Manifold Destiny... En Route To Idaho

Manifold. Many and various, something with many parts and forms.  I have been lucky to live several lives already, with yet another on the horizon.  I am profoundly blessed to have a partner that shares my wanderlust, my desire for change and challenge.  Four years of nearly ceaseless travel requires a fortitude that few possess.  Our unwavering vision has been about exploration, but we've also had one eye on eventually coming to rest in the mountains. Thankfully, just when we have tapped the last of our energetic reserves, that destiny is unfolding. 

I have accepted a National Science Foundation fellowship to work on a Water Resources PhD at University of Idaho. Small town in the northwest, close to family and friends, Rocky Mountains? Check, check, check.  Not to mention Danielle has lined up what seems (at first glance) to be her dream job, and I'll significantly widen my prospects in academia, working on issues that fire me up. 

Though we will have a more permanent, permanent address in the coming years, the adventures and the blog will continue.  Thank you all for your continuing support and correspondence.  Time to head west.

Moscow, Northern Idaho...

Last Train To Clarksdale

Sometimes you feel called to pilgrimage. Perhaps once in a lifetime, perhaps again and again. It is an longing related to spirit, unrelated to reason and thought. At twenty-one, I began haunting Norman Sylvester's Thursday night sets at the Candlelight Room in Portland.  I was immediately comfortable in that raucous dive, drawn to old sounds. It was his slow blues, electric guitar solos that felt like a long, slow drag on a cigarette, that got under my skin.  I can still hear it.  Ever since, I have sought out live blues and blues history. But this year it was time for me to finally seek the source of the music itself, the Mississippi Delta.  Though Danielle is also a fan, she encouraged me to undertake this mission on my own -- so long as I scouted everything for a return trip.  I landed in Memphis, playing the musical tourist by immediately visiting Sun Studio and Stax Records.  Though these are shrines to the outgrowths of delta blues (rock and soul), it was none-the-less a thrill to stand in the footsteps of Johnny Cash, Elvis, Booker T., Otis Redding and countless more. Still, I didn't linger, driving south on Highway 61 the next day, bound for Clarksdale, Mississippi.

After the extreme classism of south Florida, Clarksdale was a revelation.  Racial disparities and economic neglect are present, no doubt, but the warmth and hospitality of the people -- black, white, privileged or poor -- was tangible. Half the town is a crumbling ruin, never having lost its veneer of 1940's signs and murals, but the other half is lovingly restored. Quite the backdrop for the Juke Joint Music Festival, a full-throated celebration of the last few blues halls remaining -- and a tribute to the aging blues men and women of Mississippi, most of whom never saw a record contract.  Day-time stages were set up on the streets, or inside abandoned theaters and banks.  At night the jukes came alive, pulsing with dancers.  

Every year, a few more of the old timers pass on.  The oldest I saw perform was 89 years old, and one show was canceled due to a sudden hospitalization.  But I also saw the grandchildren of my hill country idols (RL Burnside, Junior Kimbrough), carrying on the tradition and taking the hypnotic stomp of the forebears in new directions.  As the Reverend KM Williams put in, taking a breather from his one-string cigar-box guitar, "the blues helps you get through the day-to-day. Come Friday or Saturday we make this joyful noise.  I have learned that we can ALL be different.  Just let each other be different, and come together, you know?".

I was grateful to share a day of the festival with an old LSU friend, Thorpe, whom I hadn't seen in nine years.  It also felt good to tear up the dance floor on my own, just letting the music wash over me, unabashed. My worn out shoes will attest to a budding love affair with my new musical home.  I thought this trip would be a one-off, but now I'm conspiring to return every year.  After all, this is not the music of the mainstream.  If I want it to continue, I've got to directly support its messengers. 

Memphis, where rock and soul took to the airwaves.

 Re-purposing abandoned storefronts and theaters for some serious blues. 

 Club 2000 and Red's Lounge, nearly the last of the Juke Joints.

Rocking an old cotton plantation outside of town.

Not That Kind Of Spring Break

Rich in light and color: Alafia River State Park and Highlands Hammock State Park.

 Exploring mangrove islands and beaches strewn with conch. My little sister, April, leading the way.

 Weekend warrioring. N'awlins music and crawfish; biking and camping.

Manatees and Panthers!

Manatees, gentle sea cows, seek warm water when winter temperatures drop. This means that you can reliably paddle with them near the outfalls of power plants, like this one in Fort Myers. Thermal effluent is normally considered pollution, but in this case it keeps our mammalian friends afloat at least one more season.

 We explored Everglades National Park -- that river of grass -- by foot, canoe, and bicycle. Our muddy bike tires brought us within 15 feet of a napping panther, who unfurled and sprang up the trail before my eyes could make sense of the BIG brown mass in front of me. It stopped, turned, and assessed us before reluctantly stepping into the swamp to slowly wade away. This kind of close encounter is both rare and totally exhilarating. And, no, I didn't get a picture. 

Sublime Whitehorse

 A Color-Dripping Sunrise: Whitehorse Key, Ten Thousand Islands

This year the machinations of atmosphere and ocean surged warm water into the Eastern Pacific, and the resulting El Nino brought extreme weather to Florida.  An intensely hot and buggy "fall", followed by a January utterly drowned by torrential rains.  Just prior to the rain, my good friend Matt (of Astoria fame) joined me on an overnight kayak trip into the heart of the Ten Thousand Islands.  We scored.  Whitehorse Key catches a breeze (essential in keeping the no-see-ums and mosquitoes at bay), and is a beautiful sandy perch from which to watch the tide come and go.  Just after a very lurid dawn, I walked the mud flats, marveling at the menagerie of creatures temporarily exposed by low tide.  Casting a line into the current, I watched juvenile nurse sharks hunting the shallows, while manatee and dolphin surfaced nearby.  Quiet magnificence like this can be had in Florida, but you've got to put in the miles and get lucky.  I was so glad to experience this with Matt.  I should have left well enough alone, but my solo kayak camping trip into the islands the following week was more typical: intense heat, contrary wind and currents, indescribable clouds of bugs, and very sore muscles.  Total subjugation to the elements.  Oh well, I have already supplanted recall of that trip with the sublime memory of Whitehorse. 

Nos Encanta Puerto Rico

Mountain Refuge: Utuado

Satisfying that itch to travel abroad, and with an eye for the Caribbean cultures at our doorstep, we spent a week of my winter break on Puerto Rico.  Our friend Norma, herself Puerto Rican, had long ago enchanted us with the stories, food and attitude of her homeland.  Norma could not join us, alas, but she connected us to her sister, Hilda, who (true to the PR spirit) was an exceptionally warm and generous host. 
We started our journey in the highlands, recovering our wits in a more natural soundscape -- serenaded at night by the stereo caterwauling of pygmy screech owls.  Later, my attempt at diving "The Wall" on the southern coast was predictably brought up short by high winds.  But we made the best of the area, hiking roads thick with butterflies in the rare, coastal dry forests of Guanica. We followed this with a stop in provincial Ponce.  This city is a beautiful artifact of colonialism, to be sure, but what we found striking was the abundant and richly colored art -- much of it related to the music and costuming of their annual Carnival.  

Finally, we rendezvoused with Hilda.  She forever gained a place in my heart by greeting me with a beer on the veranda, following this with a steady supply of drinks and pork in the coming days.  The highlight for us was a trip to Cerro de Nandy, a mountaintop restaurant known only to locals that is up such a steep road it requires hitching a ride on an eight-wheeled military truck.  Nandy himself announced our arrival with a regal trumpet, shots of moonshine, and plates of home-made pork sausage and ribs.  I could not have been happier.  I suspect Danielle was in her happy place when we later descended to Hacienda Munoz, a coffee plantation producing roasts of exceptional quality.  

Finally, reluctantly, we said our grateful goodbyes and lingered in Old San Juan en route to the airport.  Walking the impressive battlements of the fort, sipping sugarcane juice as we toured the  galleries, we felt free again in a way we hadn't since our big year in Asia.  Many migrants don't have any choice, but a great unburdening can happen when you have the good fortune to deliberately step outside the borders of your native tongue.  Less need to talk, more time to observe and appreciate.  Add to that Puerto Rico's ample supply of "Woohoo!", and I've no doubt we'll be back someday.  Besides, their economy -- their people -- can use all the help we can give right now.

Dry Forest Hikes: Guanica

Canival Art: Ponce

An Unforgettable Meal: Cerro de Nandy

Very Fine Coffee: Hacienda Munoz

 Strolling Old San Juan