THE CURSE OF KALE

kaleBy Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Have you noticed that we are surrounded by diet tips this time of year? No matter where I’ve turned lately, someone is telling me how I can expend calories, lower my BMI or lose weight. Frankly, I don’t think my weight is any of their damn business.

Usually I enjoy reading USA Today – the articles exactly match the (short) length of my attention span. And there are pictures – lots of pictures. But this past week even they bombarded me with diet and exercise tips. The Main news section went into an agonizing description of every diet and which medical group endorses it. Blah, blah, blah. Then the Money section dissected the cost of the various diet plans. Sports calculated the calories used during simple everyday tasks like mowing the lawn, chopping wood, and rock climbing. Clearly they’ve not taken into consideration people such as myself. I need to know the net calorie count of sitting on the couch eating popcorn while watching “Downton Abbey”. Finally, the Life section had real life stories of people who had lost 100 pounds. I don’t care what they say, you just know these people are miserable. And most of them gain it all back in a Bacchanalia of Domino’s pizza and grape slurpees.

I blame a lot of this diet craze on the recent assent of kale. Who had even heard of kale five years ago? Now it’s in everything. Restaurants feature kale salad, which is basically kale and then a lot of things mixed with it to mask the taste of kale. There are recipes in magazines for kale chips, kale smoothies, and I even saw one for kale ice cream. The kale craze really hit the Rubicon when one famous, do-gooder, skinny-as-a-rail chef suggested putting kale in a chocolate cake recipe. That is one step too far. Not on my watch will something like kale ruin a perfectly delicious confection of sugar and butter.

So for me, I’m going to cut out the middle man this year and not even start a diet. And I’m certainly not going to add freaking kale to my meals. I’m sticking with the triple chocolate cake from Costco (minus any kale, thank you very much) and I’m guessing that I will end up weighing the same at the end of 2013 as I do today. And I won’t have had the humiliation of kale stuck to my teeth.

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GOING TO THE DOGS

by Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Raes five boysMy husband and I have lost our minds. We recently decided to add to our family.  No, we’re not that crazy (or young).   In February we will become parents to a 12 week old Cavalier King Charles spaniel. The picture at left shows the litter at 8 days old. We don’t know yet which one will be ours, but I’m hoping it’s the smart one.  I am aware of the pitfalls of a new puppy – we can say goodbye to sleep, sanity and our clean white carpeting. On the other hand, if “Puppy Breath” was sold as perfume it would be a best seller.

I haven’t owned a dog in 25 years so I thought I should become familiar with the modern dog world. Conveniently, PetSmart was sponsoring its annual Holiday Pet Festival near us this past weekend. It offered an opportunity to see (and pet) dogs, peruse the latest dog supplies and hopefully pick up some tips.  And it was free.  The perfect storm.

The festival was held at West World, which is a HUGE exhibition center where they hold the Barrett-Jackson car auction and other large events. I figured they would cordon off a small portion of it for the dog soiree. But as I entered the building it became clear that I am horribly, crushingly, out of date when it comes to the dogs and the vast array of “stuff” available to them.

Twenty-five years ago my dog had a collar, leash and feeding bowls.  I fed her whatever canned dog food was on sale at the supermarket.  On a good day she got a piece of a hot dog or whatever scrap happened to hit the kitchen floor.  Apparently my  laissez-faire approach to dog ownership would now warrant an emergency call to the SPCA.

The “fesitval” made it clear that today’s dog requires vitamins, special organic, gluten-free food, freeze-dried liver treats, harnesses, and a bed that would have to pass muster at the Ritz.  And though not required, it was strongly suggested that if you love your dog at all you should purchase a dog massage, a day at the doggie spa, blinged out collars and sunglasses.  I won’t even go into the ridiculous costumes being offered but really…some of these outifts would embarrass Lady Gaga.

All in all it was a fun day.  There were small dogs and large dogs, and dogs that looked like they wanted to be anywhere else:

small dogs

large dogs

bored dogs

But my favorite was the dog who decided, right in the middle of the arena, to “do it’s business”.  Big time.  And guess what breed it was?  A Cavalier King Charles spaniel.  I think I’m going to need a bigger shovel.

THE NEW ELECTION POLES

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

As I write this we are two days away from the election.  Or, as we say in our house, 48 hours away from re-gaining control of our telephone.  I know we’re not alone in this.  It seems people everywhere are complaining that robo calls have disturbed dinner, naps and even Monday Night Football.  Do you think it’s possible that the machines actually do come alive in the wee hours to plot the most effective ways to torture us?

Most of the calls tout a politician’s virtues.  Or is that a self-cancelling phrase?  In any event, in all the years I’ve been voting I have never received a call from a polling company.  This is truly remarkable given the number of polls that have sprung up.  Remember when Gallup was the only poll?  And remember when nobody paid attention to it?

In an attempt to get a jump on the 2016 race I am thinking of some new polls that people might actually care about.  In my opinion, here’s what I think the pollsters should be asking:

  • The Fishing Poll:  How many whoppers or exaggerations did the candidates tell this week?
  • The Stripper Poll:  How many contortions did the candidate bend himself into so he could disown former positions contrary to his current positions?
  • The North Poll:  How many promises were made to deliver gifts to everyone: Social Security, Medicare, small business, shovel-ready jobs, your old Aunt Sally and her dog – all without any increase in taxes?
  • The Barber Poll:  Which candidate has promised that government/unions/big business/John Edwards all need a haircut?
  • The Flag Poll:  How many times have you hoisted the white flag of surrender in an attempt to get the ads, speeches, attacks and the robo calls to STOP?

I’m only dreaming here – I’m pretty doubtful we’re going to get asked any of these questions.  But this much I do know: regardless of who wins the election, this country will carry on.  Despite what the ads say, no one individual, not even the President, can wreck it.

As for me, after Tuesday I’m going to sit back and enjoy the peace and quiet of my house.  No longer will I fear the telephone.  But the computer?  That’s a different story.

THE UNDECIDED

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

We’ve been hearing a lot the past few weeks about the “undecided” voter in the presidential election. At this point it seems that most people have made up their minds about which candidate will screw up the country for the next four years. But there remains a significant percentage of people who are unable to make a decision, even though there are pretty big differences between the two candidates. The other night a major broadcaster was skeptical that anyone could still be undecided. He obviously does not work with the public.

Nine years ago, after retiring as a bank executive, I decided to take a job one day a week doing something fun. So I signed on at the local yarn shop. I hadn’t worked with actual customers since college and, for the most part, it’s been fun. The average client walks in, chooses a pattern and some yarn, and walks out happy. Sometimes a person asks for help and after a few basic questions the right project is selected.  It’s all done within 30 minutes.

But then we have the “undecideds”. They typically walk in and say “I have no idea what I want to make.” Okay, I’ll say, let’s narrow that down – a sweater, hat, golf club cover? Perhaps some steel wool so you can knit yourself a washing machine, I joke. But I am speaking to the wall. No pattern is quite right, no texture is appropriate, no color just the right shade. The quandary over a skein of yarn is beyond comprehension. A long time ago my brother, Jack, taught me this: the important thing about a decision is to MAKE one.

My favorite example of an “undecided” was when a tourist came in one day, completely befuddled. She asked me if I had a yarn that would match her brown coat. She somehow assumed that I would know exactly what her brown coat looked like. I wanted to say, “Lady, I don’t even know you, much less your brown coat”. But after an hour of searching for yarn, gnashing of teeth (me) and tentative murmurings (her), she made a selection. I’ve often wondered if the brown coat was happy.

I really worry about these people once they leave the store. If they have this much trouble picking out yarn, how in the heck to they make more critical decisions? I shudder to think of these people picking out something more permanent, like carpeting. The texture selection alone must give them the vapors.  Colleges for their kids?  They must have to start when they’re in kindergarten to reach a decision in time.

But you don’t have to work in a yarn store to experience these people. They are the ones in the front of the line at Starbucks, completely undone by the choices. Tall or grande? Foam or whip? The choice between bold or mild is enough to send them into an apoplectic state. These unsure souls are the reason that the wait is usually interminable.

So, back to the election.  Apparently in some states there are so many “undecideds” that the whole darn state is considered to be a “swing” factor in this election. As far as I’m concerned these people are getting what they deserve: a barrage of negative, mean-spirited campaign ads. But I have news for the campaign managers. If an “undecided” can’t choose between red or blue yarn, choosing a President of the United States is a reach beyond their grasp.

Papa Hemingway’s Place

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By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Each year my husband and I think about where to spend our vacation. We gather brochures, drool over pictures of exotic places and then end up going to Sun Valley, Idaho. Each September since 1988, like lemmings to the sea, we return to that idyllic spot. Mad cap adventurers we are not.

We used to beat ourselves up about this – we should see more of the world, yadda, yadda, yadda. But each year when we arrive in Sun Valley a great sense of peace comes over us and we know that we are in the right place.

Sun Valley is in some respects a typical resort town. You can buy lots of cheap t-shirts and baseball caps with bears on them. And the prices? Definitely aimed at tourists. It took Starbucks 10 years to get a permit to open here and it remains the only “chain” in town. If you can’t live without your Big Macs or Whoppers, this is not the place for you.

Celebrities flock here, in part because the locals are totally unimpressed with them. Visits by Tony Hawk and Lindsay Vonn cause more excitement than Bruce Willis or Bill Gates. The celebrities who come here are more relaxed and friendly than you might imagine. My husband once spent 20 minutes talking to Arnold Schwarzenegger about California’s tax problems in the local coffee shop. Obviously that was not a fruitful conversation.

Perhaps the celebrity most closely associated with Sun Valley is Ernest Hemingway. It was there that he relaxed, and wrote, beginning in 1939 until his suicide there in 1961. He holed up in a room at the Sun Valley Lodge to write arguably his best novel, “For Whom The Bell Tolls”. As one walks the hallways of the Lodge, there are numerous pictures of him hunting, fishing and, not surprisingly, drinking. Some of the bars he frequented in town are still in business; they are what would be colloquially known as “shit-kicking” saloons. It’s not hard to imagine him sitting in one of these dark corners, whiskey in hand, observing human behavior. It’s rumored that one night, well into his cups, he staged a mock bullfight down the middle of the bar.

The picture shown at the top of today’s post is of a sign that sits at the busiest corner in town. It is comprised of 10,000 tiny pictures taken of Hemingway during his years in Paris. It overlooks the new town square and gives the impression that “Papa” is still participating in all the local festivities…and gossip. Further down the road is the cemetery where he is buried (pictured below). Aside from the occasional tour it is usually quiet, the only hint of traffic is the occasional flower or note placed on his grave from an admirer.

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Our favorite Hemingway spot is the memorial that was erected in his honor, built just east of the Lodge in 1966. It consists of a tall granite base topped with a bronze bust of his head. It is perched amongst a grove of his beloved Cottonwood trees, overlooking the beautiful Trail Creek with the mountains in the distance. Here is a picture of his “view”:

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It is inscribed with the words that Hemingway spoke at the funeral of a friend, but projects his own feelings as well:

Best of all he loved the fall,
the leaves yellow on cottonwoods
leaves floating on trout streams
and above the hills
the high blue windless skies
…Now he will be a part of them forever.

Whenever I read those words I feel justified in our trip there each September. After all, if it was good enough for Ernest Hemingway, it’s certainly good enough for us.

HEY, SAILOR, NEW IN TOWN?

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Last week my brother took us on an adventure – or lack of adventure – with an old Army general.  This week we’ll continue with the military theme and go aboard the USS Iowa.

My husband, Alan, brother Bob and I visited the “Battleship of Presidents” last month at its new home in San Pedro, CA.  Being a World War II buff, and always one to light up at the mere mention of Fleet Week, I thought this would be an entertaining way to spend an afternoon.  It was…just not in the way I expected.

When arriving at the harbor I looked around for a huge ship – after all, the Iowa  is a battleship, for crying out loud.  But as we pulled into the parking lot, I was still looking around for a big ship.  Take it from me; battleships are very low to the … well, sea.  I think I was imagining an aircraft carrier, which both Alan and Bob assured me are much taller.

In any event, once piped aboard we found that there are no official tours.  The Iowa had only been open for a month and the plan is to have guided tours within the next year.  Until then visitors follow painted arrows on the floor (or “deck” as they insisted on calling it).  Let me say right here that this is not a tour for anyone with any physical limitations; we climbed up and down stairs, stepped over those little barrier thingies between rooms, and had to squeeze through narrow passageways.  People with claustrophobia or who are on the heavier side of the scale should not plan their next summer vacation around a visit to the USS Iowa.

Nevertheless, the Iowa  is an impressive ship with an equally impressive history.  The Iowa  was in Tokyo Harbor on the day World War II ended and it provided the platform from which Reagan presided over the ceremony for the Statue of Liberty’s restoration ceremony. George H.W. Bush officiated at its recommission and sadly, at the memorial for 47 sailors who died in the accidental explosion of a gun turret.  It was home to many brave men and women who served our country and it now provides us civilians with a real appreciation for life on a battleship.

The photographs and artifacts in the officer’s quarters provided the most graphic history of the Iowa.  There was a giant map of the ship’s cruises, from its launching in 1943 to its decommission in 1990.  In 1943 it took FDR to Casablanca for the summit with Stalin and Churchill.  The captain, having a firm grasp of the organization chart, vacated his quarters and lent FDR his “luxurious” suite.  Here is a picture of the bed that Roosevelt slept in with the specially woven Presidential bedspread:

Due to FDR’s polio, the captain also installed a hot tub (pictured below) for that cruise.  This was a man who clearly wanted to progress up the ranks.

I’m thinking that Roosevelt didn’t actually play with that rubber ducky.  The visit to the captain’s quarters only confirmed that we have a long tradition of wasteful government spending in this country.

Moving on, we climbed endless steps up and down through the various compartments and decks.  Without a formal tour guide, I had to rely on the descriptions and explanations that Alan and Bob rattled off – two people who never let the truth get in the way of a good story.  I have no idea if even half of what they told me is true, but there were times when they were so animated that a crowd gathered to listen to their “expert” commentary.  The oft-used mnemonic for Iowa – Idiots Out Walking Around – came to mind.

Here are the two of them – Bob not knowing which is the business end of a 16″ gun barrel and Alan showing off his guns.  You can see what I was up against.

Despite the Iowa  still being in shakedown mode, one facet of the ship was up and ready to go – the gift shop.  Not a trick had been missed in setting it up.  There were the requisite t-shirts and caps, of course, but they also sold golf ball markers, a Stryker marshmallow gun, and a book called “Airigami: Realistic Origami Aircraft” in case you’re looking to kill some time at your next staff meeting.

All in all, the  USS Iowa is well worth seeing, but my recommendation is to visit when they have their official tours available.  If you go before that, just make sure that the person up on the bridge doesn’t look like this:

SURVIVING MARRIAGE

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Whenever our late dad was asked how long he’d been married, he would jokingly respond,  “I’ve survived 43 years of indentured servitude”.   He was the type of guy who could get away with such a statement, with a twinkle in his eye and a hearty chuckle.  My husband tried it once and received an icy stare.

But icy stares aside, this week we are celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary.  Where in the heck does the time go?  It seems like only yesterday that we were standing before the minister thinking, “What in the heck have I gotten myself in to?”

A few weeks ago a young person asked us how long we’ve been married.  When we told him we were sneaking up on 25, he asked us for the secret to a long marriage.  We were stumped for an answer.  Commitment, enthusiasm, insanity?  Probably some combination of them all.   I actually like the late Erma Bombeck’s assessment of marriage. She wrote that it isn’t the big things, like money and sex, which ruin a marriage; it’s the small annoyances adding up that suddenly made one spouse take a pick axe to the other in the dark of night.  She used examples of putting empty ice cube trays back in the freezer and refusing to walk across the room to change the TV channel.  I guess today it would be not charging the iPad or deleting a favorite show from the DVR listing.

Regardless of the era, her point is well taken.  I think a jury of my peers would have found me perfectly justified in strangling my husband for repeatedly leaving dirty dishes on top of the dishwasher, placing empty milk cartons back in the refrigerator and assuming I’m his personal secretary.  And although I’m almost sure I’ve been the very essence of human kindness over these years, perhaps he might have a thing or three to cite me for as well.  But we’ve never let the small things get in the way.  The real secret to a happy marriage?  A very short memory.

It also helps to have the same metabolisms.  How many couples have divorced because one spouse is ridiculously cheerful in the morning and the other needs six cups of coffee before grunting “Hand me the sports section.”?  We know a couple who only have about 10 waking hours when their lives intersect.  Who knows, maybe those 10 hours are enough. Especially when you’re both retired.

All I know for sure is that this week will will commemorate 25 wonderful years by going to a fine (and by “fine” I mean expensive) restaurant.  But what I’m really looking forward to are all the days that follow.  As Judith Viorst once said, “Recognize joy when it arrives in the plain brown wrappings of everyday life”.  My joy is found when the two of us are alone on our sofa, laughing and chatting.  And in those moments I am confident in the knowledge that he’s still going to put an empty milk carton back in the refrigerator.  After 25 years you learn to choose your battles.

THE MOTHER TRUCKER

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

     A couple of years ago I was the victim of a photo radar camera. I say “victim” because I was only going eight miles over the speed limit and besides, I was busy making my grocery list in my head.  Obviously I didn’t have time to read that pesky speed limit sign.  A few days after I was “flashed” I got a ticket in the mail along with a photo of me speeding.  I was certain that they had the wrong person; I would never leave the house with that slap-dash make-up job and my hair in such disarray. But the car was definitely mine so I had to face the fact that the slovenly person speeding down the road was me.

     My choice was to pay the fine, which would result in a car insurance premium resembling the national debt, or attend an all-day traffic school.  My friends encouraged me to do nothing and wait until the process-server found me.  Perhaps I’ve watched one too many episodes of “Locked Up” but I didn’t want any part of evading the law; I signed up for traffic school.  Traffic school, for those of you goody two shoes who have never been to one, consists of 8 hours of sitting in a cheap hotel room listening to someone drone on about arcane traffic laws, while sitting next to people who have committed God knows what crime.

     Okay, that might be a bit overly dramatic.  Turns out, 95% of my class was there due to photo radar cameras.  Our instructor, Rosie, was a woman who had spent the better part of her working years as a truck driver.  As in an 18 wheeler, big semi truck.  She was married and had raised her children while on the road.  Rosie referred to herself as “the Mother Trucker”.  She made the class as interesting as possible, which is quite a feat when you’re discussing curb colors and stopping distances.  In short, Rosie was just the kind of person you’d love to meet at that greasy spoon truck stop because you know she’d offer you some Tums.

     During a portion of her instruction (I believe it was concerning merges or something – the whole day was sort of lost on me) Rosie extolled the virtues of truck drivers.   At this point a few people in class felt it necessary to prolong our agony by relating their recent encounters with deranged truckers.  On and on they babbled, each one trying to better the last, completely unaware that no one cared one whit about their stories.  Imagine a cocktail party where you’re cornered by the biggest bore in the room, only you don’t have a cocktail.  Rosie finally took charge, telling us that everything we eat, wear or touch was at some point on a truck, and that we should be forever grateful for truckers.

     In my overwhelming desire to get home I did not share my opinion then, but I’m going to share it now:  truck drivers are the biggest menace on the road today.  Period. This was not always so.  In fact, when I learned to drive truckers were considered to be the safest drivers.  And nice – who among us didn’t do an arm pump as a kid when passing a trucker, only to have him blast his horn and smile?  When I was in my early twenties a friend and I were driving up to Squaw Valley on a Friday night and were so engrossed in our discussion about skiing (okay, it was probably about ski patrol guys) that we didn’t notice that the gas tank was emptying.  As we ascended Highway 80,  just shy of the summit and in complete darkness, our car gradually lost power and stopped on the side of the road.  A few minutes later a truck driver pulled over to see if he could help.  He quickly diagnosed the problem (we were idiots) and offered to take us up to Norden to the gas station.  We merrily – and unthinkingly – hopped in his truck to go get gas.  I shudder when I remember this – we were lucky we didn’t end up in some sex slave harem in Indonesia.  But such were the times – truck drivers were the good Samaritans of the road.

     Nowadays, as I have previously related, my husband and I do a lot of driving trips.  So as other people know airports, we know roads.  I cannot even begin to count the number of times over the past several years that we have been cut off by a speeding truck.  On a trip last week we noticed a truck veering from one lane to the other.  We cautiously approached him and as I peered in his window, he was eating a sandwich with one hand and holding a coke in the other.  He was obviously under the mistaken impression that he could drive with his knees.  I have seen truckers reading, texting, talking on the phone, rifling through paperwork, and snuggling up with their girlfriends (to put it delicately).  Imagine – we used to think catching someone picking their nose was a noteworthy event!

     I know that nowadays truckers are often freelancers and paid by the job; the faster they can complete their “run” the more money they make.  I just wish they all had the same sensibilities as Rosie.  In other words, we need more mother truckers on the road.

THE SENIOR DECAY-THLON

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

The quadrennial Summer Olympics are upon us this week.  I have to admit that I’m a sucker for all things related to the Games.  I like the schmaltzy stories about athletes overcoming physical challenges, dysfunctional families, and swimsuits that ride up.  I even like the commercials the first time through and then, through the magic of the DVR, I whiz through the next several hours’ worth of their re-runs.

As magnificent as these elite athletes are they do have a big advantage: they practice.  They devote endless hours to getting faster, stronger and more agile.  Their family and friends support them in the effort.  Shoot, there’s even a place on our tax form so we all can support them.

Compare that to those of us who are suddenly thrust into the indignities of aging.  Without any notice (or, might I say, practice) whatsoever, we become slower, weaker and more awkward; we can’t see, can’t hear and noises come out of places that really should be silent.

I’m going to write the IOOC to suggest that if they really want to see people triumph over adversity they should establish a new event – the Senior Decathlon.  Here are the 10 events for which medals should be awarded:

  • Track:   A gold medal to the person who makes the fastest nocturnal trip to the bathroom.  Event divided into Walker, Cane and Wheel Chair categories. There would also be an Endurance award for those who can actually get through an entire night without getting up to pee.
  • Conditioning:  In this event the medal goes to the person who can spend the most minutes reading in bed.  Points will be deducted for reading the same paragraph over and over.
  • Best Reply to “How Are You Doing?”: A gold medal will be awarded to the athlete who can ramble on about the latest developments of their Disease, Condition or Procedure.  Points awarded for a) the number of listeners who stay awake for the diatribe and b) showing scars from said Disease, Condition or Procedure that require the removal of clothing.
  • Memory:  We expect a lot of entrants in this event.  The winner will be the athlete who, from a sitting position, can get up, quickly go into another room, and not remember why.
  • Grooming:  This event will reward the person who receives the most comments along the lines of “You Look Really Good”, which is code for “You look like you have one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel”.
  •  Digestion:  The medal ceremony for this event will be held in the Food Court.  Award will go to athlete who can most colorfully describe the foods that don’t “agree” with them anymore.  Extra points for saying “I like it, but it doesn’t like me”.
  • The Older We Get, The Better We Were: This event has two categories – youth and work.  Awards will go to the athlete that can tell the most tear-jerking (yet completely fictitious) story about how things used to be “back in the day” and to the athlete who can most exaggerate how important/rich/influential they were at their job.
  • No Sex, No Rock ‘n Roll, But Still Doing Drugs: Because of the Baby Boomer generation, this medal will be given to the athlete has taken the most pills after age 65.
  • Aging Gracefully:  Gold medals will be given in Men’s and Women’s Categories.  Men will be judged on Longest Comb-over.  The award for Women will go to athlete who has had a face lift and does not look like a dog with its head out the car window.
  • Dental:  Finally, this event will be won by the person who can still enunciate their words through dentures, bridges and implants.  A special award will be given to anyone who still has all of their teeth.

So, that’s it.  I don’t know if the IOOC is going to act on these suggestions but just in case, I’m getting my support hose and knee braces ready for Rio.

MY (ALMOST) WEEK WITH TOM CRUISE

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Last week we spent some time in Mammoth Lakes, as we have done most summers since the mid-80’s. We used to hike and enjoy the scenery, but then we started playing golf and such pursuits were given up for the joys of hacking our way around the local courses. In retrospect, and in assessing my golf game, I should have stuck with hiking.

My favorite hike in Mammoth is the one up to TJ Lake. It is a magnificent mountain lake, surrounded on all sides by rugged peaks and tall pine trees. And because of its remoteness, it is quiet and undisturbed – one of the last remaining places on Earth without a Starbucks. One of my fondest memories is of the last hike we took up to TJ in 1986 when I spent an afternoon reading “Gone With The Wind” by its shores. It remains one of the top 10 days of my life. Every year since then I have suggested to my husband that we do that hike again but we never have. Until last Wednesday.

We drove to Lake George, which is the trailhead for Barrett and TJ Lakes. I read all the trail markers – 1/4 mile to Lake Barrett and 1/2 mile to TJ. Doesn’t sound like much, right? But Lake George sits at 9000′ altitude and TJ is at 9265′. Only a 265′ vertical hike, you scoff? Hiking at 9000′ is like sucking in air through a rubber sheet. Shoot, base camp for Everest is 10,000′. I definitely needed a Sherpa.

We also noted numerous signs warning of the bears in the area. But my husband patted his side and confidently assured me that he had his hunting knife strapped to his belt. Every wife knows this moment: do you let your right brain take over and humor him or does your left brain shout “Are you nuts? You will be through that bear’s lower intestine before you even have the knife unsheathed!”. But, like wives everywhere, I weigh 25 years of marriage versus pointing out the ridiculousness of his plan and say nothing.

We set out, channeling our best Scouting tactics. Slow pace, traversing back and forth, stopping to rest. There was a lot of stopping to rest. But we forged on up the mountain, crossing a river using rocks for a path, hurdling a dead tree trunk, we were regular John Muir trekkers. At last we came to Lake Barrett. It is crystal blue, surrounded by pines and jagged mountains. I posted a picture of it on my Facebook page and got lots of “oohs and ahhs”. That would be enough for most people. But I wanted to see TJ. I was sure it was just over the next hill.

It actually was over the next hill, but I had forgotten that TJ is lower than Barrett. So down we went, knowing that with every step down we were going to have to make our way back up. But I was on a mission. And finally, there it was! You know how you go back to something many years later and the object you’ve tracked down is either smaller or less grand than you remembered (or in the case of my high school boyfriend, a lot shorter)? TJ was everything I remembered and more. I’ve attached a picture but it doesn’t do the lake justice. I sat there for a long while, taking it all in. And I have to admit that I got choked up a bit when I turned to leave. I don’t know why exactly, maybe just happy that I’d managed to make the hike again or maybe because I know that making a return trip with my creaky knees and arthritic back might not be possible.

As we got back down to George there was a couple standing at the fork of the trails. “Hey, folks!”, they shouted. I though they had obviously identified us as fellow members of the hiking community. But they went on…”Did you happen to see the big bear that just went through here? We don’t know which fork to take to avoid her.” I just about passed out, but my husband tapped his knife like a regular Daniel Boone, confident that he had the situation under control. I immediately went down to have my golf clubs re-gripped.

And now for the Tom Cruise part.  Turns out that he flew to Mammoth Lakes the same day we arrived to film the last scenes for his new film, “Oblivion”.  According to our waitress at the chop house (and really, who is more of an authority on local gossip than a waitress?) he stayed at the Westin next door to us and was served with more papers from Katie while he was there. Too bad we never met up with him.  I could have told him that the best place to avoid problems was up at TJ.  A New York attorney would never risk dirtying his tassel loafers climbing up that trail.

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