Global Birds of Passage

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Introducing Della!

Once again a dog is bringing joy to our home. Della came to us only 8 weeks old and has already joined us on our winter adventures. She reminds us of Koa, with a similar loving and calm demeanor, but she has a personality all her own that we look forward to seeing more of, day by day as she grows. She will no doubt make many regular appearances in this blog in the years to come.

South. Way South.

Pursuing a PhD is an odd and utterly consuming task, but it often affords unique experiences. The students in my program joined students in Concepcion, Chile to learn about global water issues. We evaluated the environmental effects of new dams and their vulnerability to volcanic activity (Chile has over ninety active), as well as the social and ecological welfare of indigenous Chileans in an otherwise unfettered and explosive capitalistic economy.

No point in traveling twenty-two air miles and not exploring, so Danielle endured unspeakable delays and sundry frustrations to join me for two weeks. We made it worthwhile, though, poking about in northern Patagonia with a travel van, finding campsites as they long summer days waned. We spent most of our time on Chiloe -- a large, culturally distinct island offshore. We were enraptured by unusual birds and wildlife in three national parks -- think penguins and miniature deer -- and rarely did we have a chance to set the binoculars down. By far the highlight though, was our trip (on yet another small ferry) to the small island of Lemuy. Only recently roaded, its people still live in quiet and prideful partnership with each other -- drawing sustenance from lush gardens, sheep, and salmon pens offshore. Lemuy is also home to some of the oldest churches in the southern hemisphere, Spanish-era and Catholic of course, all built in a endemic style uniquely reminiscent of sailing ships. It was a pleasure to stay with welcoming people who make everything by hand, and are keen to share their craft, their food and -- come evening -- their hand-pressed cider. The natural setting of southern Chile is impressive, no doubt, but the warmth of its people will linger in our memories most of all.

This Side of the Divide

Aside from a Kansas tornado and engine trouble crossing the Continental Divide, the drive west was uneventful -- certainly not a hardship compared to the covered wagon journeys of my not-so-distant ancestors. We reconnected with our people in Baton Rouge and Grand Junction and Reno and Truckee. One benefit of a traveling life is that every reunion is made more sweet, too short to verge on mundane.

The remainder of the summer was a challenge, in that I worked in southern Idaho and Danielle worked in northern Idaho, six hours distant. But the central mountains proved an ideal weekend rendezvous and we began our love affair with the state's hot springs, flower strewn meadows and alpine lakes.

Come August, I finally joined Danielle in Moscow. We were quickly charmed by campus life, the vibrant farmers market, the profundity of untended heirloom apple trees scattered about town, and a maze of trails in the nearby hills. Danielle had to slow down long enough for surgical repair of an injured knee, but was back in hiking and cross country ski boots by the time winter arrived. A busy, but fruitful start.

Enjoying the high country near Truckee, as well as the languid waters of Lake Tahoe.

A sampling of the many splendored landscapes of summer in Idaho, a feast for nature lovers.

Finally at home in Moscow. The verdant green of the wheat fields in spring aged to brilliant August gold, the apples made ready as the blueberries slowed. Students, myself included, once again made their rounds on campus as fall came on.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

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.