Isabella Bird Miscellany

east lake, oregon ... summer 2015 Morning came with a cold smack in the face.  The sun was just beginning to light the day, soft and melancholy.  The campground was quiet as dawn tip-toed in.  Snuggling down a little further in my flannel lined sleeping bag, I noticed my visible breath; evidence of the chill.  In a sleepy, pre-coffee state of mind, I heard the chop of an axe, crumpling paper and the promising strike of a match.  Crackling flames stirred me from my cocoon, mocking me to emerge and join the day.   Silent mornings have a cold heart. This snippet pretty much sums up a recent camping trip to East Lake.  We had an unseasonal cold front move through, dropping the temperatures from the usual mid to upper 40’s at night down to, well, seeing my breath conditions.  Fortunately, I had not only my not-made-for-backpacking sleeping bag, but a wool quilt piled on top.  Add to that sweats and I was all toasty. I did emerge to meet the cold morning and roaring fire.  

walking the chosen road We all have roads to walk... Roads filled with flowers and fluffy bunnies and all things bright; others strewn with stones and cluttered with boulders of gargantuan size.  Most roads, however, are ordinary... laundry lists, family obligations and the day-to-day necessities. Right now, I am keenly aware of my stony path and the boulder-blocked trails for family and friends.  When I analyze my "stones" I see that they are, in reality, merely fine grains of sand.   To the many feet that have walked before You have paved the way, broken trail Adventurous in spirit … with curiosity unending You have opened our minds to infinite possibilities Crossing oceans, climbing mountains, Planting fruit and flowers and trees; crops to harvest and feed You have created, invented … and harnessed Tools, vehicles and electricity, and the wind Seeing beyond the here and now You were and are still a visionary, a wanderer … a discovere

class of '75 ... we still have it goin' on Arriving with more than a few butterflies – you know, all those crazy head-games you play - the hum of voices, smiles and squints as we tried to read name tags, netted the gossamer wings flying inside. What a difference 40 years makes; not an ordinary statement.  You see it’s been that many years since my high school graduation.  The mirror may beg to differ with this concept, but in my mind, we’re still the lithe, hormone-driven teens that we were in ’75.  Those were carefree and hard years.   You’re busy trying to be grown-up, important (at least in your own eyes), cool and popular with just the right amount of swagger.  There are the cliques, groups that you get peg-boarded into even if you’re square and the holes are round or obtuse.  It’s a battlefield of social status warfare. Funny how, with the passing of time, the predetermined ideas of where we fit, or don’t, seem to dissipate like the haze that filled