December Nigh, Whiskey Creek, Non Bee Thoughts, TMI

 An old school friend of mine- though 45 years ago since I saw him last, reconnected this past year- and  shared with me parts of his extraordinary life story traveling the world, though now retired, and seeing things most people only read about. He was in the foreign service,  with a sharp and observant mind, and has a great interest in history, and nature, and seeing things by spending time with them- many times in Nepal and Everest for example, in Scotland along Hadrian's wall,  in China, and many, many,  other places,. He and his wife are just back from the Galapagos,which he reports far exceeded expectations. He has a vibrant and active curiosity about the world, and makes traveling a big part of his life. 

He wrote today to check in - to see how I and my family were in the PNW,  he and I having been born and raised here , and he now reading about how the summers are like Southern Cal: hot and burning with smoke, the winters massive rain,  then everywhere flooding... and suffering from the hordes of people who move here or want to because where they live is even worse. The PNW is sort of a lifeboat- but not in any way immune from what happens elsewhere. And in fact, geologically, prone to some pretty serious seismic upheavals-so it's all borrowed time.

I think - in the tone of his email - he felt it was no longer a good place to be-  that even where he lives, Washington D.C., now has a "more livable" environment and that this was sad for him to hear about and he wanted to know how it felt and was going. 

I'm not sure I have any idea.

When we were kids in the 60s and 70s- it was another world- not at all like this- and I think he was thinking back to that time and what had disappeared since then.

For  example, for me, and I suspect the same with my friend, my folks would take us to out of the way places on our summer vacations (my dad was a teacher so summers were wide open),  load up that big blue Chevy Impala station wagon, and go to  Whiskey Creek over in Joyce ( still there and without power I hear!), in Jefferson County,  or along the coast to Iron Springs, Grays Harbor Co, or a million times to Cannon Beach (later to Manzanita when CB got too fancy, or south, winding along 101 down into California,) or  sometimes out along the Columbia Gorge and then down through desert country in Madras, then down to the Modoc nation, or out through the small (then) town of  Pendleton and Baker City, then down through the east side of Oregon. A hundred dim memories, all rich. Once or twice to Canada, though never to Idaho (as far as I recall), mostly Oregon, or the Peninsula. 

My sister Beth, relaxing 1970 or so, in some Oregon campground- and the 64 Impala (does it look gazelle like? even a little?) in which  I eventually learned to drive:

And same Impala- a bit older and with one of our many German Shepards, near Madras (I think), and heading south. My sis and I, my mother Shirley Mae, and who-knows-what strapped to the top of the car. Another world and time:

It was all so different. When it wasn't a camping trip, we'd head out along the then two lane ((I think?) Interstate 90 to special hidden places along the various forks of the Snoqualmie River-special places along the river where parents could lay out in the sun, build a fire in the rocks, and kids could spend an afternoon and evening exploring (I and my sister Beth).  Long gone and now lost (I know, I've tried to find them). 

Back then there were many simple, unspoilt, un-interneted, un-Yelped take-your-chances places to go. You found them by accident. By actually looking. By actually going there. Not internet searching for  star ratings and scheduling it in or flipping with your finger to find a "special place"- that in fact, isn't special at all.  In that world, long gone, even bad was an adventure. 

Without hesitation, I'd say it was better. 

Though of course- I'm ignorant of what it means to be a kid now- in a room gaming, or thumbing a screen listening to music, or walking listening to Spotify and some computer algorithm's selection of music for you. Maybe it's better. But it sure seems like Soma to me- like legalized marijuana- all a way to deal with what's about to happen and what's happening by turning it off. Insulation. 

I recall that like a lot of young men (few women), of my generation- and I am pretty sure the last generation to have done this- I hitchhiked a ton of places. All over the country, and in Europe with a dear friend- it was sort of coming-of-age thing lots of young people did. I can't explain it (my older bro, for example, much more of the hippie generation than I, never did). But I met a thousand people- all interesting- saw a thousand things- did not blog about it, just internalized it, just lived it there and then- and much of it is forgotten or popping up in dreams. No Iphone photos to thumb. A bare faded 10 or 20 photos on 126 film,  and the rest only in what memories I can wrestle out.

Do I wish I had had an Iphone then? Or had checked out how many stars each place I saw had? Or reviewed the Yelp reviews for it all before going? Or could stay in an AirB&B? 

I don't. In all of that, in all of that process of finding "what is good" through the algorithms of the internet- one's soul diminishes. Its not authentic. One live's someone else's life, as they, in turn, lived someone else's.  Of course there's a plus to it all- a lovely view and good food for sure- but what a minus!

Witness those poor souls lined up on the route to the top of Everest- crowded to "experience" something real and "authentic".  Do they? Does it matter?

When  a little kid, my family traveled, like a ton of other families, in a station wagon with stuff tied to the top, and my sis and I sprawled out in the back with sleeping bags and books and games. You drove to a town, always tiny, and found a motel, or a campground. Nothing was ever "full". It was the West, and there was always stuff to see of places to explore. 

 With nothing really to tell you what to expect. I think all my dad had  in all those trips was was a gas station map with small trees on it indicating a "campground"- and my dad would pick one, and we'd go there.  And I can say- hands down- I wouldn't trade any of that experience for anything. 

This afternoon I sat in my  small town's Safeway pharmacy waiting room (who knew!) for an hour  waiting for a third COVID shot . with ten other people and a TV with a movie in a loop with a Manta Ray. Loved the ray- but the people? All- without an exception- thumbing their phones. Or looking like they were reading something important. I tried to look this way or that, to not appear to be staring at anyone- but really? My gut feeling? They were screwed. They were in fact the future- no doubt- and I in my corner with nothing but my thoughts, was the past, not superior, just dated, but it all burned in me. Just burned in me that the world was done, these people were inept, could repair nothing, had no interests of their own, that this disconnect from each other was a horrible thing- Iphones, texting, marijuana vape pens, Amazon Prime,all of it-  people glued to their phones,  or binging some dumb TV series as it's served out by the mega corporations- it just feels like the fricking Titanic. It just can't end well- can it?

A shocker really, it could have been much- right? And despite its brightness- the amazing swan song of great brilliant music and smartness and glamour and celebrity hood, smart, smart people doing smart amazing things and getting their rewards,  its shooting down like the meteor it always was. In the end, if this is the end, we make space a playground for rich people, and applaud when billionaires get Captain Kirk sent to space. How is that even close to a good thing?

A harsh judgement, I know. And I don't sleep well with it. A crippling despair, anger, and disappointment. Misguided? 

And how does this tie into beekeeping? For me , it actually does. Maybe in a Candide sort of way, I'm not sure yet. This past year, a lot has happened, in the world, and to me personally, and I don't think I've got a plan quite figured out, in bees, or anything else. 25 hives alive? But I walk among them, checking stores, clearing out dead bees, wondering how many will make it,  how many will survive the mites, but also, feeling solid about it. Sort of like a thing that counters, for me personally, what's happening in the greater world.