the parental files: day 3

Fast forward.  It’s later in the day this time, but that’s what happens when your car rolls in to the apartment at 10:30pm after a full day in the Olympic sun.  And then, of course, by the time you unload and watch the Olympics themselves on TV, it’s late and no one wants to get up on time.

Just as well since today has been designated as a day to knock around the city of Seattle.  To soften the blow of being a tourist when most citizens of the city are secretly annoyed with them, we’ve opted for a weekday adventure to mitigate the madness of camera-toting heards of hayseeds and foreign tourists scrambling to capture shots of the ‘real’ city.  It’s a guy throwing a fish, people, not a tapdancing Sasquatch.

[In a grizzly movie voice]: “In order to become the tour guide his parents so desperately need, Bryan Rivard must become…a tourist.”

I was of course happy to do it, doing my best to quash my displeasure of crowds and all things goofy.  So of course our first stop after parking downtown was at Seattle Duck Tours to buy a ticket for a later time, but since they had room we opted to depart in 6 minutes.  After a brief detour to a set of porta-potties that likely violated the Geneva Convention, we climbed into the back of the WWII era amphibious vehicle and took our seats as the guide began giving a shpeel about safety while intermixing a number of canned jokes and crowdpleasers.  Rarely have I felt so painfully Seattle as I did when I leaned over to my brother and whispered something to the effect of “this has so been done before.”  Also, that I knew the Space Needle before it was big.

someone enjoying her duck call prior to confiscation

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the parental files: day 2

Some days things just fall into place; like waking up a little later, hustling, and basically driving you car onto the 9:10 ferry from Edmonds to Kingston as it’s pulling away.  Today was not one of those days, unfortunately.

With a somewhat later start than we’d hoped, Mom, Dad, and I accepted the latter ferry departure (rather than expose my parents to my gotta-make-the-ferry rally car driving) and made our way 30 minutes north to the ferry terminal (my record is 17 minutes, thank you very much) after stopping at PCC to fill the cooler with lunch supplies and ice.  Ah, PCC–not only is the food beautiful, but everyone is so nice–the marketers have reached their demographic.

The destination was Olympic National Park, specifically Hurricane Ridge, a visitor center 18 miles or so in the park atop–you guessed it–a ridge.  Mom was surprised that cars were lining up to drive onto the Spokane when it docked; used to the smaller ferries on the east coast (Block Island, etc) used to transport passengers and bikes, she hadn’t realized that we’d be taking the entire car over to the peninsula.  If we didn’t, I explained, we’d be staying in Kingston, since the park was actually a little over an hour and a half drive from where we’d be getting off the boat: the peninsula is deceptively wide.

I’ve always been a fan of the ferries and it was great to be with Mom and Dad on their first ride in Seattle.  Say what you will, but the few extra dollars one spends to trade an hour of driving for a whimsical 30-minute water transport under to towering figures of the approaching Olympic range is well worth it.  And they have cookies in the cafeteria, so there’s that.

After deboating we made our way towards Port Angeles, passing through the sidewinds on the hood canal bridge and over the rolling hills of standing pine, actively logged on US Forestry land.  We made a brief stop on tribal land to take a photo of the tidal flats, and a slight detour at Port Gamble.  A small, New-England influenced logging town, Port Gamble provided and opportunity to stretch the legs and visit the general store and look at earrings (Mom) and berate Mom for having too many friggin’ earrings (Dad).

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the parental files: day 1

Second only to her love of the loathsome green parrot (Paco) that plagues our lives in Bristol is Mom’s love of going out to breakfast.  After shaking off the jetlag Mom and Dad were treated to one of our favorite breakfast places in Seattle–Pete’s Egg Nest–a family-run diner specializing not only in wonderful breakfasts, but as one would imagine–eggs, specifically.  We were also joined by our cousin Amy, who like Mom (her side) has an affinity or good food, dining out, and being generally “social”, something the Rivard men occasionally struggle with, particularly in the morning hours.

the family at breakfast; more smiley after coffee.

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the parent files: day .5

After much contemplation earlier in the year we–my parents and two brothers–finally decided that the end of July would be the best time to have the folks finally see the city(ies) that has so captivated me(/us) for the last four years.  Completing a week-long trip out to Grandby, CO to see Camp Chief Ouray (where Stephen works as assistant director in the summer), the dynamic parental duo boarded a plane and were whisked away to the uncharacteristically sunny skies of Seattle, WA.

Tired but in good spirits, Mom and Dad were greeted at the airport by Kevin while I was finished up my last Wenatchee river guiding trip of the season in Leavenworth, a few hours away.  We decided to celebrate the start of their west coast vacation at Razzis Pizza, and then headed home to get to sleep for midnight and prepare for the morning.

The race was on.

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i’m never gonna raft again, the way I raft with you

Oh, didn’t think rafting could be oh-so-sensual?

Looks like you were wrong.

Just another Wenatchee Weekend.

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water levels go down, but fun goes up

One of the qualities of the Wenatchee river I’ve learned in my two years guiding it is that bigger isn’t always better.  When water levels rise, it means bigger, faster runs, but sometimes the hits aren’t as adrenaloaded since the holes tend to wash out (a big hole is a vacuum that water is attempting to backfill-if the water gets high enough it just submerges the hole completely).  When we’re up at 13,000cfs, some of the river monsters come out to play-freak waves that only awaken at the highest levels; likewise, when you’re around 7,000cfs, the holes become defined and sticky (they want to grab you), and make for hard hits and fun surfs.  Around 10,000cfs is fun, but really becomes that in between place that is big and flushy, but not really defined.

So when the river dropped into the 7,000’s this week and my friends Erin and Dan from Idaho decided to come out, I was pretty excited.  Joined by my other buddies, John and Erik, from Seattle, we set out under sunny skies and didn’t flinch with the occasional peal of thunder.  Another great day on the river.

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not the little boat! running the mini with new paddlers

The Hyside MiniMe is the notorious raft that comes out of the quiver when the team is looking for big carnage.  One of the nimblest rafts (possibly THE nimblest), what it gives in speed it takes in stability; she’ll turn on a dime just as easily IN the rapid as before it.

But when you’ve got a full float like today–and that means EVERY boat in the water, you take her out by default and sometimes put people who aren’t quite as river ready and take them down in a glorified blue soap dish.  Such was Erica’s plight, a brave young lady I’d guided last year who came out to enjoy the river on this triple digit weekend.

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first light

Taking an invite to camp up on Mountain Home Road from a kayaking friend, I was immediately struck by the landscape.  A higher elevation than the city of Leavenworth, the area campsites popped out along a winding network of single-lane dirt roads.  Brush and small trees were only about the height of a man, which announced the far-off campsites of neighbors by their flicking camp fires (or in one midnight case, by the thumping of The Glitch Mob and the presence of a fire twirler performing on the ridgeline.

With the openness came wind (a hot wind since we were approaching a record-setting 100-degree day tomorrow) and a beautiful sky.  Which means that not only was the full moon shining right down on me as it rose at 1am, but also that when first light came at 4am, I was right up with the sun.  It’s weird to not be bothered by that when dragging myself out of bed for 9am near brings me to tears.

It’s 1am, do you know where the moon is? Yep. Penetrating your eyelids.

4:03 am. Tough to be annoyed at that.

 

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now we’re cookin’

So you’ve convinced yourself that you know how to cook, and after an afternoon trip to PCC spent thoughtfully squeezing tomatoes and knocking on cantaloupe, you find yourself $70 poorer and in over your head.

A CSA box bursting with potential…for you to disappoint yourself.

To make matters worse, you’ve folded under peer pressure and have signed up for a CSA box,a weekly reminder that not only do you not know anything beyond the most common vegetables, but that you have no idea how to cook these exotic specimens of “kale” or “fava beans”.

Now they’re all wilting in the fridge; you’d be better to skip the middle man and buy compost.  Fear not, we’ll get through this: make some pasta with a side of kale, single guy style.

 

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Give Blood

The progression of  my childhood was marked by events that I never really wanted to partake in.  Chores.  Homework.  Yearly physicals punctuation with vaccinations.  I took part in the shared dream, which was, of course, that when I became an adult I would be free of these burdens, a master of own destiny.  So long doctors, putting on sunscreen, and mowing the lawn!

The sad reality was that when I entered the real world it was without fanfare or a certificate of freedom from enduring discomfort.  Conversely, it was the same except that I had nothing but my own blossoming maturity to blame for sitting in the dentist chair or getting my yearly hernia exam, which oddly enough happened at the same time.

Topping the list of undesirables is anything with a needle.  Holding root in the deepest danger-sensing structures in my brain was a irrational and powerful fear, which at first seems kind of funny.

The humor was lost on me today as I sat in the waiting room of The Puget Sound Blood Center awaiting a fate I detest above all others: giving blood.  Adding to my disorientation and panic was my blindness; I’d just come from the eye doctor where I’d had my pupils dilated, so with an hour or so to kill before I could drive I stumbled into the center, wide-eyed and wearing sunglasses, probably looking like an addict.  I found my way to the donation desk, filled out requisite paperwork from an arm’s length with one squinted eye, and then followed Monica into the screening room.

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