The Return

About this broken wrist thing I've been yammering on and on about since August...

It was pretty easy to say when the episode began. (SNAP) But it will be more difficult to describe when it ends. There was a long-arm cast, then a short arm cast. Then, starting about a week ago there was no cast. But there is a high-tech wrist brace when I need it.

There were one-armed rides on pavement, then mild 1.5-armed rides, then rides on dirt, then rides on easy trails -- all on a bike adapted to help make up for my limited abilities.

But just the other evening, there was a ride that seemed to herald my Return to the realm of actual mountain biking. I was able to ride my actual mountain bike on easy to medium-ish trails. But more importantly, I was out riding with Trina and the dogs on a lovely evening in an enticing setting. And I took some photos.

Mountain bike, trails, Trina, dogs, photos. Having all these come together again felt great and felt like I was BACK!

I'm nothing like completely healed, and I'm not going to return to more challenging trails just yet. But it's great to be out there!

Here are some photos to prove it, though they're all of Trina, but taken by me while being out there, so they still prove it.

Autumn Stream of Consciousness

Words and photos by Greg



Thoughts tumble noisily then pool and reflect as we sit beside the water in the autumn sunshine. Days are shortening quickly. And soon our pants and sleeves will be lengthening. The days are numbered when we will bask with so much skin. To absorb the warmth so directly. The days. We count the number. But we do not know how long we will be counting. We will only know when to stop. And put on warmer clothes.

There are fruits and berries and pods and nuts and burrs and feathered wisps. From plants and trees and bushes and grasses and flowers. That have gone to seed. This is not the time for blossoms. Though there are a few of those, too. Late bloomers. Like me. Or so I hope. Late, I think. Not gone to seed. But too late? I wonder. And I do not know.

Some leaves are yellow. Some gold, red, brown, tan. And many still green. Preparing, perhaps, for this end. This coming cold. Which is not an end at all. But a turning. And not even a corner. Instead, the rotation of a wheel of seasons. Of centuries. Of empires. That rise and fall.

Crisp, brittle, woody, rigid. These are the textures of the season. When the work of building is done. And the time comes to let go. To back away. To let the machines of summer grow quiet. To fall into disuse. To tumble down. To lay upon the earth. Ruin. Waste. Yet to lay in anticipation. In expectation. In hope. That the wheel will turn. That the cold will turn. That the days will shorten and turn. That the ruin and waste will turn. Toward what. I do not know.

Confetti

Words by Greg
Photos by Trina and Greg

If I look back at the summer and all the fun we had and all the blog posts we did about all the fun we had, I have to say, it's been a pretty dang amazing summer! So it's not really a surprise to me that there's a celebration going on with brightly colored decorations and confetti flying through the air. Confetti!

We've been out and up to join this celebration of the end of summer. Up, meaning that the party has started in the high country and shows every sign that it'll be making its way downward toward town.







We joined the party during the middle of last week when we hitched part way up the shoulder of the huge local mountain and took a hike. The theme colors that day were oak-orange, aspen green-and-yellow, and chokecherry red. Along with various other highlights and accents. Both dogs were satisfied (barely) with the delicate essence of chipmunk, deer, and maybe even bear.















We rejoined the party on Sunday afternoon on another mountain where the featured colors were aspen gold and pine green, with infusions of amber grass and stormy sky.



We celebrated more than just the end of summer. We'd brought our bikes and ventured out on the trail. I had my modified upright handlebar town bike (which is really a modified mountain bike anyway) and rode the first few short miles of actual pretty-much-really-like-mountain-biking-singletrack that I've ridden since the fateful wrist break of Aug 12. Sweet!







Trina and the dogs zoomed through the colors. I zoomed slowly through the colors. Wind threw the golden confetti through the air around us. Sunshine stabbed through darkening clouds. Drops of mist cooled us and dampened the dust as we wound smiling through the black-and-white trunks of the trees under the amber canopy.





The dogs couldn't seem to smile enough to express their enthusiasm, so had to dash and crash frantically through the grass and brush to make sure we knew how much fun they were having.



Our ride and the day came to a close and we loaded into the truck and headed down the mountain, driving, I'm afraid to admit, heavily under the influence -- of the beautiful day.

Slaughtering the Warty Beast

Story: Trina
Photos: Trina and Greg



I first read about this squash, or one like it, in Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, a terrific book about the Kingsolver family's "journey away from the industrial-food pipeline to a rural life in which they vow to buy only food raised in their own neighborhood, grow it themselves, or learn to live without it." I was surprised at how engrossing, funny and educational their story proved to be. It's a must-read!

In the book, Kingsolver tells the story of stumbling upon this ugly beast in a roadside vegetable stand while vacationing in rural Italy. She describes it as "unglamorous by conventional standards: dark blue-green, smaller than the avergae jack-o'-lantern, a bit squat, and covered over 100 percent of its body with bluish warts." When she asked whether it was edible, the proprietor "sighed patiently. Edible, signora? He gave me to know this wart-covered cucurbit I held in my hand was the most delicious vegetable known to humankind. If I was any kind of cook, any kind of gardener, I needed to grow and eat them myself."

She apologized for the fact that she wasn't in a position to purchase any of his lovely squash or pumpkins because she and her husband were tourists, travelling hotel to hotel in a rental car, with no knives, no cooking implements, no kitchen facilities at their disposal. Being gardeners, they were enthusiastic admirers of his organic bounty, but what would they possibly do with a pumpkin?

She could, however, haul seeds around with her for the rest of her vacation. When she inquired about buying seeds for the warty creature, the proprietor "leaned toward me indulgently, summoning the disposition that all good people of the world maintain toward the earnest dimwitted: the seeds, he explained, are inside the pumpkin."

He then suggested -- indeed practically insisted, stopping just short of telling her she'd buy the pumpkin and she'd like it -- that she'd be able to coerce some hotelier along her route to cook it for her in any number of wonderful ways after removing the seeds for her.

She writes, "I frankly could not imagine sallying into the kitchen of our hotel and asking anyone to carve up a pumpkin, but we were in so deep by now I figured I'd just buy the darn thing and leave it in a ditch somewhere. Or maybe, somehow, figure out how to extract its seeds."

She never did get it cooked, so she wasn't able to offer any confirmation of the squash's succulence. Still, I was enthralled by the idea of such an ugly food, and the proprietor's insistence that there was no better vegetable in the history of the known universe. Also, feeling personally goaded by the farmer's challenge, "If I was any kind of cook, any kind of gardener, I needed to grow and eat them myself," I was compelled to find that squash. I would do whatever it took to get my hands on seed for the mysterious warty blue beast.

I began searching seed catalogs for anything that sounded like a close match. Finally, in the Seed Saver's Exchange catalog, I came across a squash that I thought must surely be the one: "Heirloom winter squash from Italy. Large grey-green bumpy turbans average 10-12 pounds. Sweet dry flesh, excellent in soups and pastas." I ordered the seeds over the winter, planted a few of them in the spring, and watched the vine overtake my little piece of the earth, reaching and spreading and climbing in all directions... and then watched as it wilted practically overnight, hit hard by a massive squash bug infestation.

Having nearly lost the plant entirely, I was pretty happy in late August to boast a mere two squash as my entire crop. And now, a year after first learning of the Marina di Chioggia's existence, I can very happily attest to the accuracy of the Italian farmer's endorsement. Even after all the build-up, all the drama, and the extremely romanticized expectations surrounding this warty beast, it did not disappoint. The Marina di Chioggia is indeed the most amazing, rich, delicious pumpkin (or squash) ever to grace my palate. It's a must-eat!











Earlier chapters of the Marina di Chioggia saga:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3