One of Life’s Burning Questions Answered

I grew up in rural little village. I’d say town, but I don’t think Pipersville, Pennsylvania qualifies. It has a post office, a library the size of a railroad car, an inn, and one four-way stop intersection. There couldn’t have been more than 80 people living in Pipersville when I was growing up, and I’d guess 80 percent of that population was over the age to 80.

To pass the time my brother and I played outside a lot, but we also watched a fair amount of TV. It took a long time for basic cable to reach our neck of the woods, so we usually finagled the TV antennae at the precise angles necessary to get a reception for channel 13, FOX.  The other options for after school TV included the News or Wheel of Fortune, so we opted for the line-up of Cheers, Star Trek: Next Generation, and The Simpsons.

These days my mom can appreciate intelligent satire buried beneath the crude humor of The Simpsons, but when I was a kid, I think she was wary that I’d take too many queues from Bart’s behavior. She barely tolerated me watching it. In fact, thinking back on it, I can imagine her making Marge’s signature groan/sigh of helpless disapproval. (I think it was the Halloween episode based on Edgar Allen Poe’s “ The Raven” that finally won her over. There’s no better way to win the heart of an English teacher than with an allusion to poetry.)

As a boy, I’m sure most of the insightful social commentary in The Simpsons went straight over my head while I was busy laughing at Bart’s harassment of Principal Skinner or Homer’s eating habits. Still, I enjoyed the subtle running jokes and gags that endured through the years. My favorite may have been the mystery of Springfields’s location. I thought it was brilliant that the writers never revealed where in America Springfield was set.  In the recent Simpsons movie, Lisa points out Springfield’s location on a map, but her head obscures the audience’s view of her hand.

When I moved to Portland this past summer, I suppose I was looking for a little clarity on some of life’s bigger questions; namely, what do I want to do with my life? Instead, I learned something perhaps even more significant. Springfield is set in northwest Oregon. The evidence is hard to refute. Simpsons writer Matt Groening grew up in Portland, and he drew inspiration from his surroundings. For example:

1.  The street names

• Burns:
  • city in Oregon. {ds} [Monty Burns]
  • but FAR away from Portland. {av}
• Lovejoy:
  • One of two founders of Portland, A.J. Lovejoy [Rev. Lovejoy]
  • street in NW Portland.
• Montgomery:
  • street in SW Portland. [Monty Burns]
• Quimby:
  • Street in NW Portland.
• Seymour:
  • street in SW Portland. [Seymour Skinner]
• Skinner:
  • pioneer Eugene Skinner founded Eugene, OR in 1853.
• Terwilliger:
  • boulevard in SW Portland. [Sideshow Bob]
• Van Houten:
  • street in N Portland. [Milhouse]
• Wayland:
  • street in N Portland. [W. Smithers]

2. The Landscape

• Springfield Gorge
  • The Columbia Gorge is only about 20 miles east of Portland. Growing up in eastern Pennsylvania, I wasn’t really sure what gorge was. In fact, I still can’t think of many gorges outside Columbia. Unless of course Springfield is actually Ithica, NY?
• Waterfalls
  • I remember Homer and Bart hiking together through pine forests and Homer falling down a waterfall. Sounds like the Pacific Northwest to me.
• Mount Springfield
  • The massive volcanic mountain near Springfield bears a striking resemblance to Mount Hood.
  • 
• The Ocean
  • Multiple episodes feature the ocean, so we can only be dealing with a certain number of coastal states.

3. The Western Settlement

• Everyone knows that Jebediah Springfield founded Springfield in the 1800s. This means that the town is likely west of the Mississippi. I also makes sense that I pioneer like Jebediah would end up somewhere near the end of the Oregon Trail.

4. The Sky

• A neighbor recently pointed out that the clouds in Portland roll through the sky, parting and convening swiftly, in a way similar to the opening credits of The Simpsons. This might be the most convincing argument of all. As a kid, I always thought those long, lumpy clouds looked weird and unrealistic. It all makes sense to me now that I’m living under the same clouds that first inspired Matt Groening.

Of course, part of the fun of The Simpsons, and in having an animated set, is that everything is made up, and every rule can be broken to achieve the ultimate goal of sillines. That’s why the West Springfield desert can be three times the size of Texas. It’s also how New Flanders can get away with saying that Springfield’s state borders Ohio, Nevada, Maine, and Kentucky. Springfield is in Oregon, but it’s also in every other state. Springfield is Anytown, USA. Maybe that’s part of the secret to the show’s mass appeal and longevity. Plus, if Springfield was in Portland, two thirds of the episodes would take place on rainy days.

The Best Offense

It was worth a try.

The “Autumn Drive to the Country” Playlist

Like many members of my egocentric generation, I always want to pick the music. I’m an i-pod DJ and I think I’m pretty decent at it, just like everybody else. I tend to put exorbitant amounts of time into crafting playlists. Halloween, a wine and cheese party, a drive to my hometown, a weekend with visiting college buddies; there’s an ideal playlist for these and thousands of other occasions.  Maybe I take such care when crafting playlists because I resent not knowing how to make music of my own. Who knows.  I do know that I seethe when someone unplugs my i-pod to play an entire Katy Perry album.

Last weekend, I made a playlist for my drive from Portland out to a trail head on Mount Hood.  Autumn is my favorite time of year, what with the leaves and the football and the apple cider, and I feel as if some music just fits the mood of the season. I tried to find a good balance of new music, recent favorites, and classics that I grew up with.  I omitted a bunch of “old stand-by” road trip tunes in favor of mixing things up a bit. I can only listen to “Take it Easy” so many times.

Here’s what I went with:

Wish You Well – Bernard Fanning
This Aussie hit neatly sums up the emotions of leaving folks behind to embark on a journey, or being left behind. Cool music video too, but don’t watch it as you’re driving.

Shadow People – Dr. Dog
Move along. This song plays out like it should being playing in a car as it rolls slowly through a dreary Rust-Belt town, which makes sense, because the Dr. Dog hails from Philadelphia. I just feel like leaving town whenever I hear the chorus.

Sprawl II (Mountains beyond mountains) – Arcade Fire
These days any road trip that starts in an urban area and ends in the woods takes you through an eerie moonscape of shopping malls and housing developments with ironic names that describe the very environments they’re displacing. This song encapsulates the unsettling feeling we get when we see them.

Darkness on the Edge of Town – Bruce Springsteen
Anyone with two parents from Jersey is required by state law to include a Springsteen album in every playlist. I don’t make the rules.  Believe it or not, the Boss is a major influence for those Canadian elves in Arcade Fire.  Plus at this point in the trip, we’re on the edge of town (Get it?). Unless you’re in LA or an east coast city. Then you’re probably stuck in traffic three miles from your apartment

Going Missing – Maximo Park
Ever feel like your head’s going to explode if you don’t stop the stressful stuff you’re doing immediately and go for a run or a hike? I hope I’m not the only one.  This up-tempo Brit rock number is great for those instances.

The Comedown – Black Gold
This song reminds me of the Beegees, then Carly Simon, and then The Beatles. Yea, I know that’s weird. Even weirder,  it works.

Got My Mojo Working – Muddy Waters
Now we’re getting somewhere. That’s some mean harmonica, Muddy. May I call you Muddy?

Just Couldn’t Tie Me Down – The Black Keys
The title says it all, though I could have picked any song from the Rubber Factory album. Every song on it rocks. Hard.  I’m proud to have discovered it back 2005, in Dunedin, New Zealand of all places. The Rubber Factory album got its name because it was in fact record in an abandoned rubber factory in Akron, OH.  The tracks are as gritty and rugged as trails I was traveling with my friends when I first fell in love with the band.

Tramping in the Southern Alps of NZ

Little Lion Man – Mumford & Sons
When I hear this song, I feel like I’m in the dingy back room of a parlor in the 19^th century England, where people are betting on a bare-knuckle boxing match. The driving beat makes for excellent fast-driving music.

Miles Away – Marc Cohn
Time to settle things down a bit. Yep, he’s the guy that sings “Walking in Memphis” (not Billy Joel or Bruce Springsteen, which you might have thought if you downloaded that song off Napster in the early 2000s). My parents love him, and so do I. A little bit country, a little bit soul, Cohns’s voice is as distinctive as it is smooth. I love this song because it embodies the joy of being out of touch and off the grid, unencumbered by the responsibilities of home.

No Intention – Dirty Projectors
Dirty Projectors is just different. The guitar in this track has a sitar-like twang to it, which is strangely pacifying to me. It also makes driving on sun-dappled country roads extra serene.

This Dance is Out of Your Hands – The Steelwells
I love the opening line. I also love the chorus harmony the invites you to wail along.

Unkown Legend – Neil Young
My parents used to love playing the Harvest Moon album. As a child I think this song gave me my first lesson in the power of imagery in writing.  Every time I listen to the lyrics, I briefly consider buying a motorcycle.

Everlasting Light – The Black Keys
Because every guy needs to practice his falsetto from time to time, and there’s not better time than when you’re in a car by yourself. TBK is big-time now, with a new, sleekly produced album and songs appearing in Honda commercials and NFL telecasts. Still, their sound remains a potent mix of rock and blues. Unfortunately, they, along with industry, LeBron James, and hope, have decided to abandon Northeast Ohio.

Goin’ Down – Freddie King
Welcome to Blues School. This is Caterwauling 101.  This is Freddie King and he’ll be your instructor today.

Give Me One Reason (live) – Tracy Chapman feat. Eric Clapton
It’s impossible to resist singing along to this blues classic.  Want to make a sweet song even better? Add some Clapton.

Life is Beautiful – Keb’ Mo’
A song that makes me think, if for just one day in my life, my voice could sound any way I wanted, I think I’d want to sound like this.  Either Keb’Mo’, or lead singer of Styx.  These are also some of the most sanguine lyrics of all time.

Solsbury Hill – Peter Gabriel
Great track for drives though rolling landscapes. Also great if you’re producing a movie trailer for a heartfelt romantic comedy.

Home – Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes
Sports an “Old Western”  rhythm that makes me imagine my compact Scion Zipcar is an Ox-led covered wagon. I also like imagining what John Wayne-style cowboys would have thought of the members of this 10-person ensemble of dreadlocked hippies.

Ragged Wood – Fleet Foxes
Based on the lyrics, this song might be a better fit for the trip home, but you get the point.

Copperline – James Taylor
Ah James, the original American troubadour. Taylor’s voice is unmistakable. He could sing the Free Credit Report dot com song and I’d get choked up. Hearing Copperline puts me in a good place this time of year. Makes me think of hot apple cider.

Baylor's Lake (PA) in Autumn

Golden Autumn Day – Van Morrison
The entire album Back on Top is perfect for rural drives as the leaves come falling down.  I’m transported to my family’s cabin in Northeast Pennsylvania every time I hear it. This is an ideal track for the long meandering back roads to the trailhead. Partly because of the soothing sax and harmonica solos, and partly because it kills six minutes.

Baylor's Lake Cabin in October

And that’s about it. Now it’s your turn. Write me a comment and let me know what song you’d add.

J

You can’t take it with you

“Yea, I just like coming up here and getting away from it all, ya know? Some peace and   quiet for a change…Anyways, about that presentation for Monday…”

Talk on the Street Says You Might Go Solo

After college, I moved into a house in DC with four fraternity brothers and a golden retriever. The year after that Kim and I lived together in a house shared with three other friends. Kim and I then got own apartment for a year before picking up and moving across the country. As I first prepared to move in with Kim I wondered if I was missing out on an important life experience by never living on my own. To be completely autonomous seemed to me like something every man should at least try.

I was reminded of this faint desire when Kim flew back to DC on business last Thursday. Without close friends in Portland,  I realized I was going to have more time to myself than I was used to. After a boring Friday night, I resolved to spend what was supposed to be a beautiful sunny Saturday outdoors. I started planning a solo day hike to Mount Hood. I hadn’t been to the Mount Hood National Forest since moving here, so a visit was long overdue.

Driving east on Saturday morning, I stated to think about why exactly we find mountains so captivating. I think that much of the mystique of the American West is tied to its snow-capped mountains. I grew up with the endless ridges and muddy creeks of Appalachian Mountains, and they’ll always have a place in my heart, but the Rockies, Sierras and Cascades just blow me away.

In the Portland area, massive peaks aren’t stacked together like in Wyoming or Colorado.  Instead, a select few—Mount Adams, Ranier, and Hood – punctuate the northeastern skyline. (This trio used to be a quartet, until 1980, when Mount St. Helens erupted. On clear days, I can see St. Helens’ humbled brown hump from my running route, and I can’t help but feel like it get picked on by the other mountains for being too short to gather snow.) Ranier and Adams reside across the river in Washington, leaving Mt. Hood as Portland’s official mascot.  Just 50 miles east of the city, Mt. Hood juts skyward, its peak reaching 11,200 ft. It resembles a wizard’s hat, a perfect triangle; like the mountains I used to draw as a child.

The previous evening, I set my heart on one particular hike, Elk Cove via Vista Ridge Trail. The directions to trailhead involved an hour’s worth of one lane, unpaved Forest Service roads that zigzagged up the base of the mountain. Fittingly, the excursion began in the mountain town of Zigzag. It’s located just beyond the towns of Sandy, Rhododendron, and Boring. That’s right, Boring, Oregon. I started to second-guess the decision to reserve the Scion Zipcar, the car with probably the smallest tires on the market, after a couple miles of steep winding ascents and gaping potholes.

Fighting both the road and the clock, I reached the surprisingly crowded trailhead at 1:00pm. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to reach Elk Cove and double back, 8.5 miles roundtrip, and still navigate my way back to Zigzag, before dark. I bolted up the trail toward Hood’s timberline. After a couple miles I emerged from a thick forest of fir trees to a rock scree with an amazing panoramic view of St. Hellens, Adams, and Ranier. The sky was cloudless and sunny, and the cool mountain air made for perfect hiking conditions. More than a few times, I thought of an obscure factoid or came up with a lame joke, and felt the strong urge to share it with someone. I guess that’s one of the cons for solo hiking.

Adams and Ranier

I passed a few small groups of hikers, some graybeards armed with dual hiking poles and a group of guys and girls around my age, but felt comfortably isolated for most of the trip. I reached Elk Cove, and felt assured that I had selected the right trail. As advertised on the hiking website where I conducted my research, the mountain meadow was breathtaking. Wild berry bushes were turning orange and red, bright ribbons of glacial water tumbled through fields of golden grasses.

It’s been said that Portland’s big drawback is a lack of seasons. There’s no fall or spring, just a short sunny summer and a long wet winter. This hike alone proved that autumn was alive and well in the Pacific Northwest.

I took a handful of pictures, then doubled back toward a stream bank to have my lunch. Given the view, my PB&J sandwich and canteen-full of mountain water made for one of the best lunches I’ve ever had.

Entering Elk Cove

My lunch spot

The trail was littered with semi-fresh elk tracks (so that’s why they call it Elk Cove), and I was hopeful that I’d cap off a perfect afternoon with an animal sighting. I heard some bushes rustling, upon closer inspection, realized it was just the group of young hikers trying to chemically enhance their outdoor experience. Oh well. I looked at my watch, and decided to head back toward my Scion.  I was tired and sunburned, yet restored.

An elk's been through these parts.

The western pasque flower pods known as the old man of the mountain, since they look like beards. As if Portland needed more beards.

Back at the car, I called Kim to let her know I got off the trail safe. Part of me felt like a dork reporting to my girlfriend that I made it back from a simple afternoon hike. A much larger part of me felt excited to have discovered a new place to visit with her later.My afternoon on Mt. Hood was both salubrious and edifying. I managed to shed some stress, have time alone with my thoughts, take in some natural beauty, and better appreciate the joy of having a companion both on the trail and in life.

Mt. Hood in Autumn

-J

Diversity

Portland has an incredibly diverse population…

…of dogs.

People, not so much.

Like the Wheel that Keeps Travellers Travelling On

One the surface this is nothing more than a routine redemption story; pretty trite and well-worn territory.  While hiking a stretch of the Appalachian Trail in Tennessee, my Dad happened across a 48-year-old man attempting to hike the entire length of the trail–2,175 miles from Georgia to Maine. The feat is nearly unfathomable for amateur hikers like me. I feel separation anxiety without internet access and am desperate for a shower after a three-day excursion.

When my dad met Doug, he was armed with months of spare time and the singular determination necessary to have a puncher’s chance at completing the journey. That’s about all he had going for him. Doug was broke, alone, nearly deaf, hampered by injuries, and grappling with enough inner demons to ruin ten men. To make matters worse, his gear was heavy and inadequate.

In Doug, my father recognized a man searching the wilderness for solace and redemption, and was inspired to help. Since their first encounter in May, my dad has been corresponding with Country Gold (Doug’s trail moniker), offering support through encouragement and much needed equipment upgrades.

Many of my dad’s friends and fellow outdoor enthusiasts have been moved by Doug’s persistence, and have donated money to help his cause. I’m writing about this story today in the hope that some of you, my awesome readers, might feel compelled to donate, or forward the story on to fellow hikers. To learn more, please check out the newly created blog dedicated to tracking Country Gold’s progress:

http://countrygold.wordpress.com

Country's somewhere in there.

PS: I often think of Doug’s journey when I hear this awesome song, Like the Wheel by the Tallest Man on Earth. I’ve been listening to it a lot lately.

-J

The Tao of Jay

I started my new job ( it’s part-time, but it’s something) last week, and I already feel really lucky to have found another great work environment. The people are friendly, the office is fun and comfortable, and the work is new and interesting. I’m big on perks, and this office offers plenty of them: World Cup Coffee (a great NW brand), bike parking, gym and shower facilities (great for commuting), a window that looks out to the western hills, and a casual dress code. To top it off, I got a sweet bike commuter t-shirt on my first day. I think the keys for finding a great work atmosphere are simple; 1. work in the environmental  field, where everyone cares about living a healthy, organic, and sustainable. 2. work in Portland where all of the values listed in point one are amplified 500 percent.

Still, being excited about working in an office  feels a little strange to me. After all, I was desperate to leave a pretty similar situation in May. I guess the grass is always greener when you’re a wistful, waffling, restless guy in his mid-twenties.  The process is oddly cyclical and symmetrical:

-J

The Wild Hunt

On my nephew Lucas’s actual birthday (the day after his party), Lee, Sage, and I decided explore someplace new. Lee’s friend had recently mentioned a beach called Whytecliff Park, where families could go soak up the summer sunshine, observe local marine life, and great views of Vancouver’s coastal islands. Knowing that the boys, Luke and Jude, were coming off an eventful, napless day, Sage and Lee weighed the potential for a long day of driving and crankiness against the possibility of a fun new adventure, and decided to hold out hope for the latter. It had been a little while since my last outdoor excursion, and I knew the next day would be consumed by a cramped 8-hour return train ride, so I was delighted by the decision. After picking up some scrumptious bagel sandwiches and muffins from Beans, the local coffee shop of choice, we ventured north through Stanley Park, over the Lions Gate Bridge, and west toward our destination.

I consider Portland an outdoor enthusiast’s paradise because both beaches and mountain ranges can be reached in less than two hours. Yet Vancouver nonchalantly blows Portland out of the water by offering mountains and the ocean within two feet of one another. The city even has islands with massive mountains on top of them! I can’t help but fee like Vancouver would be more boastful about this setup if it were in America—and if the views of the oceans and mountains weren’t obscured by drizzly fog nine months out of the year. In late summer, however, it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth.

We arrived at Whytecliff park and commenced a breakfast with an amazing 180-degree panoramic view of the ocean and neighboring islands, Bowen, Anvil, and Victoria (which kind of sound like the members of an indie-folk-rock band). After breakfast, we headed down to the beach. On our way, Lee pointed out some men pulling scuba gear out of their truck. Divers, along with policemen, firemen, and robots, fascinate Lukey. The encounter wasn’t entirely by chance though; Lee learned in his research that Whytecliff was a popular diving spot on account of the water’s high visibility and abundant wildlife.

The shore was comprised of massive driftwood logs and smooth but sizable stones. There was no white sand to be found, but the water was clear and teaming with marine life. The crescent shoreline merged into a jetty of boulders that offered passage to the massive boulder known as Whyte Island. With its dome shape and weathered trees, the island reminded me of the cantankerous giant turtle from The Neverending Story. It made me hope the island wouldn’t lift its giant head from the water and start discouraging us.

Whyte Island aka Morla

"Caring? I don't even care about caring."

Lee and I spent a few minutes spotting seal heads in the cove while Jude flung little stones into the water and Luke selected a stick aptly suited for whacking and poking. After that, Lee strapped Jude on his back and we headed out on the jetty to explore the turtle island.

The submerged rocks along the land bridge were lush with seaweed and dotted with mussels and giant purple starfish. Before long I realized that the seals circling the island were similarly intrigued by the tiny sea life. A seal was scouring the underwater rock wall like an old lady at a deli, tentatively poking around, repeatedly sampling different items before finally deciding on something and scampering away with it. I was captivated by this whole process. I waited patiently for a new seal to surface for air so that I could follow its gliding movements before disappearing back into the depths. Meanwhile, Luke and his rock-climbing partner, Momma Sage, turned back to get a better look at the scuba guys. Lee and Jude headed also headed back to set up a picnic. I felt secretly lucky to be a child disguised as a grown man so I could climb around on the rocks without supervision and hunt for more seals.

Back on the beach, our whole gang chomped on leftover pizza and relaxed to the soft lapping of waves caused by the wakes of passing ferries. The sun was warm but not hot, and I felt compelled to take swim as a farewell to summer. No one joined me, aside from the seals bobbing around a few hundred feet away. The water was icy cold but refreshing and remarkable clean. I wasn’t sure if the water here was somehow warmer than the swims I took further south in Oregon and Wyoming, or if I was developing a tolerance.

Ready...Aim...

Yay!

Sensing that some naps were long overdue, we headed home. We took bets on how long into the ride Jude would be asleep, with the winning time somewhere in the three to four minute range. It may have just been the warmth of the sun drying my skin, or sing-along children’s folk songs playing on the CD player, but I felt terrific. More likely, it was the fun of a successful outdoor exploration with my big bro and his kids—two generations of brothers bonded by a fascination with all things living, growing, and interconnected. I felt a joy deeply tied to my own childhood memories, like catching frogs in the pond by the hours where we grew up. It’s an idealized memory of times remembered as simple, natural, and unadulterated by pretense and insecurity; the kind that Arcade Fire, MGMT, and many other contemporary artists use to identify with us. It’s a happy memory nonetheless, and I glad Luke and Jude will have similar memories of their own to look back on someday.

The title of this post references the song,  “The Wild Hunt” by the Tallest Man on Earth. I think it fits the mood of the season, and I love the sound, even though it kind of sounds like Bob Dylan if Bob Dylan was a cat having its tail stepped on.

Vancouver by Train

In my early twenties, I felt as if I was as far removed from childhood as I would ever be. As a teenager, my own childhood was fresh in my memory and I was careful to make sure I never forgot how to play as I grew into an adult. I wasn’t sure about what kind of grown man I wanted to be, but I knew I would be more Josh Baskin than Gordon Gekko. I could easily recall the simple joy of looking for crawfish under rocks in murky creeks with my friends, and I knew I never wanted to lose my sense of wonder.

My brother Lee and his wife had their first child when I was in college. I was twenty-one, and I simply could not comprehend the responsibility of raising a son. Without giving it too much thought, I’d always figured that I’d have children some day, but it was a distant and opaque notion, like marriage and financial planning. In the meantime, I was preoccupied with intramural flag football games and deciding which useless humanities major to declare. I dabbled in Education for a few semesters, and during some required tutoring, I discovered that I had no idea how to interact with children. Simply asking, “How are you?” could result in an entire battery of responses, ranging from shouting the word, “poopy!” to a swift kick in the shins or punch in the groin. At the time I was living in a frat house, so this behavior wasn’t completely alien to me, but I couldn’t react in the same way with kids. I wanted to be good with children, but it wasn’t coming to me as naturally as I’d hoped.

Last week, Lee’s wife, Sage, sent me an e-mail inviting me up to Vancouver, BC to attend little Lucas’s fourth birthday party. She told me that an Amtrak line had recently opened up service form Portland to Vancouver, and suggest I look into it. Back in DC, when Kim and I were thinking of West Coast destinations to move to, we counted closer proximity to Lee as a major pro for the Pacific Northwest (I think “10 months of rain” was listed in the adjacent cons column). This seemed like the perfect opportunity to take advantage of that pro, so I booked the tickets.

I boarded the train in Portland the afternoon before Luke’s big party, and I settled in for the 8-hour train ride. The trip only takes 5 hours by car, but the Cascades line connects a number of small towns in a meandering, question mark-shaped route. It irked me to think that a flight from Washington, DC to Vancouver would take less time, but then I recalled that those tickets cost three times as much. The stretch from Portland to Seattle was uneventful, with scenic groves of Douglas firs lining the tracks in some instances, and expanses of construction debris lining them in others. It was a prettier trip than the Amtrak from DC to Trenton, but that’s not too strong of a compliment.

After Seattle, the train emptied out a bit and the tracks started following the Puget Sound shoreline. My knees sufficiently cramped, I headed to the “Café Bistro” car for a soggy and overpriced sandwich, then sat down to soak in the view from a spacious café car.

It was a clear summer evening as the sun set behind the mountainous horizon of the Olympic Peninsula. The sunset in the Pacific Northwest is an endangered animal, rarely seen, but especially captivating to behold when it appears. Along the shore, harbor seals turned their heads toward the train with quixotic stares. I could even see the snowcaps of Mount Baker and the rest of the Northern Cascades jutting skyward, reflecting soft orange light in the distance. After a few minutes of gazing out the window, my roast beef didn’t seem half bad. Thanks to a fortunate mix of timing and weather I was enjoying one of the most scenic train rides of my life. I debating running back to my seat for my camera, but instead elected to enjoy the last moments of the sunset in peace.

Not my shot, but it looked like this in Everett, WA

When I arrived in Vancouver at 11:00pm, the three-year-old who had been struggling to behave a few rows behind me saw the line at customs and finally snapped. He wrapped himself around his mom’s leg and commenced a 30-minute session of uninterrupted hysterical sobbing. Half asleep, and highly irritated, I started to wonder how well I would manage over two days in the company of babies and toddlers.  Lee met me at the station and drove me to The Whip, a local bar where we caught up over some tasty beers and poutine.

I woke up on Lee’s couch the next morning when I heard baby Jude’s feet thundering toward me. Lucas’s one-year old brother wasn’t quite walking when Kim and I lasted visited Vancouver in April, but the little towhead affectionately referred to as “Bubba” had grown and learned a lot in only a few months. Immediately after Jude’s entrance, a much taller, leaner Lucas than the one I remembered emerged from his room, ready to play. Only a child can wake me up at 7:00am with a slap on the head and still make make me smile.

Luke, Jude, and I spend the day playing while Papa Lee attended some work meetings and Momma Sage iced cupcakes, picked up balloons, and ordered pizzas for the big party. We played inside with legos and trains, then outside with hockey sticks and tricycles. I thought I remembered child’s play being less exhausting, but I guess that’s because I was getting to sleep around 7:00pm when I last engaged in it. Much to Momma’s chagrin, Lucas declined a nap, and we played straight through to the big party at the park. After setting up a picnic table with snacks, I reintroduced myself to a number of Lee’s family friends, chatted a while, then played a little soccer. Lucas ran all over the field while Bubba Jude took a laid back approach to partying, and methodically chomped on his pizza.

Bubba Jude

As the shindig was winding down, Lucas lost hold of his balloon for a second and it floated high into the tree limbs above him. Along with dropping an ice cream cone on the sidewalk, I remembered this as one of the timeless tragedies of childhood. In this instance, it was also a chance for Uncle Jay to play hero. I climbed atop the picnic table, lept up and snagged the last inch of the balloon string before slipping on my butt in an embarrassing landing. It didn’t matter. Luke had his balloon and his happiness restored.

Luke in motion

It was incredible how adroitly Sage, Lee, and their friends worked together to pull off a party for 35 people, all while keeping a gang of toddlers entertained and happy. I got a glimpse of how parenting is an exercise in planning, devotion, and perpetual learning. For now, the role of Uncle Jay is all I can handle, but I’ve really enjoyed seeing how my brother has become Papa Lee.

Luke and Jude are growing from a toddler and a baby into a child and toddler at an alarming rate. As they grow and change, I know their parents will help them become even more interesting and wonderful boys, and I’m thrilled to now be close enough to watch it happen from time to time.