It's Lifting

It’s Lifting


“It rained from Seattle to Mount Vernon, all the way. Don says it’s supposed to rain the rest of the week,” said Sandra as she got out of the car. “This is just a sprinkle. I think it’s lifting.”
Don said, “I’m coming, and I’m settling in. Does our room have a phone – you’ve got DSL I hope. I’ll be doing some business. The furniture will be here in a week. ”
“That line is so old. Furniture? That would be your roll-away bed from home. Judging by the interval since you last told me that, delivery will be in about thirty years.”
“I’m here. I almost missed you when you came to visit us in Durango. That cross country deal on your way to visit your real friends, when you couldn’t find a motel; you ambushed us, stayed over night—ten hours. It doesn’t count, Walker. You owe us a real visit.”
Pinky came out and there were hugs all around.
“Was it ’68…in San Francisco?” I asked.
“It was ’69, at Hamilton Air Force Base,” Sandra replied
“That was no joke,” Don said. “I told Sandra, ‘he’s sitting there by himself. We’ve got to go out there.’”
“That’s right,” Pinky said. “I was back in Denver with the baby. You guys put him on the plane to Viet Nam.” Straining for a quip, I was stopped in my tracks. I remembered that terrible hot afternoon, and how good it was to have their company. And for a moment I had a sense of loss—30 years of lost opportunities to play with my friends.
“I remember San Francisco in 1968,” I said, “We were eating Colonel Sanders chicken with you guys in our apartment. We were going to see “The Graduate”. ‘I’m not doing it,’ Don had said. ‘We’re not taking a baby to that movie. They’ll make us put him to sleep. We’ll have to sit in the john, mute the crying with a popcorn bucket over his head.’”
“I remember,” Don said.
“Well you haven’t changed all that much.”
And he hadn’t. Our banter continued, and San Francisco was yesterday.
Throughout the night we caught up in parallel, all talking at once, about: biking (all of us) teaching, swimming, reading, parenting (Sandra and Pinky), grand parenting (Pinky), grown up children (physics, computers, medicine for us), professional bicycling (their son), acting(their daughter), triathlons (our youngest son), masters competition swimming (Pinky) and mountain biking (Don), winning masters titles (Pinky, Don), photography, retirement and website development (me), Coca Cola business (Don), writing (Sandra and I), whale watching (Sandra and the newspaper).
When we said good night, I closed our bedroom door and Pinky asked, “Where should we ride tomorrow?”
“Somewhere along the water – it’s what we have that they don’t. Whidbey or Camano Island maybe.”
“Water would be good. Those are too long. What about Guemes?”
“Maybe. Lummi Island is prettier, and it’s shorter. The ferry is cooler too. They have reef net salmon fishing and all of those artists.”
“Guemes Island is just as good. But I do love that restaurant in the yellow house.
The next morning it was raining. The group made a list: sea kayaking, a car trip-ferry ride, a bicycle tour, and a boys’ mountain bike ride - girls’ bookstore trip.
“Today’s forecast is ‘intermittent rain’. We could ride a ferry to Friday Harbor, drive around in the car, look for killer whales, and stay out of the rain for sure. Or, there is a bike loop tour of Lummi Island that requires a twenty minute ferry ride. There are two good restaurants, one on each side of the loop.”
“Remember, I’m not the bicycling champion. How long is this ride?” asked Sandra.
“You have been burned too, haven’t you?” asked Pinky. “’Ride ‘til she’s cried’, that’s Duff’s motto.”
“This route is actually Pinky’s. The basic north loop is six miles, a second loop to the south is seven miles,” I said. “Don and I could add yet another seven mile “out and back” hilly segment further south, up the mountain. If we want more, there is a twenty mile loop through the Lummi reservation on the mainland side.”
“Who said anything about all those ‘extensions’? Don’t you try to suck her in,” Pinky said
“Can we do the first six miles and assess?” asked Sandra.
“Yep,” I said.
She looked at Don, the question on her face. He nodded up and down.
“It isn’t raining right now. Let’s do the bike ride,” she said, and continued brightly, “I think it’s lifting.”
“Okay, let’s go to the garage and find you a bike, Sandra,” I said
I looked outside at the gentle rain, the puddles and the dripping roof as the garage door opener was raising the door, and we started laughing. Sandra’s optimism flying in the face of fact put us in motion. I started getting bikes ready and on to the car’s bike rack.
The two Treks were carbon fiber and only five years old. The other two were heavy quality bikes, top of the line twenty years ago. “Not as bad as the mountain bikes, but it’s the same deal, Walker –conspicuous under-consumption,” Don said as he examined the road bikes. “Which one is Pinky’s?”
I pointed to the Trek 2200. He nodded at the Trek 5000.
“It’s yours,” I replied.
“I’m not doing that. I get to be the ‘guide’ at my house. Change the pedals, try on the shoes, raise the seat, adjust the handle bars, then change the racks, on and on. Have somebody ride your bike and it takes a week to get it right again. I’m not riding your bike.”
He selected Pinky’s old bike. We did all of the needed bike adjustments, etc. in about thirty minutes. The bikes were all too large for Sandra. But a folding Bike Friday seemed to do the trick. We put wheels on, adjusted the seat, and changed the pedals.
“Give it the test,” I said.
Sandra accelerated down the steep driveway and turned right, up the hill to the middle of our block. She got a little shaky as she shifted to a lower gear and slowly climbed, weaving slightly to keep her balance at slow speed. She turned around and started back down. As she accelerated she gained confidence from the better balance the speed gave her. She had a broad smile. She was cruising, wind in her hair. She gave the pedals a final crank. She realized that she was going fast, probably too fast to make the turn up our drive way. Her smile dissolved into a frown as she squeezed the brake levers. The bike seemed to accelerate. The frown exploded into a wide eyed white face of terror. She was brakeless, her front tire rocketing toward the center of the grill of their parked Malibu rental. She made the last ditch emergency skidding turn up the driveway. With each foot the bike ascended, it slowed and Sandra’s face relaxed back to the frown, then back to a smile composure and restraint as the bike came to rest at the top of the driveway. She gracefully dismounted as if she were the queen of England.
“We always test the less experienced riders. You were spectacular,” I said laughing sheepishly as I tightened the brake releases that I had forgotten to fasten.
“It was exciting,” Sandra replied, unruffled.
The mist was translucent, but we couldn’t see the houses across the street.
“Should we load up?” I asked Pinky
Sandra answered, “It’s just fog now. It’s lifting.” We started the cars and headed for Lummi Island.
The ferry dock at Gooseberry Point is showed its heavy timbers, gray from weather. It has a small bus stop type shelter, three walls of plywood, and no other building or terminal. We were expecting the Whatcom Chief, the 94 foot 78 ton county ferry that can carry 100 passengers and 18 vehicles or 50.000 lbs across the 0.9 mile five minute crossing. Our fare was one dollar each round trip, collected aboard during the crossing to the island. Ridership has increased by 20% since 1991. Two to three weeks of dry dock maintenance is performed yearly, and a walk on ferry provides service. That walk on ferry was in use for our trip and we lifted the bikes to the crew member on the foredeck as we passed to the stern to board. There were no rain drops and the clouds were high enough that we could see Lummi Peak on the island to the south.
“I told you that it was lifting,” said Sandra.
A misty rain fell lightly as we crossed on the Whatcom Chief. On the Lummi Island side, there is a small terminal…a roof and restroom for ferry patrons with a bike rack buried in a chaotic pile of rusty bicycles, typical island bicycles. A similarly rusty Volvo station wagon was parked behind. The terminal is the beginning. On an island, everybody is a ferry patron. You inevitably meet your neighbors there and realize you are dependent on that ferry…also on each other. That mile of water makes a community.
We were clearly “off-island” tourists dressed in cameras and bright bicycle clothing. We turned right on Nugent Rd. About ¼ mi. up the road at the Beach Store Café, we conferred while Pinky went in to check the hours. I was extolling absences…no camp sites, no RVs, no state parks. “The most conspicuous commercial activity is related to the organic farm, Nettles Farm, whose owners bought the Willows Inn B&B, the associated restaurant Willows Inn Dining and its pub/cafe, the Taproot Inn. I think that they also run this cafe too,” I said playing the guide. “All are quality places.”
It was low tide because we could see Portage Island connected to the mainland by a spit, blocking our view of Bellingham and its bay. We had decided to ride then eat. After all, it had lifted, and we could take advantage of the weather.
“The Beach Store Cafe is my favorite place. They still have the seafood chowder and the fish tacos and they are open until 9 pm.,” Pinky said.
“We did this ride last year on Labor Day when they had the Artist’s Tour.”
“We visited six or seven studios, talked to the artists about their work,” said Pinky.
“They have it Memorial Day too, I think. There are twenty or thirty artists tucked away. They’re on every road around this island.”
“Sculpture, painting, jewelry, cards, wind sculpture, handmade paper, baskets, glass. They do it all here.” While Pinky was inside, Don and I reconnoitered and found theBoys and Girls Club behind the restaurant, the Lummi Grange next door, the post office and an observation deck across the street.
We mounted up and rode. Some houses were closed up for the winter, but the Year-‘rounders were in the majority. There was quite a bit of new construction, pretty fancy places. We saw ornate bird houses, clever mail boxes, sculptures in yards. Island people took time to do projects with thoughts that aren’t permitted to ride the brain waves in a busy city mind. We heard a yell from behind. Don was off the bike working with the chain. I had forgotten to tell him that the chain was minus a few links and too short to be on the large ring of both the front and back sprockets. But that’s exactly where the chain was, so taut that it was difficult to pedal and could not be shifted. My heart sunk. I had forgotten the wrench to take the axle off. One of us could be spending a few hours reading newspapers at that restaurant.
“You might be an okay mechanic, but your maintenance sucks, Walker.”
“Mapel, you cross chained. If you want a low gear, what are you doing on the big chain ring in front?”
“Walker, you could take twenty of those doctor-bucks and buy yourself a whole new chain that’s the right size. If we poor guests are lucky, you’ll at least splice in three links you scam from your bike shop.”
Then I had to tell him we couldn’t take the axle off.
“No quick release axle?” he asked. “Why?”
“I’m big and fat, and I was tired of broken spokes so I got a tandem wheel… more and bigger spokes, but solid axle.”
“I recommend a diet and a quick release.”
I knew that he was going to get to this line when I first saw that taut chain. Pop! He was able to derail the chain by hand. He turned the crank, and it worked…no bent links. We were on the road again, chasing after our wives. We rehashed Lance’s Tour de France victory and he told me that Bob Roll, the loose cannon announcer with the upper incisor gap, lived in Durango. Don had done some riding with him, “hang on by your fingernails” thirty miles an hour, type of riding. Don has been a mountain bike racer but rides the Iron Horse race from Durango to Silverton. His favorite tour rider is Miguel Indurain, the Spaniard who shunned the media, and let his bicycling do all of his talking. I asked Don about his racing and, he became evasive. “Don’t give me that reverse braggadocio”, I said.
“Okay, I won a little local mountain bike race a year ago… a field of two riders in the “over 60” division,” he submitted.
“And you were just a ‘walk on’ because you gave sponsor money?” I asked wryly.
“You got it,” he replied boisterously. (Later, I checked national mountain bike race results. Racing license #22428, 8/14/02—first place, exp master 55-59 division, Durango, CO.)
Several cars passed us going each way, unhurried, cruising at 25 mph, assured that there is not far to go. Almost to a person, drivers waved. All gave us wide berth. We caught up to Sandra and Pinky and slowed.
“It is so green here,” said Sandra.
“There has been more rain since we got here than we got all summer in Durango,” Don added. “Is that Canada?” he asked pointing.
“It’s Birch Bay—a big recreational area with a state park,” I replied.
We rounded the northern tip of the island and continued south along the high bank waterfront on the West side of the island. We looked out at the San Juan Islands, Orcas Island, and Matia in front of Sucia. We began a slow climb. “Check the three story house on the right. It’s right on the beach. The entry,” I pointed, “is right here off the road, onto the top floor.”
He looked. “’On the water’...that’s more like ‘in the water’.”
We crested and started down. We stopped about two thirds of the way down the hill at the Willows Inn B&B.
“We take a trip with a few other couples every spring. We came here to The Willows B&B last year. It was great. One of the couples in our group is an organic farm family. It was fun to visit Nettles Farm with professional friends,” I said.
“Down the bank here, there is a great beach walk, miles of it quiet and peaceful. Watching the waves…it’s like watching a campfire. You might find crab and oyster shells dropped on the rocks by gulls to crack into a meal or children’s shoes discarded in favor of bare feet.”
“Look up the hill. There’s a bunch of houses crowded together. It looks like, Daly City,” Don said.
“Yeah. We’ll be back in the country in a quarter mile.”
“The island is a great circumference kayak paddle. It’s also a good launching spot for touring the rest of the San Juans, but it is really hard to find a place to park your car for more than a few hours. You’ll see all the ‘private beach’ signs,” said Pinky
As we pedaled south, the closest islands Clark and the tiny Sister Islands came into view obscuring all but the tip of Barnes behind. Then we descended and pedaled along the beach around Legoe Bay.
“See the pairs of boats with the towers sticking up?” I asked.
“Yeah. Are they for fishing?” Don asked.
“Reef net fishing. They anchor a funnel made of ropes with green ribbons attached. It simulates a reef that the fish follow into a net between the two boats. On an incoming tide, they watch from the towers with Polaroid glasses. When they have salmon between the boats, they haul the net. They winch it up quickly to make a pocket that traps the fish. The boats pull together, and they pull the pocket onto a lowered section of the deck. They sort the fish, return the unwanted overboard, and dump the keepers into the live tank (made of netting that hangs down through an opening in the middle of the hull into the sea). It is the oldest net fishing, a Native American invention.”
“Is there a season now?” Don asked.
“I think so. I saw reef net salmon on that menu,” Pinky said.”
“What is special about reef net salmon?” asked Sandra.
“They’re fresher because they’re alive longer – stored in that “live tank” until the buyer comes,” Pinky replied
We continued on along Legoe Bay riding in a misty rain. There are some condos, a marine repair shop, and houses of some Lummi Indian fishermen. Our bikes bumped over tracks of the seaway that headed into the water. A guy was pulling a reef net boat onto a dolly with a Komatsu excavator, so that he could pull it up the tracks onto the beach for repairs. Leo’s Live Seafood is down here…selling shrimp, crab, and reef net salmon. On a small point there is a weathered wooden armchair pointed seaward, one of a generous handful of waterfront “look out chairs” that we had encountered on this ride—a symbol for what’s worthwhile to people on island time.
The road turns left up the hill and we passed the pristine white Lummi Congregational Church on the right. It does a good business on Sunday if the size of the parking lot is any indication. Across the street, M&J had a tiny “egg stand”, under cover, $2 a dozen from the six pack cooler on the honor system—island commerce. Pinky, Sandra and I reached the stop sign. We could see the ferry terminal on the left below. A varnished totem, its top figure honoring the crow, was twenty feet up the hill to the right. We had lost Don, easily the fastest rider of the group and never behind. We were thinking: flat tire. We backtracked. His bike was in the weeds and he had his rain coat hood up, covered with tiny droplets. He was standing at a long row of ripe roadside blackberries. His was still packing them in his mouth with blue stained fingertips. “Look at this!” he repeated, several times almost to himself. We began picking too, stopping only to return the greetings of passing drivers. We pedaled back up to the stop sign in the misty rain. Should we do the second loop? Sandra had pulled her hood back and was unzipping her raingear. “I’m warm, so let’s do it,” she paused. “I think it’s lifting.” We laughed.
Turning right we climbed a steep hill. The road was still paved. There were more trees and fewer people. We passed a new red barn with two cupolas, and two grazing deer. In a short while the road darkened like a tunnel as it penetrated the forest. It was a short ride to the next stop sign and decision point.
“To the right the hills get bigger, but there are some good views,” I said looking up the road. “Left is back to the ferry and the Beach Store Café.” I looked at Sandra. “Yeah, yeah. ‘It’s lifting’. Okay, we’ll go further, up and up. The first hill was a corker. We took the intelligence test at the top. Only the women passed and turned around. Don and I failed miserably and elected to ride up hill, in the rain, to the end of the road. All we really lacked for a perfect northwest bike ride was a headwind.
“This is a first. A mountain bike trail with pavement,” Don said. My maximal effort was a stragglers pace for him. He maintained it out of kindness. The first steep hairpin turn was just a grunt – no view of Mount Baker in the rain. At the top there was a lake, and we rested on the shoreline bench. The heron standing on a raft took no notice. What a peaceful place. The downhill, almost all the way back, was a screamer. Survival was more at issue than tourist attractions or views. We arrived at the restaurant just as Sandra and Pinky were taking off their coats.
“They have a wonderful library,” Sandra said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Right across the street from the ferry,” Pinky said
“It is fantastic. I could have spent the day there,” said Sandra brightly.
“The goal of our trip was to discover the Lummi Island Public Library,” Pinky announced.
“Our bicycle trip in France was a quest for a perfectly fitting and bright, French biking jersey…a successful trip,” I added.
“Sandra found a dinosaur,” Pinky continued, ignoring me.
“It is the greatest sign, that Literasuarus. His name is Snap E. Dragon. The kids have to love it. The place is fun,” Sandra bubbled. “They put a free book exchange in the metal barn behind the library. It’s named the “Noble Barn.”
“When she saw that stuff, in she went…a teacher in always-always land,” said Pinky.
“It’s right across the street. I could go back if we have to wait for the ferry,” Sandra said.
The restaurant had seafood quesadillas, seafood chowder, halibut and chips and grilled reef net salmon; all from heaven. “So, you guys have been riding in the rain. That’s really cool,” said our waitress. “Where did you go?” She stayed interested so we told her everything: who went where, some of the things we saw.
“I just got a bike. It’s a mountain bike, and I love it. I just wish that I could ride it more,” she said.
“You will ride every road on the island pretty quickly,” I said.
“Yeah. But I really got it to ride at home.”
“You don’t live on the island?”
“Used to, but I just moved to Lynden. I can’t afford a place on the island. I’m a single mom, and my daughter will be in high school.”
“The kids have to move for high school.”
“No. A school bus crosses on the ferry. It’s okay. But riding the bus is a problem when the kids have activities after school. You know. Sports and stuff.”
“But you plan to work here?”
“Oh, yes.”
Over lunch we discussed island problems: transportation, high real estate prices, rusted cars, rusted bikes, fire protection, emergency medical care, land use battles, tourists, subsistence, and ferries. Then we progressed to the world’s problems, which took the hour we had to wait for the ferry. When we left the restaurant, the visibility had markedly improved. We could see Lummi peak on the mountain at the south end of the island.
“Baker is still in the clouds,” Pinky said.
“There’s always a reason to come back. I’ll be back…with the camera. I’ll send you a virtual trip, a repeat of our route when there is some sun,” I told Don and Sandra.
Sandra was going to speak. Pinky raised her chin. Then, Pinky, Don and I joined in unison, “It lifted.” We laughed.
We headed for the ferry. On the mainland, as we pulled out of the parking lot headed for home, Sandra was pensive. She said, “You two have changed the least of any of our friends.”
“It doesn’t feel like things have changed all that much, does it?”
We had been kids just married in the army or navy anticipating a tour in Vietnam. In the 35 year interval we had become business mogul and teacher, physician and coach, parents of adult children, and now, grandparents. And on this day, we had taken up where we had left off in 1968.
I liked that…a friendship with a long shelf life.