In which it turns froggy

I flew into Seattle on Sunday for my current assignment in Pasco, WA.

It's not that I couldn't have flown into Pasco - there is an airport. However, flying to Pacso doubled the cost. I would have arrived later due to changing airplanes in Spokane, or Portland, or Seattle. And, worst, Pasco service is pretty much limited to Dash 8 turboprops. I'm not inclined to fly on a turboprop ever again.

All in all, driving seemed like a better plan. I would have liked to leave Seattle something before I did, but the flight was delayed for an hour and a half out of Denver due the the fifth snowstorm in as many weeks. The drive through the Cascades was fabulous, if rather dim due to the hour. The snow piled on the roadside was reminiscent of home.

Pasco is in the middle of one of the most fertile agricultural regions of the US. Unfortunately, it's also desert. The Bureau of Reclamation, not to be deterred, has dammed up damned near every mile of the Columbia River to meet the "needs" of the agricultural community. The river defines the city limits between Pasco and Kennewick, and since my hotel is in Kennewick, I cross the river via the "Blue" bridge into Pasco ever morning. Here the river is fat, widened into Lake Wallula by the MacNary dam (a Corps of Engineers project) about 37 miles downstream from here.

The "Blue" bridge was built in the early 50's and retains that vintage style. The north-bound approach leaves the driver in the left lane, so you can't really see much of the panorama. Southbound is much better; you can look right over the edge to the northwest, down into the lake-side parks. On clear days (there's been only one so far) the mountains to the west and south of the Tri Cities are visible. The ridge to the south has a large wind farm perched atop it.

Yesterday dawned clear and sunny, but cold. The frost was thick enough on the windshield that I had to sit with the defroster on for several minutes before I had drivable visibility. This morning was as cold, but densely foggy. Foggy enough that I could not see beyond the other side of the street from the hotel. The fog was of course freezing, riming the grass and trees - not to mention cars - with hoarfrost, freezing fog. In a word, "frog". As I drove down the hill the mile or so toward the water, the frog got denser and denser; adrenaline built at 30 miles per hour. Paralleling the river was a little better, but turning north to cross the Blue bridge was a creepy sensation. The highway disappeared into the frog over the Columbia.

Approaching the bridge, only the portal was visible. Having become accustomed to the towering crest of the bridge surmounted by the US flag, I felt like I might have taken a wrong turn - the top of the bridge was apparently gone. Even creepier, the river below had disappeared into the mist. What a sense of isolation!

At the station, my "office" is a conference room on the front of the building, featuring five picture windows. The view has remained dismal all day; only the shifting quantity of frog has changed. Mostly I have been able to see the trees on the north bank of the river about three blocks south of the station, but the light levels have remained low all day. The pines between the building and the street have maintained their rime of frost all day, mostly on the side facing the river. It's dim enough that I keep expecting rain, and am surprised as the cars remain mostly dry.

They tell me that this is not unusual January weather in these parts. The green grass in the front lawn made me think otherwise. Illusion shattered.

In which they change the sheets

The hotel has changed the sheets. And the pillows. And the bedspread.

The hotel industry, in an effort to attract guests, has been racing to upgrade amenities over the past couple of years. Many of those early changes were small, but in an industry characterized more by homogeny than distinction, they were still significant. For instance, Hilton's hotel brands replaced their straight shower bars with convex ones; it was a little change that made a lot of difference to guests. After all, convex shower bars produce a high return on the investment.

The recent trend has been a bit more pricy - hotels are attracting guests with better beds and bedding. Although the mattress was good, this hotel's bedding was not. I had hated the pillows in so much that I actually went out to Target and bought a new one. Imagine my surprise when I returned to the hotel Monday to find that the ugly orange polyester bedspread had been exchanged for a duvet cover with a down comforter inside! Furthermore, about half the nasty poly-fill pillows had been replaced with feather. The sheets were white (instead of the beige ones on the bed Sunday) and were higher in the cotton content. This was a welcome change.

Tuesday evening brought more wonders - the bedskirt has been changed from gold to a deep turquoise, and the last of the old pillows have been replaced with feather ones. The sheets were fresh again. There is a new white micro-fiber fleece blanket on the foot of the bed. At last I have a truely comfortable bed. The quality of the mattress is matched by the quality of the bedding.

I just wish they would have washed the sheets before putting them on the bed. It's pretty easy to tell - the wrinkles from being packed tightly into packaging are a dead give-away. Sizing is scratchy. Perhaps tonight they'll be laundered at last.

In which Murphy's hand is apparent

Still recovering from a weekend event, I boarded a plane for Albuquerque on Sunday. Reluctantly, since I had left my briefcase at home - the laptop inside is critical to performing my job. Besides, I felt rather foolish at having done so. I was offered standby on the 9:45 flight, but that seemed too chancy for someone who had to be at the station at 9:00 the next morning.

The flight was (as usual) spectacular, traveling over the landscapes that I have traveled through many, many times. North of Pike's Peak, over Salida and the Arkansas River, above the Sand Dunes, and across the San Luis Valley, down the Rio Grande to Albuquerque. Being fascinated with maps, aerial views are accordingly intersting. A window seat is a reqirement.

I had packed my sewing in one suitcase and my clothing and toiletries in another. The sewing machine was carry-on luggage. The laptop was supposed to be carry-on too. The spirit of Murphy haunted me for the entire day. The clouds obscured the landscape for part of the trip. Being very sore and tired from Saturday's event, I slept.

I fail to understand how a suitcase that was put into the luggage system in Denver and never again was to enter another plane before arriving (hopefully) with its owner at the destination, can get lost. There are no places for it to get lost. But lost it was. Adding insult to injury, Frontier does not electronically track its luggage, and so they cannot locate it. Heaping insult upon the injury, they could not deliver it to me before I would need the contents to accomplish my morning toilette. Yes, you're thinking what I'm thinking - it wasn't the sewing suitcase they lost.

I went grocery shopping (the hotel is a suite with a poorly-equipped kitchenette), and then "home" to make a green-chili stew. I caught an hour's nap, and then trekked back to the airport at 11:00, thinking that my bag might actually have made it on the 9:00 flight - the one that I'd been offered stand-by on in the first place.

I suppose Murphy had someone else to harass, and my bag was spit out midstream in the baggage from the late flight.

It's now Tuesday, and I haven't taken a stitch. No time on Sunday; Monday was recovering from Saturday and Sunday. Tonight, it's leftover green chili stew (limiting supper-cooking time), but I'm getting out of work late enough that I'm not likely to get the sewing machine out. Work is tiring me out - all I want is a glass from the bottle of wine I purchased last night. (Of course there's no corkscrew in the kitchenette.) I'm begining to wonder why I bothered to pack the blooming thing.

In which the road less traveled made a good day

Spending the weekend in New Mexico presented me with some time to enjoy one of my favorite regions of the country. On Sunday (Dec. 17) I headed for Santa Fe, but not the usual I-25 route; I took the Turquoise Trail.

The Turquoise Trail is distinguished by a mine at Mt. Chalchihuitl in the Cerillos Hills north of the town of Cerillos, that is probably the oldest mine in north America, having produced turquoise and other minerals possibly as long ago as 1000 BCE. Cerrillos Hills mines were one of the most important and productive sourced of turquoise in Meso-America; turquoise from this region is said to have found its way into Aztec artifacts, into native tribes across North America, and after the arrival of the Spanish, into the Spanish crown jewels.

The Turquoise Trail was also a section of the "Long Walk" - the forced march of Navajo and Apache peoples to the "reservation" of Bosque Redondo near Ft Sumner in eastern New Mexico. In 1864, the Navajo were starved into submission in Arizona and herded 400 miles in winter by Kit Carson across New Mexico toward Bosque Redondo. 200 people never made it; more died of disease and starvation once they arrived at the desolate reservation. One wonders how many survived the fifty or so miles of the Turquoise Trail. Surely the sacred nature of the region must have been in some way fouled by the misery of the Long Walk.

I started out early on Sunday, intending to grab a burrito breakfast from Dos Hermanos. Dos Hermanos is on Wyoming between Caldeliaria and Menaul, and has been a favorite breakfast spot while we've been working in Albuquerque. Sadly, I couldn't find it that morning (forgot to look for the green awning) and settled for the (ugh) McDonald's at Wyoming and Central. As it was Sunday morning, they might not have been open anyway, but it was worth a try.

Heading east on Central - the fabled Route 66 - I picked up I-40 and then exited at NM 14, the Turquoise Trail. 14 runs generally northward toward Santa Fe, behind the Sandia Mountains that define the east side of Albuquerque. The landscape is lovely, a montaine desert. In the early morning sunshine, the drive was lovely, and the highway was quiet. I passed through several mountain communities, from the bohemian to the bourgeois. I bypassed the road up to Sandia Peak (which I regret, but that's an adventure for another day), and stopped at the village of Cerillos.

Cerillos is picturesque enough that they boast that several westerns were filmed in the town. The one business open at that early hour was the Casa Grande Trading Post. It's mostly a rock shop, but has a good selection of jewelry and other tourist-y things. There is also a museum attached, about the history of the area. Mostly the Anglo history, but interesting nonetheless. I paid my two bucks, and would have spent more time there if I knew where the next potty was. I picked up some rough turquoise for Evan's Christmas rock tumbler, and moved on toward Santa Fe.

I found the next potty south of I-25 at a gas station and "general store" fashioned as if made of adobe. One expects to see people of native or Hispanic heritage in this part of the country, but the Indian behind the counter was a bit inapposite; he was Sikh.

I had a few destinations in Santa Fe in mind. I wanted to go to High Country Gardens, a greenhouse from which I've ordered a number of plants suited to our high, dry conditions. I know from their catalogues that they have demonstration gardens there, and I wanted to see them. Even in the cold winter, I was impressed and took some pictures. Should we ever buy this house, I have plans.....

From High Country Gardens, I went to the Plaza and had a truly multi-cultural Winter Holiday afternoon. At about 4:00, the local Jewish community held a Hanukkah celebration. One of the rabbis showed up in a menorah-bedecked car. I should have gotten pictures - the menorah was mounted to the roof of the car like a roof-rack, each of the nine branches decorated with a strip of reflective tape and sporting a light bulb for the flame. The shamash was lit, as well as the two candles marking the previous two nights of the holiday. There was a cantor (very good!) and food, and people were handing out candles and joining hands and dancing. A full-sized black poodle wore a blue and white kippah with a Hanukkah ruff around his neck - very festive. I called Rivka to share with her Hanukkah in Santa Fe.

After dark, Las Posadas was held on the Plaza. This ritual commemorates Mary's and Joseph's search for lodging in Bethelehem before the birth of Christ. The procession starts at the Palace of the Governors, with a traditional song requesting lodging. El Diablo paces the roof, denying lodging. It's all in Spanish, and so I didn't get the translation, but the devil presumably is rude and insulting in denying a resting place for the family, and the crowd responds with "boo"s and hisses. The procession moves clockwise around the square with the same request, and again the devil appears (although in slightly different costume; on wonders about the men behind the masks) to hisses and boos. After failing to find lodging on the four sides of the plaza, the procession moves up the street to the west of the Palace, where they finally gain admittance. I heard rumors that there were treats inside, but time was getting short and I needed to move on. Besides, I'd tripped over enough flaming luminarias, and gotten candle wax on my jacket, and it was time.

Bishop's Peak Road is really dark, and as usual, I fretted about missing the turnoff to Ten Thousand Waves. But there it was, better marked than in the past. I had the One Wave tub, perfect for a single or couple. I could have used the massage, too, but at $90 an hour, it was too rich for my pre-Christmas budget. The night was clear and cold - the tub too hot to stay in, the night too cold to stay out of the tub. I suppose I achieved an equilibrium about 2/3 of the way into my hour. I watched the stars move overhead and contemplated the season.

Always hungry after a soak, I inquired about the natural food for post-Japanese-spa visits, sushi. Alas, no fast-food sushi is to be had in Santa Fe. It's too bad Tokyo Joe's hasn't entered the Santa Fe market. There was a Panda Express, and so I got kinda close with orange chicken. I took the highway "home" and poured myself into bed.

In which getting home is an adventure

Yes, it was an adventure-filled travel weekend. I ended up spending two extra nights in Albuquerque and drove home on Sunday.

See, it snowed. In Albuquerque. A lot. Which seems to be rather unusual in Albuquerque. The city is completely, thouroughly, and absolutely unprepared for snow. To own a snow shovel seems to be as necessary as a fish owning a bicycle. If they can't clear off the sidewalks and plow the streets, it should come as no surprise that they can't get snow off airport runways, either.

My 5:45 flight on Friday turned out to be cancelled. I rebooked for the 11:30a Sat. flight. That only meant that I was in line in sufficient time Saturday morning to get a #4 standby position for the 3:35 flight, which was cancelled before noon. Although the 5:45 flight had not yet been cancelled, Frontier staff advised me that it was very unlikely to go, and that the next available booking was Monday. It was a good thing that I had retained my hotel room.

I had Chris book me a car for Sunday (I didn't have Internet connectivity at the airport) and I returned to my hotel room. Dinner was at the Elephant Bar, since that was the only open restaurant within walking distance. (Interestingly, the ABQ shopping area did get the memo about clearing sidewalks and they tried to keep up on the streets too, but I guess they were overwhelmed and gave it up after a valiant effort.) Becky and Bob kindly gave me a lift to the airport to pick up the car on Sunday morning and although reports were that I-25 remained closed, (and the fog was formidable until the top of La Bajada) as I proceeded northward, the highway wasn't actually blocked until Las Vegas.

My reasoning was that Raton Pass would be most passable between mid morning and sundown at 4:30. My strategy was to get as close to the Pass as I could, and so to be positioned favorably when the highway did open up. After lunch and fueling in Las Vegas, I lined up with the other 2 miles or so of vehicles. The authorities weren't requiring vehicles to exit, and so I felt pretty sure that the intent was to open the highway fairly soon. I passed the blockade at 3:00.

The mad dash north was rather amusing. I am certain that everyone in that line was thinking about the shady, winding ascent and descent just like I was, and that the sun was going down in just an hour and a half. After sitting in that line for what I suppose was 2 hours or longer, the first rest area was mobbed. People did make just the briefest of stops, and were underway again.

The pass was about as good as could be expected, wet or snowpacked all the way up or down. The highway was single-lane in spots. There was one small pickup that had spun out just above the city of Raton. Traffic proceeded at about 20 mph below the posted speed limit. I breathed a sigh of relief at Starkville; the highway was clear, and smooth sailing was ahead.

See, I figure that if road conditions are going to be bad on I-25 in that area, the worst will be Raton Pass. So I was surprised that conditions at Trinidad were suddenly worse than the Pass, and that those terrible conditions persisted for the next 60 miles. I drove about 40 mph on completely snowpacked roads. The sun was down, and so whatever melting had taken place had re-frozen. Curiously, I saw only one snowplow north of Trinidad.

Walsenberg to Pueblo featured dry pavement punctuated by long icy patches, so driving the speed limit was unwise.

Conditions between Pueblo and Denver were normal, and so I finally made some headway, arriving home at 8:30. Tired and more than just a little out of patience, I crawled into bed, appreciative to be home, but also reveling in getting to sleep on good pillows for the first time in 5 nights.

I suppose this weekend would have been less tiresome, had I not had very nearly the same adventure the weekend before. Although the location of the snowstorm had shifted to an airport 450 miles south, the fact that both of those airports, in turn, were closed by storms complicated travel two weekends in a row. Which is about one weekend too many.

The one bright spot was that the Denver snowstorm (pictures on Chris' blog) started on a Wednesday, which meant that by Friday the highway was open; although I could not book a flight, I could drive home. By the time I left the station on Friday, I had heard from Greg and Kristen that I-70 was open, and that they would likely beat me to Denver. They had planned to come on Thursday, but with the highway closure, they had to wait a day to head west for Christmas, due the the same storm.

On Friday, Mother had relieved nurses who had been at the hospital since Wednesday, and she too was finding the driving difficult - even though her drive was just across Denver. It looked like a convergence was in order; all four of us would arrive late Friday evening. Dad and Evan were safely at home. I was coordinating with Chris, telling him when to expect the masses to descend upon the house.

Everything on my end went according to plan (plan B, that is) until I had to stop in Castle Rock for gas. I just couldn't make it home. Although the highway was in good condition (the ramps not so much) the city's streets were a mess. The snow volume was so great that they'd simply plowed narrow lanes out of the streets, with high snow berms on either side. If I had not known the gas station for which I'd headed, I would not have found it. I think everyone else must have headed for the same gas station, since they were gas-less. After the challenge of getting into the gas station, I wasn't keen on trying to get into another. The effort was worth it; they had gas. But half an hour was lost, and it was 10:30 before I got home.

I recall, after getting an update from Greg somewhere between Las Vegas and Raton, a feeling of supreme satisfaction at getting us all together for Christmas. Not only would we get the rare treat of Greg and Kristen, but the extended "family" of friends were due for our traditional Christmas Eve stocking and tummy stuffing. All the challenges at coordinating, decorating, and traveling in my abbreviated holiday season were not just "worth it", but a fair price to pay for the joy of the season.