5600 miles, 13 days, 9 states, 2 tire changes, 7 managers, 5 labels, a thousand picks and patch cables

After blitzing from Texas to Oregon in less than 2 days, our trip took a more relaxed turn. As I mentioned previously, while Jeff and Jesse attended the conference in Portland, I hung out with my mom and sister in Eugene and Cottage Grove, OR. They were wonderful hosts-- my mom and I explored the Cascade Mountains a bit via car and my sister and her boyfriend, Jeremy, invited me to join their weekly softball game on the banks of the Willamette. There were both funny differences and similarities between their pick-up game of punk softball and the co-rec city leagues I have played in in the past. The differences included the per capita rate of beer drinking and smoking while playing (literally, on the field-- at one point three infielders were playing with a cigarette dangling from their lips and the pitcher had a beer, and beer cozy, on the ground a safe distance from the mound, but not too far away, so he could take a sip between pitches). Another difference was the frequency of tattoos and square footage of bodily tattoo coverage (out of about 35 people total at the field, including players and spectators, I think I was one of two people with no tattoos-- the other being my mom). Lastly, while most of the males played shirtless (not weird), all the females played in skirts (unheard of). The similarities were just as profound. Mainly, I have to say this was the most competitive group of punk softball players you can possibly imagine. There was no kidding around, score keeping was vigilant, the pressure to perform at the plate was high, and the sighs from the sidelines were audible if one of the more inexperienced players stranded runners on base when the score was nearly tied, just as they were in the outfield if someone missed an opportunity for an easy double-play. It was a hoot, and though I had to leave beforehand, the seventh inning stretch involved a quick jaunt down to the river to jump in and cool off before returning to the battlefield.

After a few days with the family, I went north to Dallas, OR (quite different from Dallas, TX) to visit my friends Dan and Ariel. Dan and I met in Florida in 1996-- we both did fieldwork in the Everglades, grew up in Chicago, and liked dinner parties. Somehow, despite the fact that we overlapped in Gainesville for only a few months, we became good friends and I was extremely excited to visit he and his wife at their new place near the foothills of the Coastal Range where they grow vegetables, raise chickens, turkeys, and a duck that thinks it is a turkey. They also keep bees and tend the arboretum on their 14 acres of gorgeous land-- it is amazing and I am thrilled at the prospect of parking the trailer in their ample driveway at some point for a longer visit or, if I manage to get a job in western OR, I may even be able to stomach a commute if this was what I got to call home.

Picking Jeff and Jesse up in Portland after the meeting gave me a chance to stop by Becca Pearcy's studio-- Queen Bee Creations-- and do a little shopping. If you are in need of a vessel of some kind to carry things, you need to check out her website or go to her shop in the city. I was recently bequeathed two bags from my dear friend April (made many years ago, yet still in perfect condition) and picked up a wallet while at the hive. We headed back down to Eugene to have dinner and hang out for a bit at my sister's before starting the long trek back east to Tremonton, Utah to visit with Jesse's mom, Deb, and Vince on the ranch where he trains cutting horses (and rocks out).

From there, we drove south passed the Great Salt Lake to Jesse's best friend's place from where we headed back west across the state almost to the Nevada border to climb Ibapah Peak (12,087 ft) in the Deep Creek Mountains. This area is spectacular-- rising out of the salt flats like a phoenix, this mountain range harbors lush, forested canyons full of springs and dramatic granite rock formations. I always have avoided hiking in the desert because I was under the mistaken impression that there wasn't much water there-- not so in the Deep Creek mountains. We hiked up through the canyon, through aspen and pine, came out on to a gorgeous green meadow, went up the saddle onto the ridge, got above tree line and clamored our way up the rocks to the summit (picture forthcoming). Having ascended a vertical mile, the view from the top extended far into the neighboring states including several other mountain ranges that pepper this otherwise flat and arid swathe of the US. The trail appeared to be virtually unused by would-be hikers, and is all the more enjoyable because it is so remote (although, interestingly, not far from the original Pony Express route.) I had enjoyed lots of hiking in some of the more accessible ranges in Utah about 10 years ago and it was awesome to be back in such a spectacular part of the country.

After our climb (during which we crossed paths with a gorgeous and rarely seen [but not rare] snake, Diadophus punctatus, shown here), we headed up into the hills to the east to visit Jesse's grandparents in Midway near Mt. Timpanogos. They live in a log cabin and treated us to breakfast outside overlooking the Wasatch Range and then to an informative/hilarious lecture on DVD about dinosaurs given by their grandson at age 10. Those of you who know Jesse may not be surprised to hear that he hasn't changed much since 1985-- his rabid interest in biology, and sharing it with others, is a deeply embedded feature of his personality that easily explains the path he has taken since then. We laughed hard, but were not-so-secretly very impressed with his excellent expository skills, even at a tender age.

From there, we cut through the Valley of Fire (right) and headed down to Sin City to show Jeff the strip and the spectacle that is Las Vegas, NV. I hadn't been there since coming out to the Grand Canyon on a roadtrip in 1987 and was astounded by how much the city has grown in the last 20 years. Casinos that were relatively large when I was there last are comically dwarfed by more recent additions like the Bellagio. We soaked it all in, Jeff won 7 cents on the slots, and we piled back in the car to head to Laughlin, AZ for the night to see Jesse's dad, Steve, and his wife, Sue. We spent the day riding around Lake Mohave on a wave runner and talking shop with a bunch of vacationers who were shockingly interested in biology and DNA. In the afternoon, we crashed a party and that night enjoyed a night gratis at the casino hotel on the Nevada side of the Colorado River. The ubiquity of gambling in Nevada is pretty strange-- you can gamble at gas stations, you can gamble at McDonald's-- people there seem numb to it because it is so everywhere, but to out-of-towners like us it is striking. We managed to leave the state with our shirts on the next morning to make the long drive home. Luckily, my dear old friend Gillichi happened to call that morning and we stopped and had lunch with him in Flagstaff, AZ on the wing. At about 4 in the morning, we succumbed to our nagging consciences and pulled over to check out why the car was shaking so much and discovered a pre-blow-out rear tire with a herniated air bolus the size of a loaf of french bread. Jesse and Jeff changed the tire, we got back on the road, and arrived in Arlington at about 8 am Monday morning-- in time for work, but temporarily waylaid by exhaustion. I can't say it is the first time I have gone on vacation and returned home completely rejuvenated mentally and completely exhausted physically-- hopefully not the last either....

The Oregon Trail

Just a quick post from the wild west-- Jeff, Jesse, and I left Arlington on Monday night to come to Oregon, ... by car. This might sound only partially crazy to most of you-- it is a well-known fact that I love driving, traveling, and road trips in general, so 4200 mile excursion to come see the family overland might not strike anyone who knows me as all that crazy. Well, you're right-- this time the craziness was not supplied by me, but instead by Jeff (who flew in Monday from Mexico, about 7 hrs before we left town, after doing field work for the last 7 weeks) and Jesse (who returned Sunday from a week-long road trip to OK, CO, and NM with his band The Future Unlived-- featured long ago on this blog as, I believe, the first band I saw in Texas). They are clearly nuts, but I am so happy that they are.
We drove straight through OK, CO, and WY, stopped in Utah (the land of Jesse's people) to refuel (on food, and sleep, and interactions with other humans) and then set out in the dark for Idaho and onto Oregon (now the land of my people). The drive west was an incredible geological gradient-- much more noticeable because of the speed with which we crossed through-- sandy white, dry flatlands in Texas and Oklahoma to gold and rose-colored mountains in Utah, to tree-covered slopes along the Columbia River Gorge. More on this when I can post some of Jeff's pictures (it's his first time west of Texas in the US) when we get home....
We arrived in Portland, where they are attending the annual meeting of ichthyologists and herpetologists, and then I headed south towards Eugene where my mom and sister live (more on that soon too). We'll be on the west coast until Tuesday morning, before turning around to head back east and see the spectacular filmstrip of the american west's technicolor, in reverse.

The Front Range

Fear not-- no more epic, ancient, travel posts for a while. I know there is nothing folks hate more than a "Hey, this one time, when I was in Africa (or band camp, or whatever other place you would like to insert here...)" stories, so thanks for indulging me that one time. Back to the present day: last week I went to Ft. Collins to visit my dear friends John and April and greet their new baby, Zora. John and April were my officemates when I was a grad student in Zoology at the University of Florida, back during what we refer to as the golden age of that department (if you are a devoted reader, you might remember them from an earlier post on my love of Bob Dylan.) During my time at UF, there was a perfect storm of fantastic, fun, smart, creative, enthusiastic, talented grad students surrounding me there-- we were all clustered into grad student offices instead of being housed in our individual labs as is often the case, so we spent all week at work together and then got together on Friday nights for Zoocial (rhymes with social) to drink beer out in the courtyard and figure out how to spend all weekend together as well. It was bliss, and I miss those folks so much after being spoiled like that for so long. John and April just started post-docs at CSU in Ft. Collins but, more importantly than that, they just got back from Ethiopia with their beautiful and hilarious daughter, who is also a blogger by the way-- you can see her and her insurmountable cuteness at Zora Borealis. I was joined in Ft. Collins by another dear friend from the golden age, Nat Seavy. Nat, well-known for is adventures in piracy and surfing (not the internet, but on the high seas), had also fallen under Zora's spell by the end of the weekend. Here is a picture from our hike (Zora hung with the baby bjorn for about 6 hours!) in Poudre (pronounce Pooter) Canyon, some of the weekend's doting, and-- my favorite-- Zora's serious face.

In addition to seeing these guys, I unexpectedly got to reunite with my old friend and roommate from Gainesville, from 2 years prior to grad school actually, Jenny Rubenstein. Jenny introduced me to Florida, live music at the Covered Dish, and really was an incredibly great friend as I settled in to my first "real" apartment and "real" job after college. She has spent the last 12 years gallivanting literally all over the world, and just moved to Ft. Collins recently because her husband, Andrew, is a grad student there. Amazingly, she and April met at a party in December and figured out they had both lived in Florida, and then that they both knew me--not exactly bumping into an old friend, but exactly as great.

Happy Bastille Day! (Or, The Saga Continues....)

So where were we? Oh yes, finishing up a refreshing swim in Lake Turkana, and starting to think about how in tarnation (is that a word? I swear it is, but embedded electronic dictionaries seem to disagree) we were going to make it back from Loyangalani to Nairobi (see map). As I mentioned, this is not a far distance—but there are very few roads, and fewer cars that can traverse them. Many people when describing this region of Kenya refer to it as “inaccessible by car” and suggest anyone trying to get there go by plane. Funny enough, we made our way into town and befriended a pilot named Andy at the one operational hotel in the city—the luxurious and almost completely empty Oasis Lodge. It was a travesty really—here we were in the middle of the driest, most barren area I have ever seen, and there was a hotel with literally ONE guest that was built upon two freshwater springs that fed the spectacular tiered swimming pools. Said guest, Andy the Canadian pilot, was very friendly and bought us icy cold cokes in the bar and offered us a trip back to Nairobi via airplane, if we could wait until the following Wednesday when he would be done with his aerial surveys of northern Kenya. We said thanks, but we really needed to get back by Saturday. He wished us the best of luck, but mentioned the last backpackers he had seen that far north waited 3 weeks for a ride back to Nairobi. It was at this point that we realized our situation was actually somewhat dire. Our discussion with the Samburu warrior in South Horr about the possibility of walking back to Nairobi seemed less ridiculous when we were only 150 miles away (still pretty ridiculous—but not to the Samburu), but with over 300 miles separating us and Nairobi, walking was no longer a good option. We decided to go to the post office because the delivery of mail is-- the world over-- one of the few things that guarantees at least sporadic travel to and from remote areas. As if we hadn’t gotten lucky enough with Joe, when we got to the postal drop off area, we were told that, yes, this sedan with the back half sawed off to form a makeshift miniature pick-up truck was the “posta” vehicle, and yes, it was leaving Loyangalani (very soon in fact, we better be ready if we want to go), but, no, it was not going to Nairobi. In fact, it was going north to drop off mail in a town called North Horr, and then on from there. After our experience in the southerly sister city, you can imagine our hesitation. On the other hand, this was quite possibly the only vehicle leaving town (other than Andy’s airplane) for the next 3 weeks. We decided we had to go, so we hurried up and got ready, and waited for about 3 hours until we actually left. “We” included the three of us, and approximately 6 other passengers in the cut-out back of the car, and then three people in the front seat, most notable the driver, christened Dr. Teeth by me because of my intense tooth fetish (his were TERRIBLE— blackish, green stubs—can you imagine me trying to negotiate with this man? if you know me, you can't) and the mechanic, who was obviously indispensable given the terrain, the vehicle, and the load. Unfortunately, Dr. Teeth was a heavy smoker (about 1 cigarette every 20 minutes). Even more unfortunate was the fact that he couldn’t drive and smoke at the same time, so every 20 minutes we had to stop. Imagine it, if you will—we are in a jacked up, postal sedan carrying cargo and at least 12 people, we are traveling NORTH across the desert in hopes of getting to Nairobi (which is south) in the next two days, and we are stopping every 20 minutes so a guy with the worst teeth I have ever known can satiate a nic fit.

The plan was to head north, arc back down to the town of Marsabit and from there head back to Isiolo. We had figured out that we were at T minus 36 hours to make this trip when we arrived in North Horr mid-afternoon, and figuring a mail stop in this town (see picture) couldn't possibly take long, we were still hopeful that this route, however convoluted, would get us to our destination in time. To our dismay, when we pulled up, all the other passengers started collecting their belongings to disembark, … as if we were staying there for the night. Dr. Teeth had decided to stop here and to resume our trip to Marsabit in the morning. We had explained our situation to him, perhaps even exaggerated what we thought the consequences of our tardiness would be (as it turns out, we underestimated those consequences quite significantly), but Dr. Teeth was adamant. I gave up arguing with him about it only after all the passengers had disappeared somehow into thatched huts, my daily gazing-at-Dr. Teeth-allowance had been used up, and he promised that we would get on the road by 9 am the next day. Morgan, Sean, and I found a thatch roof hut of our own that sold delicious food and (again, miraculously) ice cold Coca-Cola, so we sat outside in the beautiful desert night at a table with sand between our toes. North Horr was way better than South Horr and we managed to thoroughly enjoy the happy accident of ending up in this region far beyond the area we had even hoped to be able to see. Kenyans there look more like their Somali neighbors to the north, and we were treated very kindly by everyone we met. That night, we slept in the churchyard (I found this picture of that very church on the web, like all the others I have shamelessly borrowed to illustrate this post—I have gotten too lazy to give photo credit, but they are obviously easy to find if you are interested in knowing who took them by using the same descriptors I use, e.g. "church north horr"). The next morning we were up bright and early waiting by the car. 9:00 came and went. 10:00 came and went. At about 11, Dr. Teeth emerged from wherever he had slept. A few others followed slowly thereafter. I was impatient, even though at this point I should have known it was futile. We all piled in and drove around the town in circles collecting the remaining passengers from wherever they had spent the night and, again, miraculously didn’t leave anyone behind. We had bonded at this point—singing Snoop Doggy Dog and Kenny Rogers songs to pass the time. We left North Horr blazing through the desert, stopping every 20 minutes for a cigarette break, and soaking in the beauty of this far away place-- most of our communication consisting of raising our eyebrows, sign language, and laughter.

To make a very long story slightly less long, we arrived in Marsabit hopelessly late, eventually caught a lorry to get back to Isiolo, and from there easily got a bus that returned us to Nairobi about 8 hours after our comrades and professors had departed for Maasailand. We showered, detangled, de-sanded, got some rotisserie chicken, and slept like babies, only to wake up the next morning and plan our trip into the remote valleys of southern Kenya where we would hopefully find our group. Two days of travel by bus, car, and foot later, we were indeed reunited with the other students and professors—most (but not all) of them happy to see us alive and eager to hear stories of our adventures in the north. We were punished academically for our decision to go up the east side and consequent tardiness, but rewarded with a beyond-the-thunder-dome adventure that far outshined the formal learning that occurred during that semester abroad. The story continues, in a sense, 10 years later in 2006 when those same leaders interviewed me for a job leading Earlham’s East Africa Semester Abroad program in Tanzania. (Again, miraculously) I got the job.

The 2006 EC Tanzania Program group in front of a giant baobab tree led by none other than the responsible, reliable, non-thrill-seeking yours truly.

There is Nothing Better than Bumping into an Old Friend (or Flashback to 1995)

Apologies to my devoted reader(s?) for my blogging delinquency-- it has been a busy week in Lake Woebegone. Okay, maybe not that busy, but hot enough that I can blame all kinds of inactivity on the weather. Tomorrow's high in Arlington is 100 degrees. I have never spent this much time indoors in my life, ever. It turns out, the environmental conditions here are actually unfit for mammals-- I read it... in a scientific journal. I recently unearthed an old chinese parasol that was under the Christmas tree for me in about 1983 and now actually use it walking to and from work. I might look like an idiot, but at least I can't hear my skin sizzling. See how unfocused I am? It is the heat, I tell you. Here is a long blogpost that I have wanted to share for awhile, but now have a good reason to finally write out.... read it in small chunks. It's too long otherwise (and this is only episode 1), but how often do you flashback to the best trip of your entire life? Not often enough.

My trip back from St. Louis last week was highlighted by the most wonderful coincidence I can think of-- I bumped into my old friend Sean Vicente at the airport. Sean and I went to college together at Earlham and, shortly before graduating in 1996, spent a semester abroad in Kenya. We were two of probably about 16 students on the trip, but we were really two of three because Sean, myself, and a wonderful third, Morgan Taggart, formed perhaps an unlikely but unified trio sometime relatively early on in the semester. Although we all did homestays with different families and had very different interests, when it came time to do something of any sort in a group or team, it was always us three. At one point, we lived together in a tent for a month at Lake Naivasha during a field course in ornithology. For some reason, the triumvirate vowed not to shower for the whole month, and instead decided to bathe daily by rowing a dingy out into the middle of the lake and taking a swim (happily overlooking the dual threat of hippos-- the most dangerous animal in Africa-- and bilharzia-- a treatable but nasty schistosome parasite transmitted by snails). Double-wide optimism is not a recent thing.

Among our many hijinx, there were two independent travel periods during the semester during which time we were required to travel in at least pairs. For our first expedition, we climbed Mt. Kenya. We didn't have a tent, but for some reason I thought we could just buy a giant piece of plastic to camp in. Like a tent-- but with no doors, or poles, or openings, or closings, or floor. It was a giant, bright yellow sheet of plastic that I strung up between two trees with a rope to try and form a teepee-like structure. It sagged a lot in the middle, and so was christened the Big Banana. It was supposed to sleep all 6 of us (the trio was joined by 3 other intrepid souls), but we got so soaked the first night, that the Big Banana was cast aside and from thereon the expedition was somewhat doomed by the cold and wet. Even though we never summited, we did enjoy seeing hyraces and experiencing snow at the equator when we reached high elevation. Between the plants and the rocks, it was beautiful and other worldly up there. I wish I had a picture to share-- Sean, do you have any pictures from that trip to the mountain?

The second travel opportunity came late in the semester, right before our last homestay with the Maasai. Sean, Morgan, and I decided we wanted to explore the northern part of Kenya-- a vast, largely unpopulated, desert region that was not really on the itinerary of our study abroad program. The guide book said there were decent roads going north all the way up to Lake Turkana if you approached on the west side of the lake. The eastern side was more difficult to traverse, but more scenic. We, of course, decided to go east. There were no intrepid souls interested in joining us after the Big Banana debacle, so we prepared the necessary items and set out on our own from Nairobi. Between the three of us we had a guidebook, the clothes on our back, 1 sleeping bag, about $10 in cash, a walkman, some snuff, and some chewing tobacco that appeared to be about 30% cow dung. We caught a bus in Nairobi that went all the way to the end of the paved road towards the northeast-- the bustling town of Isiolo. We were feeling great-- it was a beautiful sunny day and we easily hitched a ride further north to get to Maralal, where we were able to spend the night at a checkpoint along the road. Before leaving Maralal, we stopped at their version of the "Hard Rock Cafe" (the entrepreneurship in this part of the world is truly amazing), a shack restaurant almost certainly referring to rocks in the geological sense, not the musical sense, given the terrain. We got another ride easily, and this time the friendly fellow hitchhikers in our vehicle included Samburu warriors, business folks, and people visiting their families in remote villages. It was fascinating landscape-- almost lunar. So engrossing that, while I was peering out over the cab of the lorry at the setting sun and rising moon, I failed to notice a low-hanging yellow-barked acacia tree branch covered in 2 in. long spines. Gazing at the moon never hurt so bad. I caught sight of it just as it caught hold of my eye, ear and cheek, and as I turned away the spines sliced across my face. They weren't deep, but the head is highly vascularized, so it bled a fair amount, running down my shirt and soaking the bags of grain I had been standing on in order to have such a great view in the first place. Sean kept saying "It's bad! It's bad", but I thought he was saying "It's rad! It's rad!" It sealed up quickly, although many months later a boyfriend would pull away after gently nuzzling my ear to inform me he had come across what appeared to be a splinter, finally extruding itself from the long since healed slash.

Original caption for this 1954 photograph of a Samburu:
Although this lad wears braids, cosmetics, and a serene expression, he's really a fierce warrior and can hurl a spear 100 yards with deadly accuracy.

Late that night, when we arrived in the town of South Horr, we didn't worry too much about being led down a sand path in the complete darkness to a private compound (that is the word often used to refer to the collection of small buildings that make up a home in the villages in this part of the world) in order to find a place to bed down for the night. We had chatted at length with folks in the car and, as they all disappeared into the darkness, we were just grateful one of our new friends was willing to help us find a place to lay our heads down. The next morning when we woke up, we were subjected to the near-asphyxiating hospitality of our now-visible hosts. The patriarch of the family knew very little english-- only swear words, in fact. He took me on a walk towards what turned out to be some sort of matrimonial hut and tried to make his hopes evident via a hilarious, nonsensical stream of naughty words that probably weren't all that far off from what he was actually proposing. I squirmed out of the situation, and we left the compound and headed for the center of town confident that, with the trip going so well this far, we would be on our way north towards Lake Turkana in no time. The center of town in South Horr was two rows of largely empty buildings, about 6 on each side of the road. We plopped down in the middle to wait for the first car heading in our direction.

The Village of South Horr

Twenty-four hours later, when no car had passed, we lowered our requirements. We were waiting for a car to pass-- either direction would be fine. Another 24 hours later-- hungry, thirsty, and somewhat worried about the possibility of getting back to Nairobi in time to rejoin the group at all, we struck gold. I had read in the guidebook that a guy named Joe ran a tour company that took people up to Lake Turkana via the eastern side once per week from Nairobi. That blessed day of the week (Thursday, I believe) had finally arrived and I was ready for it. My face was healed up ok, but I was still covered dry blood. When the truck came rambling down the road, I ran up to the driver's side and yelled "Joe!" (it is a great thing to have a guidebook that gives proprietor's full names-- it has come in handy more than once for me) and acted like we knew each other from the past. He figured out pretty quickly that we did not, so I switched to plan B. I told him I had been beaten by a man in the town, which was, of course, a lie-- but I was covered in dry blood and that guy did swear a lot in the marriage hut. It was close enough to true, and the tourists in the vehicle-- one of those massive, posh safari trucks with the huge amphibious wheels-- took pity on us and assured Joe they wouldn't mind at all if he gave some grubby college kids a lift for free. And so he did! All the way to Lake Turkana-- our destination which just a few hours earlier seemed unreachable. When we arrived, we were fed meatloaf and cold Budweiser, which I swear never tasted so good before or since. We thanked our saviors, and walked from their camp to the lake. Somehow, in that 1/2 mile, a gaggle of children emerged from the parched earth-- I have no idea where they came from. The city of Loyangalani (a small collection of whitewashed buildings and a post office) was a ways off, and there were very few huts near this lakeshore formed of cracked, dry mud. But by the time we got to the water, there were about 25 kids with us, all of whose eyes practically came out of their head when we proceeded to strip down and jump in the lake. They looked at each other and at us silently with equal parts disbelief and curiosity. You could almost hear them say-- "These white people must be nuts" right before they, too, stripped down and jumped in. I forgot to mention, Lake Turkana is one of the chain of lakes that dot the famous Rift Valley and is the largest freshwater desert lake in the world. It is also home to the Nile crocodile, known to reach lengths of up 19ft and up to 2200 pounds. People in Kenya don't typically go swimming in Lake Turkana because they see it more as the crocodile's domain. But we figured-- it's hot, we came a long way, we have gotten accustomed to bathing exclusively in lakes anyway, and now we've got 25 kids in here with us so our chances of getting eaten by a crocodile just went way down!The Jade Sea (Lake Turkana)

Needless to say, after our triumphant swim we had to get back to the fairly serious business of figuring out how we were going to get back to Nairobi by Saturday given that it has taken us nearly 5 days to travel 380 miles despite constant effort. As I mentioned, we were supposed to reunite with the rest of the group to head to Maasailand, the second most remote region of the country, for the last portion of the program. Did we make it in time? More to come....

Swahili Gal Pals

First of all, Lake Weekend 2009 has come and gone and I am spent. I won't write too much about it since I gave such a lengthy anticipatory pre-amble last month, but I will post a picture soon that encapsulates the physics-defying capacity of the inner tube, the invention of tube jousting, and a rare moment where it appears as if GP has better balance than I do. It was, as predicted, a fantastic trip that somehow serves as a microcosm for an entire classic american summer vacation, efficiently squished into one weekend. This year saw the introduction of new toys (the disk), tricks (the flying V), and activities (the first inaugural tube-a-ment). Of course, old traditions also endured (Darron burgers, Lake CD exchanging, and mobile handstands). As always, it was bliss.

Speaking of bliss, when I was in Bloomington I had a weekly appointment with my Swahili gal pals, Joanna and Lauren, to try and cling to our language skills between visits to the motherland (East Africa). It was wonderful-- not only do I adore Joanna and Lauren, but our weekly rendez-vous became a much-needed therapeutic confessional for the three of us. Because we were all in different worlds work-wise, most of the characters in our true stories were anonymous. This, in addition to speaking in a language no one nearby could understand, was very liberating conversationally. During the 6 years I was in Indiana, it provided a welcome break during stressful periods (exams, dissertation writing, etc.) to know there was one hour a week during which we could step outside of our rush-rush, brou ha-ha lives to talk and reflect and to tell each other our deepest darkest secrets, at least those for which we had the vocabulary. When we didn't know the word, we could always use a whistling sound and eyebrow gestures to convey our meaning. Lauren worked in Tanzania for years before doing her PhD at IU, which compared the effectiveness of different forest management strategies in that region. She recently started a post-doc in Ann Arbor (send details Lauren-- I want to post a picture or link here!) and I won't be surprised at all if she ends up playing a key role in conserving what is left of the forest (and therefore water supply) in that part of the world. Joanna is an artist and jewelry maker (check out her unique paper jewelry and love of words at her blog site), in addition to being one of the best cooks I know and a collector of mints (actually, she is really good at everything she tries-- here is a picture of a creation in her garden using a cool quote from E.E. Cummings). She recently seeded my own mint plantation on the patio by sending along three varieties (yes, there are varieties of mint with very different flavors)-- berries and cream, orange, and black peppermint. They are trying to thrive despite the inferno they now live in (summer in Texas)-- perhaps there will be mojitos to help me do the same in a few short weeks. (click to enlarge)

Miscellania

Quick post from the road.... The conference last week in Iowa was great, and it turns out Iowa City is shockingly nice (no pun intended, really). It is green, and the campus is pretty hilly and kind of stately. I was pleasantly surprised-- if you are thinking about becoming a Hawkeye, go for it. A life-size cardboard cut-out of Charles Darwin figured prominently into many of the photos taken at the meeting, including this one of my former lab, with whom I was so happy to catch up after 6 months away from Bloomington. Can you believe it? 6 months! That's a lot of time in blog years (that isn't a pun either; I'm not sure if it could really be mistaken for one).Left to right: (back) Melania, Mike, Chuck D., Wenli, Ignasi, Abe, (front) Francesco

After the meeting, I drove GP's car (Bessy) to Batavia, IL (thanks GP!) and hung out with my best friend from high school, Tricia, and her daughter, Dorothy. Dorothy is a walker (for pictures of her doing that and all sorts of things, you can read her blog). If she wants something slightly out of reach, say 4 inches away, she will get up, walk there, plop down, and grab the desired item. It is hilarious. A girl after my own heart. She has know idea what kind of trekking her aunt Sarah has in store for her.... you're all smiles now but we are gonna hoof it one day! Thanks to you both for such a fun visit, hope to see you both in the schaackmobile hall of fame one day! It is perfect for babies because it is so tiny.

Last but not least, I arrived in Chicago on Monday to visit my aunt and uncle (who own an antique business called Miscellania, hence the name of this post) and cousin, and spend a few days with my dear friend Britt. The first night we arrived, we introduced Britt into the bosom of our family by ignoring her jet-lag and playing a game of Scrabble. The first night visit "playing of the scrabble" is a tradition in our family that goes back many, many years, and it has now become an indispensable way for us to catch up, tease, maybe learn a little something, and, of course, compete. This game was no different-- my cousin Brian and I joined forces early on against my Aunt Linda who was clearly trying to take an early lead with an unplace-able 7-letter word. Throughout the game, we were neck and neck, but solidly beating her, until she pounced from the depths of mid-100 point purgatory and ended the game with a scrabble-- catching us with our pants down (a full rack of high point tiles). She celebrated her victory with an impressive attempt at the cabbage patch, shown below-- all in all, a masterful win from the woman who taught us all how to play the game, and so many other things. More on the chicagoland portion of the trip soon....

Confusing Work with Play in the Midwest

Although I wasn't born in the midwest, it is my home. I am heading there next week to attend a conference (in Iowa City, IA), see friends and family (in Chicago, IL), and check in on things back at my house and old lab (in Bloomington, IN). The conference should be interesting-- this is the third consecutive year I have attended this particular meeting (of the Society for the Study of Molecular Biology and Evolution) and I hope I don't come down with a case of society fatigue (a little discussed but common condition where, after you attend a particular society's annual meeting a few times, all the talks start sounding the same even though the first year or two they all seemed really fascinating). Over time, I have definitely developed a preference for smaller, more focused meetings, but it seems like a good idea to stay in the general evolutionary biology loop by attending a bigger conference once a year. The Society for the Study of Evolution is the other option, but it is more like going to a really fun yearly college reunion than going to a scientific conference, so probably not the best way for me to keep on top of recent work. More diligent folks are able to somehow attend talks and learn something at that meeting, but last year, when I went commando (no registration) and only attended 4 talks, I realized it was probably time to give up the charade. It is, of course, unavoidable-- many of my closest colleagues are my closest friends (e.g. Britt and Idelle with whom I waded through graduate school at IU and with whom I will get to visit in Chicago after the meeting next week). In the same vein , there is little distinction between vacation and field work, or entertaining an invited speaker and a typical Friday night out on the town. I only hope my inability to distinguish between work and play is a sign of how enjoyable my work is, not a warning that my fun has gotten really mundane....

Sampling damselflies and cheating death with Idelle on top of Haleakala in Hawaii (above)-- the last of the 50 states for me to visit-- and working on a paper with Britt at Lake Monroe (really, we were; below).

Schaackmobile Visitor Hall of Famers

This past weekend the Schaackmobile (also now referred to as the Schaack Shack, care of Christian Cox, I believe) Visitor Hall of Fame had two new inductees (you only have to visit once to get in, so plan a trip!) Enduring a few nights in the trailer might be easy to justify if I lived in some amazing city, on the coast, etc. But I don't. And the double whammy of asking friends to a) come to Arlington despite its, shall we say, limited cultural offerings, and b) sleep in the trailer while they are here, means I simply must erect a virtual hall of fame for those dedicated and intrepid enough to make the trek down. So here it is, built out of the stone and mortar of my mind (and a little blogpost featurette). That said-- I had an awesome time hosting GP and Darron down here and, as frequently happens when friends come visit you, I got to see and do things in my new hometown that I might not have ever done without the motivation of showing them around. On top of all that, everyone fit in the trailer, no problem!Some caveats you should know about before planning your vacation: 1) temperature control in the schaackmobile is tricky and it is stinkin' hot in Texas, 2) there is definitely no place to store luggage of any kind in the trailer so pack lightly, and 3) although clearly possible, we didn't actually have to sleep 3 in the trailer this time, as Clement generously lent his bedroom to the cause. But it is possible! Two in there was downright roomy. GP remarked how much smaller the trailer was than he had remembered, while Darron was pleasantly surprised to see it had grown since his first glimpse. We, of course, relied heavily on the freedom (of movement) provided by patio life and cooked, ate, and drank exclusively outside (primarily beer and large hunks of red meat). We did, however, have morning hang outs and recording sessions in the trailer (also now referred to as Studio S, care of Darron Luesse). More impressive than overcoming the challenges presented by hosting tall men in a tiny trailer, we managed to have a great time in the greater Arlington metropolitan area! We pounded the unforgiving pavement of Dallas, wowed by glamour built on the spoils of oil exploitation and entrepreneurship. We strolled through the cobblestone streets of Ft. Worth in what was once the largest livestock market in the world and currently serves as cowboy capital of the United States. We fell in love with Brent Best, the lead singer of Slobberbone and The Drams, in Denton. We saw minor leaguers strive to fulfill likely unfulfillable dreams in Grand Prairie. And we had lunch in Waco. Somehow, despite all this, there are still plenty of stones left unturned that will likely go unexplored until my next guests arrive. Until then, you know me, it will just be work, work, work, ...so come soon!

There and Back Again: A Week Long North Texas Musical Mini-Odyssey

You may have noticed that the best part about living in Texas for me so far has been music. Last week, I finally got to see the Old 97s, a Dallas-derived band that was number one on my list of bands-that-I-haven't-seen-that-I-would-like-to-see (now replaced, perhaps, by Ryan Adams, but I need to think about who gets the #1 spot before making any hasty proclamations). The band exudes a good-natured brand of country-flavored rock n' roll that is difficult not to love-- it was an exuberant performance by Rhett Miller and the band complete with lots of sweat, pelvic gyrations a la Elvis Presley, and crowd-wide sing-a-longs. Plus, I got to eat a foot long corndog afterwards, which I always enjoy.

Close on the heels of this delightful concert experience, I took a slight wrong turn and ended up at the double-billing of Ssion and Fischerspooner Friday night in Dallas. Ssion is a dance-y, emo, 80's, Cure-like, multi-media-loving band whose finale song, Street Jizz, was actually catchier than I can probably convince you of in a few short words but, unfortunately, isn't one of the tracks you can stream on myspace. They weren't my cup of tea, but it was definitely entertaining.The headliners were Fischerspooner, a performance art duo out of Chicago, my home town, who played the worst live music I have heard in several moons. For those of you that think I just gush about every band I see, here is the counter-evidence: these guys stunk. But, if you think spacesuits, poorly-synchronized dancing, tutus, and light-fixture-containing hats are a good substitute for musical talent, check them out.Last but not least, I made my first trek up to Denton last night to see my new friend Petra's band Leatherwood. Denton is cool, kind of like a Texas-y version of Bloomington-- very green (actually and metaphorically), tons of musicians, and a welcome breath of fresh air compared to the giant concrete slab that is DFW. They played a too-short set at a bar called Mable Peabody's, that was just long enough to wash the emo off me from Friday night. It was awesome and I can't wait to see them again. Feels good to be back to gushing.... thank you for inviting me up Petra!

Lake Weekend: June 18-21, 2009

Today is already a great day. I received the annual Lake Weekend announcement from my dear friend Darron Luesse (who is coming to Arlington next week, is 6'5", and needs to somehow fit into the trailer [maximum interior height, 5'9", max length not much more than that] during his visit.) It's gonna be a hoot.
What is Lake Weekend you ask? Every year, Darron invites his closest friends from all different parts of his life to his parents' condo on the beautiful shores of the Lake of the Ozarks, a dammed river that runs through an erstwhile mountain range creating what has got to be one of the longest lakes in the world. Typically, we arrive Thursday night (last year I walked in the door, was handed a margarita by Darron's dad [Mr. Luesse], went immediately downstairs to the dock, disrobed, and jumped directly into the water within approximately 6 minutes of arrival). Friday and Saturday are spent being tossed off inflatable tubes at high speed and water-skiing, with intermittent bouts of eating grilled food and drinking Mr. Luesse's margaritas. At night, we listen to Lake CDs. What are Lake CDs, you ask? The best part about Lake Weekend, other than the watersports and camaraderie. Making Lake CDs originated, I believe, in order to maximize democracy and minimize fighting and suckiness when it came time to put music on the stereo during Lake Weekend. But it has become much more than that-- it has become a competitive mixed CD exchange that occupies (depending on the participant) days, if not weeks, and, in my case, months prior to the annual event. It is a chance to share recent gems you've uncovered, disinter old favorites that might have been forgotten, share live versions and rarities, or (also in my case) to continue bludgeoning your friends with your favorite Bob Dylan songs against their will. Everyone leaves the weekend exhausted and tan with an arsenal of new music to meander through for at least 2-3 months after Lake Weekend, at which point it is time to start thinking about making the next year's CD. Unless you're Chris Moore, in which case your 2010 Lake CD is already half-made, and your 2009 CD has been in the can for 6 months. Perhaps the only thing that could eclipse the fun and relaxation of competitive mix-making is competitive water-trick-performing, as illustrated here by the headstand-on-a-moving-innertube-off between Brian Rodenbeck and yours truly. All this competitive recreation has had an awesome result over the years: Darron's friends are all friends with each other (see earlier post on Shane's visit). It is a brilliant approach to vacationing and I can't wait to go-- crank the engine and thaw the margarita mix Mr. Luesse!

A Mother's Day Post

Born in the 1940's to a working class family in Chicago, raised on the north side in the gilded perfection of the 50's, only to break free from those superficial trappings in the 60's to marry and start a family while on the lam in Canada in the 70's, returning to the post-war opulence of the 80's to start her own business, falling into a murky haze in the 90's, emerging triumphant in the mid-2000's, and continuing her creative ascent on the Cottage Grove folk art scene and political stage for many years to come, it is my pleasure to introduce to you, my mom,
Penny Schaack.

Self-Portrait

(obviously by Penny Schaack)

Happy Mother's Day Mom! At last, your own post! To the one or two people (other than my mom) that might read this blog, you may already know her and many of her best attributes. She is intuitive, creative, generous, warm, open-minded, supportive, quirky, passionate, dedicated, thoughtful, and always has time for someone who needs it-- young or old, daughter or stranger, do-gooder or deviant. She is a good friend, artist, role-model, adoptive grand-mother, actual mother, influence, sounding board, and enthusiast for things she loves or knows that I love. There have been few plateaus in her life-- but despite many ups and downs, over the last five years she has enjoyed a wonderful renaissance that I have been both proud and relieved to witness.
This comeback, and her incredible, indefatigable zest, were epitomized last year right around this time when I was walking with her to work on her first day back on the job after suffering severe injuries in a car wreck. It had taken us well over an hour to walk two and a half blocks from her house to the community center where she works. This was in part because she had a cast on her arm, was just starting to walk again (with assistance), and we were lugging an oxygen tank, but it was also because almost everyone we passed on the street stopped to hug her and welcome her home from the hospital. Shopkeepers came out of their shops. Joggers stopped their running. Old ladies who knew her, hippies who just saw her kindred, tie-dyed spirit-- all of them stopped us to hug her and welcome her back to the heart of Cottage Grove.
And when we were almost there, waiting at the corner to cross the street, she turned to me and said completely seriously, "You know Sar, I think I'm gonna be the mayor of this town one day." I tried not to laugh, but failed, and looked at her with a canula in her nose, walker in hand, and said something like, "Really, mom? You think you're gonna be the mayor of Cottage Grove?" with my familiar, but loving, smart-assy skepticism. "Well, it is certainly a possibility!" she insisted, "you know, it's mostly a ceremonial position anyway-- ribbon cuttings, and dedications, that sort of thing...." If coming back from within an inch of your life to aspirations of holding the highest political office in an exceedingly small town does not represent an extraordinarily buoyant spirit, I don't know what does.
Thank you Mom.
I'm glad you're here, and you're you, and that I am your daughter.
Thinking of you (and the Gen) at 18000 ft in Chile.

Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

It's been another one of those weeks in Lake Woebegone.... when I am just not sure what to blog about because so many little interesting things have caught my eye. Whether or not they might be interesting to anyone else is an open question, but there always seems like a plethora of things I want to share....
Among other things, this week was peppered with visits to Dallas to see live music. I got to go see two bands I have blogged about previously, the Heartless Bastards and Jude the Innocent. Saturday night I went back again, despite torrentially bad weather, and saw Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. Jason (we're on a first name basis, as you'll see) used to be one of the three guitarists in the guitar-trio-driven band The Drive-By Truckers which I saw in Bloomington for the first time sometime in 2005. The Truckers are great and part of what distinguishes them among many other bands steeped in the heavy southern rock tradition from which they so proudly hail is that, even though Patterson Hood technically serves as their frontman, all three guitarists were songwriters and sang lead on their own compositions. It makes their albums and shows diverse and interesting because each of them (P. Hood, J. Isbell, and Mike Cooley) have a signature style that is distinctive. Back in the day, Jason Isbell was my favorite of the three incarnations of the DBTs and now that he has formed his own band, I was very eager to check it out. Not eager enough to fork over the money for a ticket of course, but a friend of a friend won some on the interweb and through some minor miracle I ended up outside the Granada Theater in Dallas, TX on Saturday night in the rain eating a slice of pizza waiting for some soon-to-be friends who I did not know to arrive and get me into the show for free. A fairly typical evening in and of itself up to that point, if you know me well. While I was waiting for my connection to get into the show, Jason Isbell walked up. I transferred the incredibly greasy pizza slice I was devouring from my right to my left hand and reached out to shake his hand, which he politely accepted, despite its sheen. We started chatting, and I was so starstruck and overwhelmed that a) I didn't take a picture with him for the blog and b) I didn't notice that Petra, John, and Paul had arrived and were now sitting to my left. (Petra is also a musician and plays regularly in two bands, only one of which I have heard so far, but which I can't wait to see live; if you want to check out their beautiful sound, they're called Leatherwood).
At some point, I came to and tried to introduced everyone.
I said: "Guys, this is Jason. Jason, this is...."
(Paul interjected): "Paul"
(John interjected): "John"
I said: "... and Petra" (in a vain attempt to make this situation make a little more sense given it appears these people are my friends yet I don't know two of their three names).
We continued to talk and hang out a bit which was a hoot for superfans like ourselves, and then went inside for the show which wildly exceeded my expectations, which were not low. The weather had been so bad in Dallas on Saturday that the Cowboys' practice facility caved in critically injuring staff. As you can imagine, the folks that came out to see Jason Isbell on a night like this were die-hard fans. Instead of mailing it in because the crowd was sparse, Jason and the band seemed to completely absorb the high level of intensity (per fan) in the room. They played passionately and playfully and into the night with a rousing encore that rewarded the fans above and beyond the already very energetic set. It was awesome. Among the highlights were his throwbacks to the DBT days (Outfit, Goddamn Lonely Love, and Decoration Day), a cover of Psycho Killer (sung by Browan Lollar, originally by the Talking Heads), and several of his delicate-but-rocking ballads off the albums he has put out since setting out on his own (Dress Blues, Chicago Promenade, Hurricanes and Hand Grenades). There were probably well over 100 people there, but since it is a pretty big place, the whole show felt very intimate and as it unfolded, I started to feel like he was playing almost directly to me. My new sister-in-musical-love Petra pointed out later that, after hitting the Jack Daniels bottle several times, he was, in fact, playing directly to me, ... a lot of the time, ... eyes in missile lock, ... as if he wanted to somehow overlook the greasy handshake and serenade me in a room full of superfans.
So, maybe not such a typical evening?