Dare to dance the tide

June 18, 2010 by Beth Shepherd

“Look what I’ve got” said the pint-sized voice, small arm outstretched, humongous mussel in hand. “Wow.” I said enthusiastically. “That’s really something!”

And it was. Iridescent blue and purple reflected the sunlight. Bits of seaweed, probably from the mussel’s last meal hung like a limp green curtain from its shell. This little kid held one impressive mollusk. One of, maybe a few million, that clung to the rocks of Tongue Point like the endless sea of soldiers in Emperor Qin’s Terracotta army. His find was just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what lay beneath the surface…and on the surface when the tide was low.

Tongue Point reaches out into the wild waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Salt Creek Recreation Area. It has a stellar reputation for some of the best diving and tide pools the northwest region has to offer. The border between the U.S. and Canada is almost spitting distance, running up the middle of the strait.

Big Papa and I were camping stateside for three days to ring in my 51st year. It was our first camping trip together. With us was our brand spanking-new tent from REI and all the usual camping accoutrement.

For both of us, camping was something we’d each done, but never together and not for a loooong time. My last night spent in a tent was a good six or seven years ago and Big Papa could count back more than two decades. I think each of us had our reasons (excuses?) for not finding a way to do it all these years. Not having someone to share it with played an active role in the putting it off as the years slipped by.

We spent a bunch of time (and a good chunk of cash) getting outfitted and making lists of what we each remembered to be useful. You can’t plan for every contingency and having to “wing it” on occasion is part of the fun anyway. As long as we were safe, dry and fed it seemed like it would be a “successful premier” on the balance.

Our first night was a bit uncomfortable (we determined that Thermarest mattresses filled with too much air are like sleeping on a board). The wind howled outside like a train running through an endless tunnel (the next day the camp host appeared at our site to “apologize” for the excessive wind that plagued campsites overlooking the strait). Neither of us managed to get a good night’s sleep. But after a rousing cup of coffee prepared on the camp stove, and a trek to the water’s edge to be greeted by a vast assortment of marine treasures, things began to look up.

Pretty soon we were on a roll, chalking up memorable moments at every turn. We saw ocean critters we’d never seen before: an enormous sea sponge, a giant Pacific Chiton, blood stars galore and starfish of every hue and size. Sea spray thundered and shot above our heads as it danced over rocks at the edge of the shore. We took side trips to the majestic Olympic mountain range at Hurricane Ridge and sat in the sun by the placid turquoise waters of Lake Crescent.

Back at our campsite, we devoured fabulous omelets at breakfast and whipped up gourmet s ‘mores (amazingly, a first for Big Papa) for dessert. The usual furry suspects made amusing visitors even with their occasional attempts at stealing our grub. We nestled into our little spot by the sea and found ways to make our temporary tented home cozy and sleep-friendly.

At the end of the trip Big Papa and I agreed we’d done our first camping excursion proud. He aptly said that while it might have been a bit of a stretch for us (this was not a cushy B&B like those in many of our travels), we pulled together as a team and made everything work out swimmingly.

More importantly, we had a blast. True, we weren’t testing our metal with a backcountry off-road hike and scramble. In the bell curve of roughing it, this wasn’t too rough. Still, it was a new angle for us. We made a few notes on what to bring next time (liquid soap and quarters for the showers) and what not to do (nix the ice bag in the car if you want dry clothes at your destination). We are already looking forward to our next adventure.

For me the trip was a good reminder of the delight you can experience when you push your limits, even a little bit, when you try something out of the ordinary and when you shake up your usual routine, even if it’s just your vacation routine.

Our three days at Salt Creek helped me to feel inspired to seek out more ways to explore the depths and peek inside dark crevices, to turn over rocks in my life and see what may be tucked beneath them. Because I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the magic found in doing so is immeasurable.

Too many times we stand aside and let the waters slip away, till what we put off till tomorrow has now become today. So don’t you sit upon the shoreline and say you’re satisfied. Choose to chance the rapids and dare to dance that tide.

“The River” Garth Brooks

Secret gardens

May 27, 2010 by Beth Shepherd

Columbine danced in the sunlight, a sea of little fairy flowers all dressed up in brilliant purple. Six-foot tall rye grass swayed in the breeze, fronds making a swishing noise as they brushed against each other. Birds flitted and tweeted with delight through the abundant greenery. Hundreds of bees buzzed and hummed as they made their way to and fro between fields of blooming flowers. Chickens squawked while foraging through berries and beans. In the background a horse neighed and a goat bleated.

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath letting the sweet May air fill my nostrils, all the while imagining I was in the middle of nowhere. But I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. In fact, I was squarely in the middle of central Seattle mid-day on a sunny Saturday.

‘Habitat Alley’ was one of the first stops Big Papa and I made as we meandered from urban garden to urban garden for the 2010 Central Area Garden Tour. Located in Madison Valley, the brainchild of a former REI photographer, Habitat Alley was designed to create a wildlife habitat, beautify a weed-choked alley into a nature path for kids and absorb rain with five deeply dug rain-gardens. In 2005, she got the buy-in from at least a half-dozen neighbors in either direction and then floated the idea by the city to obtain a ‘beautification permit.’

Five years later, native species flourish where weeds once grew. Pacific ninebark, salmonberry, golden current, wild strawberry, Indian plum and western columbine were among the plants happily ensconced along the trail in the back of several homes.

Entering Habitat Alley, I felt like Dorothy, in ‘The Wizard of Oz’ at the moment when she and Toto step from the black and white world of Kansas into the Technicolor world of Ox. All this beauty, that I never knew existed, and only a few miles radius as the crow would fly from the Urban Cabin.

A labor of love indeed, and our host was clearly passionate about her cause. She told us that last year her bees produced 85 pounds of honey. Artichokes, fig trees, blueberry bushes and a diversity of vegetables were tucked into every corner of her yard. A big-boned guard cat sat on the porch keeping watch over his kingdom.

Big Papa and I ventured to twelve gardens on our tour. Each offered something unique. A profusion of double lilacs and a lap pool hidden behind a garden gate, worm bins and huge cisterns creatively tucked against a house that supply rain water to use inside and out.

We were also treated to our fare share of great garden art. One porch was adorned with a six-foot asparagus spear sculpture, which looked real enough that I was tempted to take a bite. A fountain tucked under an old apple tree here and a bird bath in the middle of a garden there. Lovely mosaic stepping stones, fanciful metal trellises and peaceful Buddha statuary found their way into every nook and cranny.

I spent the better part of the afternoon with my jaw dropped below my neckline, amazed at the years of dedication a dozen home owners displayed in their urban landscapes. We met wonderful kindred spirits, all doing their bit to bring nature to the city and share it with their neighbors, by installing flora and fauna right outside their front (or back) doors. And, I’m certain the treasures we saw are only the tip of the iceberg.

Later that afternoon, back at the Urban Cabin, I peered out our windows and took stock of the progress being made in our little plot of soil. Garden beds have appeared where bare soil once stood. A robin dives and splashes in the bird bath. Strawberry bushes reveal tiny white flowers slowing turning to fruit.

I felt immense pride. Big Papa and I have put in plenty of sweat equity to create our small corner of paradise. Maybe next year we’ll open our gate to let garden revelers share our very own secret garden.

Well-heeled in Paris

September 24, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

The reasons to visit Paris are endless… amazing architecture, world-class art, fascinating history, divine food. And then there’s fashion.

Coco Chanel, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, Lanvin, Hermes, Yves Saint Laurent and Christian Louboutin, historically some of the world’s top designers and fashion houses have been French. So I fully expected, on our three-day visit, to be launched into a non-stop episode of ‘Sex and the City’ when Carrie goes to Paris, minus the face-first nose dive at the House of Dior.

Friends had suggested that I wear dresses during the day and Big Papa bring a suit coat for dining out. I fretted over finding a fashionable backpack (landed a great black leather Hobo bag at a consignment store) so I didn’t look like an REI advertisement on the road. My hair which, left to its own devices is a halo of curls, was blown straight and swanky before departure.

Shoes. I confess to having a weakness for shoes. My closet is filled with more pairs of boots, sandals, espadrilles and ballet flats than any one girl really needs. Though my days trying to wobble around the steep hills of Seattle in heels have passed, I’m a sucker for a cute pair of shoes.

That said, I’d promised Big Papa I wouldn’t repeat the error of my ways from one or two trips where a few miles of walking in shoes inappropriate to the occasion, left my feet blistered and sore. I selected a comfy but stylish pair of Privo patent leather sandals.

Please note I am not a fashion maven. I want to look nice and presentable, but no one is going to call me cutting edge. Truth be told, I expected to feel more Mademoiselle Frumpy than Miss Couture Hottie. Still, knowing we were strangers in a strange land, I hoped not to stick out like an American sore thumb.

Off we went. Twelve hours of flying and nine time zones later, voila, there we were.

As our three-day stay passed, I revised my view of ‘haute’ in the city of lights. I did spot a few gams sporting red-soled Louboutins and spied plenty of gals teetering over cobblestones and on bicycles with sky-high heels, but overall Parisian fashion appeared decidedly down-to-earth. Wisps of hair floating this way and that, a scarf thrown ‘round their necks in that insouciant way only French girls can manage. I admit to feeling quite surprised to even discover a sizable number of Birkenstock–clad women sitting in sidewalk cafes.

While I’d be willing to wager that on closer inspection looking oh-so-undone and casual was more contrived than accidental, I have to say the majority of women looked as though they were heading for espresso and the neighborhood flea market rather than cocktails and the opera. Not a single soul to be found donning Carrie Bradshaw-sized ball gowns.

Big Papa never did put on his suit coat. Not that we didn’t see natty looking men zipping around on their scooters, suited up with a ciggie hanging from their mouths. For the most part we felt a part of it all in our relatively casual attire.

On the final day of our trip, we stopped for one last night in Paris on our way back from Yerevan. We headed out for a self-guided walking tour of the streets around St. Germain. Stopping to read the menu at Café Procope, touted as the oldest café in the world, I looked down to see two pairs of comfortable yet fashionable patent leather sandals standing side by side. I smiled at the women standing next to me. “Nice shoes,” I said with a wink. She looked down and laughed. “We should be in a picture together,” I suggested. “Where are you traveling from?” she asked. “Seattle,” I told her. “No kidding, we’re from Vancouver and our travel companions are from Portland.”

Isn’t that the way it goes. An ocean away from home, here stood two gals practically from the same zip code, just trying to blend in, ala Parisienne.

Strap-on Baby

May 11, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

He had a cute little body, an upturned nose, half-sleepy eyes and light brown skin. I knew he was ours from the moment I laid eyes on him. We picked him up, put on his diaper, dressed him in a cute Onesie, plopped him into a snug carrier and strapped him closely to my chest. He was everything I imagined our baby might be. Except that he was plastic.

Big Papa and I drove to Portland this past weekend, to attend a Northwest Adoptive Families (NAFA) class on baby and toddler care. As instructed, we arrived promptly at 8:00 a.m. to “pick out our baby” before class began. Oh, if only adoption was that simple.

Our first challenge was to select a baby who would tag along with us for the remainder of the class, lunch and bathroom breaks included. All the guys and gals bellied up to the bevy of babies, diapers, outfits and baby carriers. This was where the rubber meets the road. Gender bias was clearly influencing our choices and I’m not referring to what kind of ‘bits’ our baby was sporting. My selections for baby carriers were decidedly hip earth mama, sarong stylin’, Ikat print how-does-my-baby carrier-look-with-my-outfit accessories. Big Papa was tried and true REI meets Techno Geek, preferring the messenger-bag style baby carriers with buckles and rain-proof Gore-Tex.

The day proved to be a fascinating experience that we shared with roughly a dozen couples. Most were first-time adoptive parents, like us. A few had several birth children and one couple had adopted a baby girl just a week prior to the class. Little ‘Zoeylee’ sat just a few feet in front of us with her proud mom and dad, a hopeful reminder of what we all dreamed we might become one day…parents.

Eight hours later, Big Papa and I knew a lot more about infant development, feeding, bathing and the culture of adoption. During our day-long class, we bonded well with our plastic baby, who we adoringly nicknamed, Bubba. Of course, Bubba didn’t squirm, scream or poop.

We really enjoyed the break-out session on baby massage and were amused by the live baby bath demo (let’s just say that one 5-week old baby boy was decidedly not pleased with his fifteen minutes of fame), but the moments that really took our breath away had little to do with how-to and need-to-know.

Lani, a Korean adoptee, shared a moving story. Her story. She told us of being welcomed into a family of four as a two-and-a-half year old, and recalled what it was like being the only person of color in rural small town Oregon nearly forty years ago. Lani gave a loving portrayal of her adoptive parents and siblings, along with the traditions they created as a family.

One other moment is seared forever in my memory. John, a single adoptive dad, who was helping with the class, talked about his journey to find and parent his daughter. He described the challenges he faced as he made this brave and somewhat unique decision that would shape the rest of his life. As his eyes welled up with tears and his voice choked, he told us, “Adopting her was the best decision I ever made.”