139. Elk Creek Falls

            I read somewhere that the highest waterfall in the state of Idaho is Elk Creek falls just outside of Elk River. I don’t know if that means from the top of the top fall to the bottom of the lowest or if it is just the highest of the three. I’m assuming the former. At any rate, I find the falls to be a mesmerizing delight for which I have great respect. Each of the three falls plunge from great heights into pools of significant depth—the depth mainly caused by the continuous pounding of the earth beneath. These falls flow over basalt rock that is typical of Idaho and they are in the northern part of the state where it is heavily timbered. You can’t drive right up to the falls so you have to hike into them. This makes the falls, like so much of Idaho, remote and relatively unknown. they are not, however, in a roadless area, so hiking access is relatively simple. Access to the falls is just a short distance from the tiny town of Elk River which is a little burg at the end of the road with full access to the area around the North Fork of the Clearwater River and Dworshak Reservoir. Elk Creek, the water of which flows over those falls, is, in fact, a tributary of the North Fork of the Clearwater.

            This area is achingly beautiful with the seemingly endless coniferous forests of the Clearwater, Bitterroot and Northern Rockies. You really need to hike there in late spring, summer and early autumn when you don’t have to worry about too much snow and falling down the great cliffy heights. Even when the trails are relatively safe, you should never take the area for granted. There have been people who have fallen to their deaths in this area. The hike itself is moderately difficult but only because of the distance and you can easily make it shorter by only hiking to one of the three falls. Because I live only an hour’s drive away I like to take visitors and friends to the falls because it’s an easy daytrip with little fanfare. Arrival at the falls always brings a sense of calm and awe. It’s kind of a “Oh, yeah, no big deal. Just another little unheard of spot in Idaho.” Of course, in any other state it would probably be touted as a major attraction but here it is just a little local spot that many people throughout the state don’t even know about. And why should they? All of Idaho is full of such gems that only the locals are aware of and while they don’t exactly keep them to themselves, they don’t shout it from the rooftops either. Keeping things quiet and simple is how things are done in Idaho and that’s certainly why such quiet, awe inspiring beauty escapes effusive commentary in travel magazines.

            I like places like Elk Creek Falls and I’m thankful that I live in such an area that during quarantine I can easily go to, be alone and recreate myself so that the general anxiety and fear of this time can be set aside. Elk Creek Falls keep things in perspective and remind me that in the scheme of all creation we are just a drop in the ever-flowing stream. There is something bigger, more beautiful, and more important than us yet we are still known and cared for. Elk Creek Falls gives pause to contemplate all of this. And it’s nice that you have to work a little bit to get to those falls and have a moment to contemplate the beauty of our being. I am very thankful for Elk Creek Falls.

138. Health Care Workers #hcwshoutout

            About 18 years ago my youngest son got a virus, Roseola, and he became very ill after he seemed to be over the initial virus. We now know he has Leigh’s Syndrome and his body takes extra time to recover from a virus even after the actual virus has run its course. When it happened, he was three and just at that time in life where he was beginning to talk quite a bit and roam all over the place playing and exploring. But that all came crashing down so that he was reduced to using furniture to walk around, showing no signs of wanting to play, extremely lethargic, and eating far more than normal. Within a two-week period, he gained over ten pounds. We were frantic with worry and taking him to our family doctor almost every day. Our doctor ordered an MRI suggesting our boy had a metabolic disorder. Of course we had no idea what that meant but he wasn’t getting better. Our doctor, seeing the rapid deterioration of our son’s health, sent us to Seattle Children’s emergency room where we were admitted on a Friday afternoon in April. Seattle Children’s is a teaching hospital so we were overwhelmed by teams of researchers, therapists, etc. because our son was experiencing something almost inexplicable.

            That Sunday night in the hospital Bryson began to choke and cough up blood for no apparent reason. Immediately a team brought a portable x-ray machine to the room to find that his lungs were filling with blood. They took him to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit where they put him on a ventilator. All night long we watched in terror as they worked on him unable to stabilize him. Finally, they put him on ECMO (extra corporeal membrane oxygenator), a machine to oxygenate his blood outside of his body. It seemed like the last resort and we were even given the option of removing him from all life support with the distinct possibility that he might die anyway with this strange mitochondrial disease that they now believed he had. These doctors and nurses worked tirelessly through the night, overshooting their shifts by several hours to save our son. I have heard similar stories of people with Covid-19 also being put on ventilators and ECMO, and of course, the stories I have heard have been of survivors. ECMO is not readily available to hospitals.

            Just because we are being overwhelmed now by a disease that is crippling our hospitals due to great need does not mean that sacrificing so much time, energy, and personal well being is new to our medical professionals. It was doctors and nurses who worked on my son through the night to stabilize him. It was therapists who worked daily with my son to get him to swallow, sit up, talk, and eventually walk again. It was social workers, hospital staff, and cafeteria workers who guided us down the path to recovery as a family and kept our finances stable by assisting us with medical bills and housing away from home. It was our family physician who directed us to Children’s Hospital to the life saving skills of that institution. It is the medical researchers who study disease, genetics, and human behavior that guide us all through these terrifying times. None of this is new, we’re just now fully taking note of who our heroes are.

            I have not taken this for granted, nor has my family as we have, with great care and help, battled heart disease, mitochondrial disease, and breast cancer here in the United States and the United Kingdom. My oldest son has decided to become a doctor because of how his own life has been shaped by both the terrors of disease and the loving care of medical care workers who have become life long friends. I am so grateful for health care workers all over the world and my heart is heavy thinking about them at this time and the incredible burden that they are bearing for all of us. It’s true that everything about the American health care system is not great, but those workers are the best people in the world (those workers all over the world), sacrificing so much so that we can live healthy productive lives. I cannot be more thankful for these people. #hcwshoutout

137. Multnomah Falls

            During this COVID19 quarantine things everywhere are pretty much shut down and because of that feeling of being stuck, trapped even, I like to dream of traveling. I love water so waterfalls are a wonderful place to be to experience calm. It’s kind of ironic to think that the turbulence and violence of water falling over rocks brings calm to me, but it does. Part of it is the soft spray it creates, the constant rainbows of hope, the constant motion, and the steady rushing sound that contrasts to my own stillness as I observe and listen.

            Right now I’m envisioning Multnomah Falls in Oregon and the Columbia Gorge. While it’s certainly a tourist trap because of its proximity to Portland (just before the gorge opens up to the Willamette Valley if you’re going west on the Columbia River or driving west on I-84), it is also a space of outdoor adventure, albeit crowded. Right now I imagine it to be much less crowded, if not completely closed. I don’t even know the name of the stream that serves as a tributary for the mighty Columbia, I simply know it crashes down from the southern Cascade wall of the gorge. There is an iconic bridge that crosses that stream a few paces up the hill from where you park. It’s a foot bridge that is easily seen from the parking lot or freeway and you almost never pass by without seeing someone standing on that bridge looking up at the falls, usually getting misted with a fine spray from the crashing waters.

            This waterfall is surrounded by lush green, temperate rain forest. That green is probably part of why I so long to see it now because I know by the typical climate of this time of year in that part of the country that it would be lush and blossoming. While I typically wish to go there at a time when there are few, if any, people, right now I want to go there when it is so crowded that you have to drive around the parking lot a few times just to find parking. I want to be surrounded by people in such a beautiful place and I want all them to be happy, smiling without masks, commenting on aspects of the hike up the falls, oblivious to any overriding disease that is killing people throughout the world. In fact, I want to hear several languages spoken happily. And no, I am not a lover of crowds, especially crowds in such a place of beauty that they could possibly destroy, but right now I am in love with the idea of crowds, crowds that can gather safely, crowds that can enjoy the natural world together, crowds that are oblivious to danger, and crowds that are happy to be together.

            So today in my mental time away I am going to pack my bags and take that eight-hour drive to Multnomah Falls in my time of meditation. I am going to stop for a greasy hamburger at a crowded truck stop somewhere on I-84 and I am going to be content. I know I can’t do it today in reality, but I do treasure that waterfall for its natural beauty. And, probably for the first time ever, I treasure it for its teeming crowds of tourists just arrived from the busy hub of Portland. Today I am thankful for Multnomah Falls.

136. Our Song

            While there are all varieties of music and here in America we enjoy them all, the best thing about music in America is just the enjoyment. We pick artists to idolize and buy their albums and concert tickets but the truly best American music is that which comes from the heart. It is that music which brings us together. I have never been more aware of that then since we have gone into quarantine for COVID19.

            As a kid I would listen to my grandpa play the fiddle or mandolin and teach me new songs, songs that I now know are ancient from across the shores passed down through the centuries. So many of those songs I now teach the lyrics to my students in the forms of ballads from the borderlands or spirituals from the plantations. And there are the hymns that I learned in church or heard played by my aunt at the piano.

            So many melodies haunt our existence in plaintive prayers sung in cathedral choirs or played on bagpipes in the Green Mountains above a misty hayfield. And we always add melodies and songs to our canon. Lately I’ve been hearing songs sung from balconies in the city or, the other day, my friend and his wife played the school fight song from the back of their pick up while their son drove them through town at the head of a Light Up the Night parade to honor our students who are now prevented from participating in school events.

            And now, in our time of isolation, many of our most revered and famous artists are performing concerts from their living rooms, kitchens, bathrooms or front yards for all of us. They are using their cell phones to record or their cameras from studios—all depending on what they have. These plaintive cries, these melodious prayers, are part of our existence and a beauty incomprehensible except in their offering. We all have it within us, within our souls, within our lungs, the very breath of our existence. I am so thankful for the songs, the music we all have to offer, no matter how strong or weak our voice, it is there within us and now is when we must make our song heard. Now is the time to sing, to let your voice be heard, to praise the creator, to lament your sorrows, to sing your joy, to let your fellow people know you are here and alive.

135. Rock and Roll

            One type of American music that I really enjoy and that sustains me in this time of quarantine is Rock and Roll. The rhythm of a good drum beat, the strum of a guitar and a gravelly voice taking me away from whatever state I am in is downright celebratory. In times like these when we’re all cloistered in our homes, getting edgy with one another and just wanting to go out to see our friends, it can’t hurt to jam out to some Buddy Holly, Elvis Presley or Joan Jett and just let go with your voice, no matter how off key you may be. I like that old time Rock and Roll.

            Rock is also a symbol of rebellion. What better time to rebel? While it’s not actually possible to chase away the virus by singing and beating on drums or just listening to Rock on the stereo, it is a way to say we are here, we are going to make it, and we will survive. That is the most important thing we can do right now in our isolation. We have to stay strong and sometimes belting out or jamming to an angry Rock song might just be the way to do it. Even if it’s only in your ear buds, music is an emotional release, an emotional declaration, and an attestation to our very existence. So why not do just that with that old time Rock and Roll?

            While I certainly think of Rock music as American, I can’t deny that some of my favorite Rock and Roll artists are not necessarily American. I love the Beatles. I love plenty of American bands as well. Right now, I have Bob Seeger tunes going through my head. And since I’m writing this, like a radio dial in my head, I hear Bob Dylan.

            Just take a few minutes everyday to skip the soothing yoga type chants and belt out some plaintive rhythmic wails. It’s all right to rage against the machine every once in awhile and admit that you like that good old-fashioned American Art form of Rock and Roll. And if it makes you feel even better just imagine your parents telling you to turn that crap down, or better yet, turn it off. Then just crank the volume a little more and scream “Today’s music ain’t got the same soul. I like that old time Rock and Roll.”

134. American Jazz

            I have always loved music. I like to hear it, I like to play it, and I like to sing it. The only instrument I can competently play is the Baritone (aka Euphonium). I started playing the trumpet when I was in sixth grade but by junior high my band teacher thought I should move to the Baritone. I don’t know if that’s because he thought my mouth was better fit for the larger mouthpiece or if it was because he needed some middle brass players in the band. Either way I’ve been playing the Baritone off and on ever since seventh grade which was 45 years ago. I also learned the basics of piano but as far as playing that instrument? Well, let’s put it this way…I am nowhere near competent.

            Usually, when you play in a school band, you play a lot of concert music or pep band. I always enjoyed pep band because we were playing old fashioned Souza type marches or pop music reconfigured for band instruments. But to listen to band music, well, that was never really my thing. But to hear a jazz band marching down the streets of New Orleans? That is pure magic. By playing the Baritone I fell in love with jazz and jazz is a truly American art form. But I still play mostly concert music on my Baritone because that’s the kind of band I’m in. While there is a certain disappointment for me in that, I have learned an appreciation for jazz and when I sing in the shower I’m more likely than not going to sing an old jazz tune as I “Fly me to the moon” with that “Old Black Magic.”

            I love the crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin and the dames like Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holliday. So in these cooped up days of Covid-19 quarantine I’ve been tuning in to “KJEM the Jazz Gem of the Palouse” or a little Diana Krall and Michael Bublé (who are both British Columbians and from my back yard, albeit not American) who spent some time at the Lionel Hampton Jazz Festival in Moscow, Idaho in their younger years. Because of where I live I’ve also met and been entertained by some of the greatest American Jazz artists. I love that jazz has such a high place in American culture and I love its many varied forms from New York, Chicago Blues, New Orleans, Kansas City, and, yep, Moscow, Idaho. Get out those old jazz records and have a listen.

Poetry of Quarantined Mind

Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?

            I am feared in field and town.

            On the ground.

            Thus to make poor females mad.

Where art thou now?

            And here will rest me. [lies down] Come, thou gentle day.

            I can no further crawl, no further go;

            Steal me awhile from mine own company. [sleeps]

[Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eyes]

And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye,

Going for a break now but I’ll be back later.

Goblin, lead them up and down.

We need some color, I need some color.

Three ballet dancers, 1879.

Many years ago I found in a charity shop a book with paintings by Frederick Cayley Robinson    

     (1862-1927)

I was in need of a short local walk down to the lake to catch fresh air and enjoy the view.

That’s the way the world goes round.

Morning break in the garden.

I cycled to Mum’s to fill the bird feeder.

I looked through the French windows to where she sits,

but she wasn’t moving,

the paper scattered around her.

“Mom!” I said, knocking on the window, “Mom!”

           

            And she opened her eyes and mouthed

            “fooled you.”