Welcome the Tiger

Welcome the Tiger

The Chinese Year of the Tiger arrived February 14 this year.  We made reservations to celebrate at Wong's King Seafood (www.wongsking.com) in Portland, a restaurant we had learned about from Bonnie, whose cousin is the manager.  The flyer promised pastries and wine tasting, lion dance, cooking show, and nine course dinner.  We had been impressed by the dim sum and looked forward to a sumptuous feast.

We were greeted by uniformed wait staff, of course, and carved fruit promising marvels to come.

Musicians played while we talked with others at our table and after some delay, local club members in lion costumes danced through the hall to the beat of drums.

During the cooking show, Martin Yan (of the "Yan Can Cook" PBS TV show) demonstrated remarkable carving technique and explained pasta spinning, a skill I think I won't develop.

Entertaining as it was, we were ready for the first course, the Five Happiness Cold Cuts, smoking on dry ice: lotus root, vegetarian goose, marinated cucumbers and tomatoes. It was yummy, as was the Tai Chi pumpkin and spinach soup arranged as yin and yang in a single bowl.

Then came the Crispy Lucky Dragon Fruit Roll, a seafood and fruit paste deep fat fried with a dribbled fruit sauce.

Even better was the carved vegetable dragon--which looked delectable but which we did not get to taste.

Then came prawns, one each, alas, and absolutely yummy scallops atop an egg tofu custard, again, alas, one each.

After that came the Peking style steak folded into a steamed pancake-like bun, smoked sea bass from Chile, a mixed seafood fried rice in a stone wok, finishing with pastries.  

By this time, some diners had worn out and left, but Deb, convinced by the occasion and the food, purchased Martin Yan's China, the "companion volume to the Public Television series."  Yan inscribed the title page in almost illegible script, "To Debbie a most gracious [unreadable], wonderful lady, & a fabulous cook."

An evening to remember.

Coast Run 09

Monday after winter solstice dawned cold and foggy; understanding weather patterns in Oregon, we decided to see if any whales were close in and to warm up with the best fish and chips on the coast.

After the first hill in the coast range, the fog disappeared, the sun dried the pavement, and we had the road pretty much to ourselves.  An hour later we headed down the hill into Newport under a bright sun and balmy sky.

We headed north and turned into Yaquina Head, a high point of land jutting into the Pacific that we had not visited since a parking fee was instituted 20 some years ago.

Surprise, my Golden Age Passport got us in free.  We skipped the Informational Center and drove straight to the lighthouse.  Second surprise, unlike years ago the light house was open.  We climbed 114 cast iron steps to the light.

 The lookout at 93 feet is the tallest on the Oregon coast, the light can be seen 19 miles out to sea.

Once an oil light, it is now electric, some 130,000 candlepower, with a unique pattern: 2 seconds on, 2 seconds off, 2 seconds on, 14 seconds off.  The view through the windows at the top is sweet.

We wandered the headland, watched gulls, looked for spouts but were told by a docent that the whales were 20 miles out, probably enjoying the fine weather too.

We stopped at the visitor's center and looked at a model of the lighthouse.

Then on to South Beach Deli, scallops and chips.  Yum.

December Morning

The weather has been clear and cold in the Willamette valley, 20s at night with frosty mornings.  Unusual for Oregon, a pleasant change from the rain but it makes feeding and watering animals more time consuming.  This morning, an eagle circled some hundred yards overhead, higher than the eagle some years ago that soared thirty feet over the barn peak, then turned east toward the river.  Today's eagle stayed in a holding pattern over the pasture next to the barn long enough for me to get the Leica.

In Memoriam

Lilliputia
1992/3—2009

Prior to 1992, all the animals on the ranch were outdoor—cattle, horses, sometimes sheep, chickens, turkeys, geese, dogs, cats. There were shelters: barns, sheds, coops, dog houses. The yard and fields were fenced to keep home animals in, visitors out. The chickens stopped free ranging, however, after a vixen decimated the flock to feed her kits. Foxes climb trees and can jump some ten feet straight up to catch roosting birds. In two weeks she took every hen—first the larger, one each night, then the small until none were left. We caught an occasional glimpse, a tufted tail, a red flash of fur. I found feathers at the entrance to her lair in a blackberry bramble at the far end of one of the pastures. An enclosed yard—cinder blocks and wood around the bottom, chicken-wire walls and roof—has protected the flock since.

Kittens were born in the barn, in the loft in hay, sometimes in unused mangers, and when mother cat deemed them mature enough, she brought them to the back deck where we provided food beyond mother’s milk and mice, shrews, snakes and other bounty she provided. They grew and prospered, following the mother into the fields, learning the ways of free cats everywhere. When they were old enough, most were given away, a few stayed to keep the line alive. All were descended from an ur-mother, an orange tabby, a gift when I first moved in, who captured her first mouse before she was three months old, earning the name Mousetrap (Mouser or Mouse for short), who lived to old age outdoors, disappeared for a month or so and then reappeared to die and is now buried under the semidwarf apple tree beside the deck. In ’92 or ‘3, however, we moved a Neo mastiff pup into the yard who got along fine with all the resident adult cats—she chased off any strays who tried to move in—but who, for reasons I could never fathom, and whose attitude I never managed to change, would not tolerate kittens. After we found them cowering under the deck, to save their lives, we brought into the house Lilliputia and her brother, Buddy. In the years since, they left only to go to the vet’s, except once—Bud found his way outdoors and to escape the terrors spent the night hiding in the cottonwood as high as he could climb.

Lily thrived in the house, played with Bud and slept in the big bed. Whenever she felt especially affectionate or needy, she climbed onto a chest, usually 2 or 3 in the morning, and made dough on a neck or chin, purring furiously, a trick of her ur-mother, whom she greatly resembled.

A few years ago, the vet diagnosed a growth on her thyroid, suggested injecting radioactive iodine and sequestering her feces for three months to allow for the degradation of the radioactivity. Despite the fearful trip to the one of two vets in the state specializing in this procedure, she returned much as before except she acted older, no longer the kitten she had seemed for so long.
She slept more but was as affectionate as ever. She and Buddy often lay together in Deb’s chair or in the font. Then the vet found a mass in her lower abdomen.

Chemo followed, but over the months, the mass continued to grow. We discussed options. A biopsy was tried, twice, without success. She was not in pain, but she clearly was not doing well. Then one Sunday, this October, she began to stumble on her rear legs. The vet came to the house and we discussed quality of life while Lily lay on the big bed and we petted her. An injection of a tranquilizer hardly seemed needed, but the vet assured us it would help calm any fears Lily might have. Then an intravenous injection and Lily’s heart stopped.

Lilliputia is now in the raised bed by the pool. In the spring we will plant flowers.

Musical Interlude

Before summer draws to a close, the Art & Air Show starts in Albany. The first night we listened to Curtis Salgado do his usual fine work.

During the break in Curtis’s concert, the “Night Glow” lit a series of hot air balloons to our delight.


The next day we returned, staked out our location across from the main stage, and wandered around looking at the arts & craps booths, ate fair food, enjoyed the ambiance, and waited for

the main attraction—for us—Creedence Clearwater Revisited.

Stu Cook and Doug "Cosmo" Clifford (Rock and Roll Hall of Fame bass and drums from CCR) launched Creedence Clearwater Revisited in 1995 to perform CC Revival hits. Though they planned to play only private parties, the band now performs 100 shows a year and has released the album "Recollection."



For almost two hours, they played hit after hit from the CCR days, every one familiar. Clearly they were having fun; we certainly did.

September First we drove to Salem for Deb’s pre-op orientation, ate lovely Southern barbeque at Adam’s Rib and then went to the Oregon State Fair to take in the sights, sounds, and smells.

All the usual suspects were there, although signs warned of special precautions around the piggers: “do not touch, remain a safe distance, stay away if suffering from a cold or flu, wash hands before and after.”

Although we love the fair, the reason we picked this day was the main attraction, scheduled for the evening in the amphitheater: the Doobie Brothers. At 8 p.m., they started with old hits, interspersed a few new ones, and kept much of the audience on their feet much of the time.

At 9:15, they walked off the stage to shouts and applause, then a minute later, returned to play two more numbers, finished by throwing drumsticks and guitar picks into the audience. Deb snagged a plastic pick.




















We threaded our way out through the carnival. Overhead, the almost-full moon was shadowed by Mars in its closest position to earth in at least 5,000 years, not to return so near for perhaps another 50,000.

Belize & Tikal 2009

We arrived at the Belize City airport at 10 a.m. March 14 and about an hour later Laurel and family arrived.We rented a seven-passenger SUV, loaded luggage, kids and grandkids, and drove the four hours or so to Hopkins, a village on the south coast where we had reservations at Hopkins Inn.

Deb and I took the large Cabaña with Maren and Matthew; Laurel and Dave took the smaller. Each morning we ate fresh local fruit on the veranda of the large cabaña and watched the Caribbean lap the sand.
After recovering from the flight, we drove to the nearby Jaguar preserve in Cockscomb Basin to hike trails. We didn’t really expect to see any big cats, but we did find a track in the mud, proving to me, at least, that cats do cross the road.
We also explored the wreck of a plane used in the study of the big cats before a storm brought it down.
We drove several hours south to Nim Li Punit (fl. C.E. 700-800), and Lubaantun (730-890), Mayan sites off the Southern Highway, and had them pretty much to ourselves.

At both sites, Mayan men were clearing jungle and building shelters and women were making and selling souvenirs. We wandered through the ball court and other structures at Nim Li Punit and then lunched on the veranda of a restaurant: iguana stewed in a cilantro sauce with hard boiled iguana eggs—the shells are leathery rather than hard, taste like chicken eggs (no kidding) —while in the shrubbery iguana (called bamboo chicken locally) looked on and hummingbirds flittered among the flowers.
Lubaantun is interesting among Mayan sites for its ceramic figurine whistles, and for the crystal skull found there in 1926 (now thought planted for publicity reasons) but recently made famous again, this time by the Harrison Ford movie.

I had engaged Marcos Cucul, who spent ten years training British troops in jungle survival, to guide us to Xibalba; we met on the Hummingbird Highway, about an hour and a half north of Hopkins, transferred to his SUV and drove another 45 minutes or so on back roads through orange groves to a put-in point on Caves Branch river. We spent the day kayaking through caves with one “easy portage”—Marcos’ words—up a mud bank and a quarter mile through the jungle around a point where the river dropped through a hole; the next day we hiked into St. Herman’s Cave to see more formations and artifacts—sacrifices to the gods of Xibalba by the Classical Mayas— enough to whet the appetite, so following Marcos’ advice, we arranged with Elias Cambranes to guide us to Tikal in Guatemala.

On the way, we stopped at Belize Zoo, 29 acres of jungle fenced into enclosures with paths between, the only chance most, Belizean and tourist alike, have to see the iconic big ones. For US$10 each, we were let into a cage within the jaguar enclosure, and Junior, a two-year-old born at the zoo to a cattle-killing mother, was lured near with offerings of chicken feet. Keepers had handled him for his first three months, but said that he grew too big—look at those teeth—so most of the work they do with him now is through the fence, but Junior is still tame enough that we could touch his fur and feet through the mesh.




Other exhibits were as fascinating: a Jabiru stork, toucan, tapir, and most impressive, a Harpy eagle, more than three feet in height with a wing span exceeding six feet. On our way out, we met a keeper with a boa we could handle, and Maren did.

The next day in a minivan with four other tourists and our guide, we bounced for about two hours on the gravel highway through several villages without electricity or water to the Tikal archeological site. Photos hardly begin to convey the experience, starting with the ceiba, the “World Tree” that so impressed the Maya, they recorded that it held together heaven, earth, and underworld.

Paths led through the jungle to plazas with structures familiar but still a surprise. I expected crowds but the area is extensive enough that except for the climb up some of the monuments, individuals disappeared.
Our guide led us from major site to site, but left us to savor for ourselves what we wished. We walked, climbed, explored, photographed, rested, then did it again.






The climb to the top of several of the temples is now done via steep wooden steps to protect the stone from the myriad shoes but the view has not changed. In the plaza, New Age practitioners sought enlightenment, while almost tame coatimundi sought handouts. It was time for us to leave.

Originally, Deb and I had planned to ride to Belmopan with the kids on their way to their flight home, but tourists raved so much about ATM cave we decided to stay an extra day to explore it. The next morning, we bid the kids goodbye and waited for our guide, who, through a mix-up, showed up late, making our trip the last of the day, with only two other people and our two guides. ATM cave (officially Actun Tunichil Muknal) was identified only in 1989, opened to guided tours in ’98. The cave has been explored some five kilometers, includes limestone formations, countless artifacts—some 1400 catalogued: pottery, tools, and ceremonial items dating from 1 to 1000 C.E.

It lies a 45-minute trek through jungle that includes wading three streams; then the fun begins. We swam fully clothed and shod through the opening to get to the trail within, then waded on slippery rocks in the stream and swam again in spots too deep to wade, squeezed around boulders, climbed a ladder to a cliff's edge, all by helmet light.

The goal was several vast chambers littered with artifacts and the remains of some 14 humans: seven adults and seven children.

We removed our shoes and proceeded in stocking feet to protect the calcite surface. We were told that the artifacts remained as they had been left, and given the thickness of calcification on many, I don’t doubt the claim.












The artifacts are as impressive as the temples above ground; imagine: for some thousand years individuals with only fire to light the way

struggled as we did into this “Place of Fear” (one translation of Xibalba) to perform rites to the gods of the underworld.
That night we stayed in a tree house at Parrot Nest, a B & B outside San Ignacio, then next day headed south on a series of crowded bus rides.

In Dangriga waiting for the Hopkins bus, we discovered French fried cassava, a yummy snack.

We met up with Catherine, who lived in Belize for some years and has a lovely modern house. We hiked in the newly established Mayflower National Park to Antelope Falls on a hot, humid day that almost did us in. We drove south to Sittee River, took a catamaran to the barrier reef to snorkel. On the way out, Deb trolled and caught a small barracuda which was cooked and served as one of the unending snacks provided. We stopped at Wee Wee Caye, identified as having the highest concentration of boa constrictors in Belize, and actually found one.

On the way back, Deb convinced me to hang a rod over, and we both at the same time hooked jacks, played and landed them. We took fillets to a local restaurant for supper and left the rest for the crew.

Most restaurants in Hopkins are little more than the front room in a private house and are limited by the local source of most food and by Garifuna culture. Dishes offered primarily are stewed chicken or pork with beans and rice, and sea food when caught. One evening, when I asked for a Garifuna meal, the owner/cook offered to make hudulu, which included a condiment made from mashing green and ripe plantains in a mortar as has been done for generations. Like most of the meals we ate in Hopkins, it was plain but delicious.

On our last evening in Hopkins, we visited the Lebeha Drumming Center, where village youth learn to drum, sing, and dance in the Garifuna way. They have a CD, and, wonders of modern life, a web site. The mood is casual, and Deb was welcomed for a set.

Then on the advice of Catherine and Rita, the next day we boarded a 14-passenger Cessna for hops to Belize City and Caye Caulker, one of the more laid-back islands inside the barrier reef, 4 to 5 miles long (sources differ) by a quarter mile at its widest, permanent population about 1300.

No point on the island is more than 8 feet above mean sea level, the streets are sand, transportation is by foot, bicycle, and golf-cart taxi.






Deb was for more snorkeling, I wanted to see manatees: the island is primed for our wishes. We engage a guide with boat and head out for the manatee reserve, where we (and two other boats) find a beast lolling in shallow water off a mangrove swamp. Viewing manatees in the water is like watching whales, you don’t see much: every five to seven minutes the beast rises for air for a moment or two, then sinks down again.

When the tourists tire of the sport, we race off for snorkeling waters near the Smithsonian’s reef study station on Carrie Bow Cay.


After half an hour or so, we up anchor and race by other islands, stop on one not much bigger than our living room where Deb finds a nice horse conch, then race off for more snorkeling.

Even I get into the water, floating on the surface fifteen to twenty feet over coral outcrops, angel fish, a stingray half hidden in the sand. Deb would be happy to stay, but the tropical sun is strong (she burned her back in an interesting swimsuit pattern) and the rest are ready to quit. We return to Caulker and on the split at the Lazy Lizard, where for Belize $5 you get two hefty rum punches, we watch the sun set.

In the morning, the water taxi is a 45 minute ride to Belize City where we get a balcony room at the Mopan, a British colonial era hotel. We had been warned about the dangers of the city, population 70,000 (the entire country is about 300,000) but we found it a typical tropical port, colonial buildings now museums and galleries, stores full of cheap stuff.

The Museum of Belize, in the city’s former prison, has a collection of Mayan artifacts but the most important, such as the Jade mask found at Altun Ha, are elsewhere. The streets, however, are full of interesting sights: markets and crowds, manikins shaped like African women rather than waifs, a chemist named Usher licensed to sell poisons.



A taxi driver, when he learned we wanted to eat local, takes us to Mary’s, a two-story bar, restaurant, and night club, where I discover gibnut, a Belizean delicacy fed to the Queen when she visited, giving rise to British headlines about the “Royal Rat.” It was stewed, served with beans and rice, tastes like dark pork.

Despite Deb’s efforts, we couldn’t hold back the sun: back to the airport and home. It was a trip to savor.