to place — even spending a few weeks camped out in my yard and housesitting for me — work at a local dude ranch, and train my rather difficult paint horse. I’d also be the maid of honor at her Las Vegas wedding — and that’s one hell of a crazy story — spend an evening catching Colorado River toads at an off the grid adobe house she lived in for a while, and dog sit for her three dogs while she went to England with what she hoped would be her next husband — another long story.

Martin was a young — maybe 35 years old? — good-looking guy from Germany. Like so many Europeans, he’d fallen in love with the west and dreamed of being a cowboy with a Fresian horse. (Not exactly a practical choice with all that hair to keep neat and brushed.) He was in the U.S. on a visa and was friends with the man who owned the local German restaurant. He tagged along with us, smoking whenever we stopped for a break. Shorty insisted on pronouncing his name mar-TEEN, claiming that it was the German pronunciation. Since he never corrected her, I got into the habit of doing the same.

The three of us headed north in my Jeep from Wickenburg, AZ. Martin sat in the back with the luggage in the tiny space behind him.

We pretty much bee-lined it up to the Hopi Reservation. Shorty wanted to send a friend a postcard from Old Orabi, which was founded back in 1100, making it one of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements within the United States. We got there and I don’t recall there being much to see. That has a lot to do with the simple fact that the Hopi people do not generally welcome visitors and many of them prefer to continue their traditional lifestyles. We walked around among a lot of seemingly deserted pueblo style homes — the Hopi are a Pueblo tribe — and then moved on to a Post Office where Shorty could mail her card. I’m pretty sure that was Hotevilla-Bacavi, also on Third Mesa.

The post office had a bulletin board and there was a card on it advertising fresh ground cornmeal. We found a payphone — back in those days, we didn’t all have cell phones — and called the number. We then got directions to a Hopi woman’s house nearby. We drove over and were welcomed in. The house was simple but modern, sparsely furnished but clean and comfortable. I clearly remember there being a bunch of kittens playing together in one of the rooms. The cornmeal, we were told, was leftover from a wedding ceremony. (Corn is an important crop to the Hopi people and plays a big role in their traditions.) It was stored in a big galvanized trashcan, lined with a plastic bag. The woman used a tin can to scoop out the cornmeal — did I mention that it was blue? — and put it into a Bluebird Flour bag (which I still have). Shorty paid for the cornmeal — I can’t remember how much, but it wasn’t much. The woman, likely seeing the opportunity of spreading tourist dollars to friends, told us about another woman who made dance shawls. Before you could say Kykotsmovi Village, we were off to another home. Shorty wound up buying two or three of the shawls. They weren’t my style, so I declined.

I totally enjoyed this side trip — cornmeal and dance shawls — because it gave me an opportunity to see the modern culture of these very private people.

Afterwards, we stopped by the Hopi Cultural Center, where I bought a “Grandmother” cradle Kachina, thus starting my limited Kachina collection. Our last stop in the Hopi land was Tsakurshovi, a native crafts shop in Shongopovi. That’s where I was introduced to Hopi Tea. I’d later come back to this wonderful shop several times to add to my Kachina collection.

We continued on our way, leaving the Hopi Reservation and continuing through the Navajo Reservation. We stopped at the Hubbell Trading Post in Ganado, which is a National Historic Site and still a trading post. I wandered into the Rug Room and that’s when I saw it: the most beautiful rug I’d ever laid eyes on. Rena Mountain’s Tree of Life.

I fully admit that when I looked at the price tag I had a serious case of sticker shock. I’d never spent that kind of money on anything that couldn’t be driven or slept in.

I left the room and continued wandering around the Trading Post. But I kept thinking about it.

I wanted the rug. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as utterly impractical as that rug as badly as I wanted that rug.

I grabbed Shorty and brought her into the room to see it. I was hoping she’d talk me out of buying it. But how could she? It was beautiful. And we both knew that I could afford it.

Yes, I could afford it. As I said earlier, my writing career was booming and I was bringing in more in royalties every year. I’d been investing in real estate and, in October 2000, bought my first helicopter. But my mind was stuck in budget mode and the idea of spending that kind of money on a rug I couldn’t even walk on was outrageous.

But I could afford it. And Shorty wasn’t going to talk me out of it.

So I got a sales person and brought her over to the rug. I timidly asked if they could do anything for me on the price. She cut it by $500. The next thing I knew, I was at the cash register with my American Express card out.

The cashier had to call American Express. They wanted to talk to me. I’d never spent this much on my card before and they wanted to make sure it was me.

The clerk folded up the rug and they put it in a plastic bag that looked remarkably like a garbage bag. I put it in the Jeep, way under the seat. For the next few days, I’d take it into the motel room at night and worry about someone stealing it out of the Jeep during the day.

We continued the trip. The Navajo Nation Fair was an amazing event. We saw more rugs on display — if I hadn’t already bought one, I would have bought one at the fair — ate mutton, saw traditional dancing and costumes, and watched the country’s only all-Indian rodeo, which was announced in both English and Navajo.

After two days of that — staying in a Gallup Hotel because Window Rock’s were booked — we headed out to Canyon de Chelly near Chinle, AZ. This is a National Monument with limited access. Because we had a 4WD vehicle, we hired a Navajo guide who rode with us in the Jeep and told us about what we were seeing. I loved the sound of his voice and the way he phrased things and repeated certain things in almost a sing-songy way. It was there that I learned about the brutality of Custer and his soldiers and got an idea of how mistreated Native Americans were in the 1800s. When I saw a point of interest — some rock formation — and asked him about it, he was strangely quiet. I asked him if there was some significance to the place that they didn’t share with visitors and he nodded. I asked him if there were many places in the canyon like that and he nodded again. I didn’t ask any more. I respect the culture and privacy of these people. Not everything needs to be a tourist attraction or photo opportunity.

I don’t remember getting into Monument Valley on that trip. I suspect we went home right after Canyon de Chelly. I do recall exploring a road back near Tuba City with views down from a mesa top and seeing petroglyphs that weren’t on any map. Real exploring — not following tourist guidebooks — that’s how I like to travel.

Certificate of Authenticity
The Certificate of Authenticity, with a photo of the weaver, hung beside the rug for years.

I got home with the rug and, with my wasband’s assistance, hung it on the wall as described above. I took the tag, which featured a photo of Ms. Mountain holding up the rug, and asked my friend Janet’s partner to mat and frame it for me. It hung on the wall beside the rug. (I just spent about 30 minutes looking for a photo of how they hung together but can’t find one — all the photos I have of my house’s interior are either of damage/neglect by my wasband while I was in Washington or after I’d begun packing. As I mentioned earlier, the rug was one of the first things to be packed.)

Postscript

Time marched on. Although that was one of the most memorable trips of my life, it was not to be repeated. Shorty married Martin to keep him from getting booted out of the country. I was maid of honor/witness at the crazy Las Vegas wedding. Later, Shorty met her “soulmate,” a retiree from Britain who stayed at the dude ranch where she worked. Their courtship lasted a few months, during which time I assume she and Martin were divorced. But the wedding plans fell through and it wasn’t long before both she and Martin fell out of my life.

I went back to the Navajo Nation Fair the following year. It was a non-event. The Navajo young people were wearing the same falling-down pants as the rest of the brain-dead youth in our country and much of the charm I’d experienced the year before was gone. You know what they say: you can never go back. This is a perfect example.

But the rug remains and now it hangs in my new home to be part of my new life.

I’m glad to have it and the memories that go with it.