These are from Alaska, clearly, which doesn’t seem that long ago and wasn’t that long ago, but which seems long ago in Blogtime.

We’re looking at Mendenhall Glacier from the lake we canoed across, with several other people of course.

Then we see Nugget Falls from a distance.

Then John and I are on the gravel beach of the lake near the Falls, with the Glacier in the distance.

I guess the styrophoam cup is for scale?

Then the photographer moved and we moved so that the Falls are in the background now.

I recall being stunned and obsessed by scale in Alaska.

After a brief walk from the parking lot over to the river, past the information kiosk that told us about the river and the engineers who mapped and measured it, we crossed the river on a nice footbridge.

The brief walk to the viewing point was pleasant, not difficult or steep, on a wide cleared path, nicely maintained and usable for biking as well as walking, as evidenced by the couple groups of young cyclists who went past us. We walked in silence, meeting only a family or two returning to the parking lot. There’s a photo of the path in a bit.

Off to the left of us was the rest of the mountain, I guess, sometimes hidden in the forest, and other times opening up so we could see these rocks that looked as if they wanted to tumble down into the water on the other side of us.

How long, I wondered, had it been since they had slid and rumbled, powered down under the pull of gravity until something made them stop?

I was glad not to be in their way.

Then the river was on our right side for a ways.  

The channel looked 4-5 feet deep, but the cold water was moving fast.

The cliches of running or racing don’t seem to hold the power that was most striking to me.

The water was being pulled, pulled hard by an irresistable force, down the channel. The water looked thick — not full of sediment or cloudy, but thick like heavy lead crystal, weighty.

The tall conifers were on either side of us, then, as the path moved off a bit from the river, or maybe it’s just that the river’s path changed.

After a curve in the path, we saw a warning sign that parents ought to watch their children.

We crossed a startling set of railroad tracks, still in use, evidently,  for we saw a town name sign and a km sign the other direction. 

A sudden sight of the far mountains, still with snow on them, was amazing. So was walking across train tracks in the middle of the forested mountains.

Not at all reminiscent of our other near-track experience at the Davis train station at first thought.

But then I connected the amazing mountains between Sacramento and Reno and the deep winter snow back there and then with these amazing mountains here and now. Oddly, I felt  at home.

We walked through the forest a little longer to a strange ruin, an abandoned Lincoln Logs project, I thought.

Had it been a shelter for long-distance hikers who needed to get in from the snow for the night? Except for the fact that it was sideways and maybe upside-down, it looked snug, was probably cozy.

Except that it was upside-down …

Finally we came to the viewing spot, a platform off toward the river, far over the river,  but nicely railed to protect us  from the drop to the stream bed.

The death-drop to the river bed.

70 meters from lip to splash, according to the information sign that pointed us toward the viewpoint.

It amazed me that someone measured it. 

The width of the river there was 10 or 12 feet, and then the wild drop into the gorge. The cold mist reminded me of the mist off the glacier when we canoed across the lake.

I kept staring at the lip, almost feeling dizzy as I imagined the pull of gravity on the water and the crash at the bottom of the falls. You can see the power of the water pushing, pressing toward the drop.

Here’s the lip, again, closer. 

I felt glad then for the long rainy season we’d had this spring, glad for the big river we could see here.

We just stood and looked and took picture after picture of the water and the cavern, dozens of them just the same, most likely. We were just mesmerized by the drop and the sound and the mist.

Off to the right of the lip was the other side of the gorge, but the mountain looked as if it had been carved and chipped out, hundreds of feet above the stream below. Had this river done that, long ago — carved out the cavern of the solid rock? See the gravel, where it stopped sliding down into the gorge?

I kept looking more and more often to the left of the falls, to the cavern’s broadening out, rather than at the falling water. I began to wonder if the ground under us did the same thing.

Were we standing on an illusion of stability connected to just 5 feet of rock stretched out, hanging over a hundred-foot drop?

Made me nervous, so I skedaddled back to the wide path on the solid ground, far from the cliffs of the river gorge. The sign said there was another viewpoint just ahead awhile.

This short walk, then, offered various glimpses of the river far below, in the gorge after the falls, as it went its way, still fast, but different here on this side of the falls: shallow, whipping rapids rather than a deep gorge of person-high throttling-toward-the-precipitous-drop river.
At last the whole wide valley opened up, straight to Daisy Lake. The broad opening let in not only more light for a tremendous view, but also a very chilly wind that  hit me right in the face.

I headed back to the information kiosk and the car.

Now, everybody knows that the 2010 Winter Olympics were held in Vancouver, except that many events were actually held in Whistler, a litle under 2 hours away, up in the Canadian Cascade Mountains — the same mountains that have given the US Mt. Shasta, Mt. Hood, Mt. Baker, Mt. Rainier, etc. Beautiful mountains, steep and deeply wooded and with volcanoes like large beads on a chain.

So. The Sea-to-Sky goes along the water up until Squamish, getting higher gradually, then goes a bit east-northeast toward the awesome skiing mountains. The view out the driver’s window on the way up to Whistler was water, steep hills rising, and islands, reminiscent of the landscape we saw on our cruise of the Inside Passage.

Out the windshield, even through the raindrops and the blink of the windshield wipers, the view was beautiful: mountains, water, trees. Plus the cool highway signs, names of towns in English and then the unfamiliar groupings of letters which was the First Nations’ names for those places.

The view out the passenger’s side window was  the mountainside: very steeply rising rock, feeling quite close off the shoulder. Later on, it was a broad valley that met the next high ridge, often snow-covered, even in June.

On the side I kept seeing announcements of some creek or other, and I’d stare intently, hoping to see the white falls as the water fell down toward the Bay, but I kept missing it, or my neck wouldn’t turn that far around.

There are good reasons to drive a vacation instead of fly away far above the ground; here are a couple of them:

Those are the crags as you near Shasta Lake; these rock formations are in the Siskiyou Mountains which are ruggedly beautiful most any time of year; the crags can be difficult to spot while moving fast in a car. But when you do spot them, they completely take over your window and fill up your sky. 

This, of course, is Mt Shasta, but with way more snow than I recall seeing on her. And one of the few times her head isn’t covered in a veil of clouds, too.

We were in Oregon to see Brian, whose birthday had just occurred. We all went to see Henry IV at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, the first time he had seen a play there.  After a couple of days in Southern Oregon, enjoying the putting course at the Running Y, we all drove up to Brian & Marie’s house in Portland for a dinner out and then the next morning John and I set out for Birch Bay, almost as far north in Washington as a person can go. Only a few more steps lands you in British Columbia!

On the border is a remarkable thing, unless you think all international relations are like Canada’s with the United States. Between the two nations’ customs checkpoints, where many nations might have barbed wire or heavily guarded crossings, is a park.

The Peace Arch is there, set up in 1914 to celebrate 100 years of peace between the British Commonwealth and the United States of America. There are posts in the ground on the side of the roadways which indicate the *real* border but somewhere under this arch you can stand in both countries at once. The wind is coming from the sea, to the left in this shot. Such a beautiful day, too, with the breeze unfurling both flags so we got post card shots! Up a slope on the right out of frame is the sculpture garden.

On the inside of the arch is this, which I found so moving  — how could you not, considering how few borders in our world are this open, safe and welcoming?

There’s a little garden  with a lovely huge bed of calla lilies near a broad tree just to the west of the arch – I’ll show you later — that was planted through the donations of high school students.

There are sculptures in many places. This one is made from brass tanks, put together by artist Ron Simmer, according to the title plaque near it.  It’s HUGE, by the way. I hope the building in the background helps by giving you the context needed.

 Up the hill from the arch is a kind of sculpture garden along the perimeter of a grassy field.  

On the way up, just at a turn in the pathway,  is this startling thing, in its own little wooded glen.

It’s made of recycled auto parts! Plus a real antler. I superimposed the title plaque so you could see for yourself.

John could identify several of the auto parts; I couldn’t but was still impressed by the artist’s creativity and vision.  

And here’s a close-up of its head. Isn’t it remarkable?

I was amazed to see how graceful and beautiful a form that the artist was able to create from these junk yard parts.

And then to attach the antler of a real deer. It’s amazing to think of the creativity inside the artist’s imagination!

 There’s a strange feel to this sculpture, isn’t there, like a contradiction and yet it isn’t all opposed, because the artist’s imagination has joined the two so beautifully.

More from the Peace Arch (which I keep typing Peach Arce, which is also fun to say!) garden later.

While we were gone on vacation, the garden was in the capable hands of Emily & Terence, and these flowers just popped open and dominated with their charismatic exuberance!

Not only that, but the Giants in the back of the front have bloomed:

Here’s a closer look at their strange and wonderful flowers — are these the echinacia? I remember we planted some, but can’t recall if these are they, as it were.

I love the way their petals change their orientation – they’re so bold and demanding, making it easier and easier for the bees to help themselves.

The petals’ coloring is so subtle, until you near the center, and then it’s more and more like a target: Bulls-Eye!! Mr. Bee, come over here!!

And the agapanthus on both sides of the garden bed have budded, and they’re in the process of opening up, too.

They’ll be purple when they’re fully open, and their tall, strong stalks hold them up admirably, swaying rather slowly in the breeze rather than dancing and waving as the pink break of heaven does or the tall whatsis near the driveway does.

This plant is a Northern California stalwart, planted within several of the big freeway exchanges in San Jose where we first lived after moving here. Their foliage is pretty, and the blooming is exotic — Lilies of the Nile is another of their names. Our two batches of them are dwarf — the regular sized Agapanthuses (Agapanthi??)  are 4 and 5 feet high when blooming, and we just don’t have space for the 6′ diameter plant.  I like the contrast between their pointy spears of leaves and the curvy ovals of the pittosporum right next to ‘em. The other batch is under the pink break of heaven.

The back yard is looking nice, too, and equally well taken care of by Em & T while we were gone. Three kinds of roses are blooming, and one is growing strong but not really blooming.

Here are the sweet flowers of the dwarf which is between the two lilac bushes behind the retaining wall. Not so dwarf, really, and it was covered in blossoms when we got home — 15 or 18 flowers all opened and the longest branches stretching up a good 5 feet toward the sun & sky. The lighting is off a bit; the blossoms are more peachy-pink rather than the bluish-pink this picture leads you to believe. It’s growing vigorously, and likes it that I trimmed some of the lilacs back so more sun gets down in there. The soaker hose is causing GOOD things in the back garden!!

Here’s the second bloom beginning on the red rose bush beneath the studio window:

There are 18 or 20 buds on the bush right now; only a few of them are opening, so we’ve got a glorious week or so coming when this bush is covered again.

Is it a total “DUH” or just my imagination that the buds are not as tall in this second bloom as the first bloom buds were? Those things were assertive, but these blooms are a little more shy in appearance,

seems to me. [sidebar: I have trouble with spacing every time I try to put two photos right up next to one another. Spacing the text is the problem. Anyone got an easy solution for me???]

The third rose that’s blooming in the back is the pink beauty by the patio door. Her coloring is so pretty, clear, and bright, but not flashy or egocentric as some rose colors are.

 She’s just pretty, don’t you think?

Oh, and you’re right — new header photo!! It’s the water of Birch Bay, in northern Washington, and the rocks beneath.

Yeah — next blog post; it’s already begun but then I ran out of words.

I think this is the prettiest this planting bed has ever looked. It’s as close to my imagined garden as ever, for sure. Maybe even it’s as close as possible to my dream garden.

It’s so full.

It’s lush, blooming, crowded, even. And there are buds still to open in the back, to the eastern edge, and in front of/underneath the pink Breath of Heaven.

So despite my grumps at the length of the overcast/chilly/rainy season we had in Northern California this year, I must admit there are wonderful benefits of that rain. And the gloom of January, February, March, April, May and the first week of June is now producing  joyful blossoms, and lots of both joy and flowers!

Here are some details for you:

On the eastern edge of the planting bed, just before the everlasting junipers take over, is this little picture. What gorgeous color in these little beauties pops out of the pittosporum background and greys of the rocks in front of them.

What bulb is producing those thick spears?? Can’t remember!

It’s so fun to keep checking every morning to see if blooms will reveal what we planted there a couple of years ago!

Moving backward from those little purple cuties, alongside the pittosporum are these giants. They’re nearly waist-high! I think they’re dahlias, but maybe not.

But they’ve got buds — these giants have buds! I know the flowers have got to be huge, because look at what strong stems & leafy support they require! Here’s what the buds looked like yesterday evening. Isn’t it exciting?

If you know for sure what these are from the photos, will you please let me know in the comments? 

In the first photo of the Giants, you can see the remaining Mexican Primroses, whose foliage is turning the reddish rusty orange color I don’t like. Earlier this week I got a little destructo-minded and pulled out a bunch of them. They spread like crazy so I know I’m only getting rid of them for the time being.

I love the Japanese Boxwoods which serve as the backdrop for the planting bed! Lots of the time, people shave these shrubs into strict shapes, like kids who use their crayon to outline everything they color, and then they MUST stay inside the lines.  I love the way John trims the boxwoods every year so they don’t look boxy at all, but spread and expand as they’d like to. When a breeze catches them, and the giants, and the primroses, and the pink breath of heaven … it makes me want to upgrade my blog to include video!!

Now back up and go back to the front, by the rocks and the little purple beauties — a cosmo is popping up! I thought all of those died out last fall — and yet, here’s one a-blooming, which the breeze blew into my shot of whatever bulb is sending up its thick spears.  I love the way the cosmo waves in the breeze, too.

Aren’t these the prettiest geraniums ever? They’re mildly frilly, yes, but not too much. They are  determined. Their strong, clear colors remind me of peppermint sticks. There are two of them in the front planting bed, and another on in front of the side yard fence, next to the other purple petunias. This is the most flowering I’ve ever seen them do, and they’ve been going strong for a month!

Toward the street from those beautiful peppermint geraniums, though, are the current stars of the garden. These drifts of yellow and purple mums have burst open in the last week. They had been low green shrubs, plumping each day for several weeks, then they were suddenly, it seemed, covered with tiny buds. Then the purple ones started to open, and the next day the yellow ones started to open, and now there’s a beautiful swath of each color drawing eyes from the front toward those pretty geraniums.

Hiding among them, though, is a delicate shy beauty: the light pinkish-purple calla. It’s not lavender, and it isn’t lilac colored, either. Here it is — isn’t it just lovely? For a couple of weeks now its shoots have been snuggling up to the sturdy mum shrubs to its west and south. Then earlier this week, it raised its delicate head and smiled. Isn’t it sweet the way this one modestly turns away from the street, facing into the shrub behind it? It has sisters who aren’t quite as shy over a few inches, which I’ll show you later.

These tall puffy globes of color were HUGE last year, and I cut them way back in the winter. Their stems near the ground are woody and follow the ground for several inches, and then loom upwards. The puffy balls of petals open all at once, after the stems have grown as tall as they’ll be. Then the buds grow and sway and sometimes bend with the concentrated weight of all the flowery goodness. Until they seem to pop open, exploding out all the thin petals in a globe.

Last year, it was mostly white blooms, but this year so far we’ve got mostly these gorgeous deep purple blooms. They’re tall, obviously, and move wonderfully in the breeze, and seem to hide some of the garden from the street. I like that, and it brings movement out near the rocks and sidewalk and street.

Here’s the photo of the week, of the beautiful calla sisters. They remind me of Greek sculpture.

Instead, it was pleasant, mostly grey at Oceanside the week before Easter.

For the 32nd anniversary of our wedding.

And yes, it’s true. This isn’t the December anniversary of our marriage but the April anniversary of our wedding. John likes to call it our 64th anniversary. The people who are listening look at us funny when he does that.

Since it’s so near Easter, you might expect we two teachers often enjoy a break from work on our anniversary. Not so. John’s school doesn’t do “Easter Break” but “Mayfair Break,” because their school is housed on the Dixon Mayfair grounds. So they must vacate every mid-April so the Mayfair can get set up & run. The school opens back up in mid-May once the Mayfair is over & cleaned up. But my school’s Easter Break is connected to Easter. So, when Easter is early, we are back in school when John’s Mayfair Break happens. But it’s rare when our break coincide. This year, happily, they did!

We rented a vehicle, and it happened to be a Mazda 5, which we really enjoyed a lot. Lots of space, comfortable, and zippy. We were hoping for lots of warm sun, which makes the Southern California beach that much more appealing. Despite the clouds & chill, it was a wonderful break and good to get away from things we usually see. Isn’t it strange how seeing new things helps adjust your thinking about old things, too?

The weather or the date made for not-very-crowded beaches. So it was less embarrassing to walk slowly and take pictures of birds.

But they were visited by a bee, or maybe several bees, who casually picked up those blossoms’ yellow pollen, then continued going about their own business. The bees weren’t thinking about apples, were they? I think they were focused on their own tasks: locating yumminess for the ones they were responsible for, back home in the hive.

Which, by the way, might be in our attic.

These dive-bombing bumblebees, huge and heavy-looking in the air as they hover or circle me when I invade their territory, these bees find other Granny Smith blossoms, go back and forth, blossom to blossom, just hunting and gathering.

Or maybe they buzz and zoom over to the Gravenstein blossoms, and then back to the Granny Smith.

But this is the wonderful result — these swells on the twigs, with the dried-out remnants of the frilly white blossoms sticking on the end. This trio of apples beginning. Just three Saturdays ago these swells weren’t even visible — the blossoms were still full, showing off their pollen to whichever bee wandered by.

We were away a week, enjoying our anniversary and a once-ever break at the same time in spring. And in the yard apples were beginning.

 Hands down.

And their blossoms are sweet-smelling and pretty, just a blush of pink on their frilly whiteness.

On those rough and gnarled grey branches, these girlish blossoms — so fun!

Now, these guys — not blushing or sweet. These freesias are a little top-heavy; they remind me of those ladies who wear gaudy mu-mus to the grocery store in Florida.

I love the yellow in the center of the magenta ones. These are the freesias under the studio window, near the red rose bush.

Which is also aware that it is spring.

The azaleas in the back have thought it was spring for more than a month.

 The promises are being fulfilled on these two bushes this year. Every branch tip has a nice bunch of sweet blossoms; some of the blossoms are opened, others are just buds still. Put your face near them, and the fragrance is sweet, but step back and it’s barely noticeable, not overpowering. After so many years of no blooms, these lilacs are such a delight! I find myself having to purposefully take my foot up off the accelerator and stay on the speed limit when I get close to our exit from the freeway: I want to get home and see the lilacs. We had such a sunny couple of days that I knew it was going to be good, and I could leave school early enough today for some good afternoon light.  Here they are again, and they’re so pretty and so many!!

I really like how the light plays on the leaves and the blossoms, but it was not easy to get my shadow out of the way. Then I kept breathing or something, and the camera would shift and I’d lose the shot.

But finally here are some pictures of the wonderful lilacs in our back yard. You can just barely see the “mellow yellow”, too, on the right. They were loaded with tiny white flowers about a month ago, changing the shape of the plant into almost a weeping willow form — the flowers were so heavy and full along the branches.

Ah, and I bet you’re wondering about the freesia. Well, here they are, filled out but still leaning on the rose bush.  It surprises me, and I really notice the shape of the flower delivery system on this stalk. It reminds me of a Dr. Seuss plant in one of his books, but I can’t place it, exactly.

And I know you want a close up of those delicate petals, and so here you are:

And isn’t the shading wonderful — the way the yellow brightens and deepens. The curve and spread of the petals is just gorgeous.

And don’t even get me started on the pink Breath of Heaven in the front. It’s beginning to look loaded, too.