Waiter, there's a grasshopper...

Text and photos by Greg

One fine weekend in early June, we scampered up out of the pale and dusty desert heat and into the wide, green Colorado high country. The mountains in those parts are filled with wild and lonely places, and we found such a place and set up camp beside the truck. Trina and I strolled through meadows as the sun went down, while the two dogs rampaged through the tall grass after small wild beasts -- which were too wily for them. Then we all slept in the bug-mesh tent beneath the stars and moon, surrounded by sounds of night, wind in the trees, crickets, howling coyotes -- and the subsequent barking of the dogs. And thus began a weekend that was like many others we have had the pleasure of experiencing.

But the Colorado high country is not only filled with wild and lonely places. It is also filled with expensive and ostentatious high-fashion ski towns, now festooned with flowers and grass in place of winter snow. And toward such a town, that very next afternoon, did we hie.

To prepare for this new type of adventure, I threw on a t-shirt with nothing printed on it, which, to a man of my station in life means "I'm dressed up." Trina switched out of her faux-Mennonite, little-house-on-the-prairie meets lumberjack's-spinster-daughter dress/socks/clogs outfit, and stepped into some high-steppin' red patent leather shoes. Then all dressed up like Big City folk, we drove into town and parked Trina's dirty, old, scratched-up pick-up truck amid the shiny Land Rovers, Hummers, and Lamborghinis.



We left the dogs in the back and strolled hand in hand through the town, marveling and gawping through shop windows at all the pleasures and wonders that could be purchased with -- in all cases -- heaps of money, and -- in many cases -- with little-to-no-taste. (We consider ourselves arbiters of such things…) Then we sat down at the outdoor table of a fine little Mexican bistro and ordered guacamole and chips.

Shortly, the plate arrived. A ring of crisp yellow chips. And a heap of green guacamole, heavily dusted with spicy red crumbles and the bodies of several dead insects. Excactly what we'd come here looking for.



We'd heard that this restaurant served grasshoppers and we'd come to see what it was all about. These chapulines had come from Oaxaca, Mexico, where the cooked and spiced insects are a traditional food and an important source of protein. Our interest in feeding ourselves in a changing world had made us curious about insects as food. And that curiosity had led us to pay fancy restaurant prices for what seems to be an inexpensive and common food in certain places in the world. We'd wondered, Could we catch and prepare our own grasshoppers? But that concern was secondary if we didn't answer another, more important question: Could we eat them?

We'd both admitted beforehand to being squeamish at the thought of biting into a grasshopper. Part of the fear was of crunching down on a crisp bug and having guts spurt out inside our mouths. Most hesitation, of course, was from an upbringing that said "Don't eat bugs!" But once the plate was set in front of us, it was surprisingly easy. The reddish spiced grasshopper bodies on top contrasted beautifully with the green of the guacamole. The crumble that spilled down the guac slope was interspersed with smaller bug parts like legs and antennae. But for all that, it looked like food, not some weird fear-factor experiment.



Instead of mixing the bugs deep into the guac where they'd be hidden, we at first plucked off individuals and tried them. What does a grasshopper taste like? Well, subsequent bites were even easier -- due to the simple fact that they were so good!

Softer-than-expected texture; more like raisins than the feared crunch/squirt. And
spicy -- in a rich-but-not-hot way -- such that we were unable to tell where the spices left off and the taste of grasshopper began. But the cumulative effect was very nice. Rich flavor that tapered off to a peppery finish. And with the guacamole and sea salt chips, delightful. We'd eat insects any day if they tasted like that.

If you happen to see us out in a meadow with nets, come say hi. And bring your appetite.

Garden Food

Photos and text by Trina



In the last month or so, the garden has seen many seasons: leafy greens and sweet pea season, thinning of apples and grapes season, brambles blooming and turning into berries season, tomatoes' first flowers season, infestation of pests season, which kicked off with an outrageous bloom of aphids on the cherry tree. And with the arrival (and squishing) of the first squash bug of the year, we're now officially in the season we know best as the War of the Squashes. Summer. Game on, bugs.


Bok choy and broccoli raab




Young apples still shedding blossom petals




Apple leaf




Triple Crown blackberry






Lady bug eggs among aphid infestation




As of yet unidentified worm thingies (which look more like nudibranchs I'd expect to see in a tidepool than crawling around on a cherry tree) with aphids and a ladybug larva which, incidentally, was doing push ups




Relocating ladybug eggs, pupae, larvae and adults after removing aphid infested cherry tree branch tips where they were previously residing






Ah, the season's first squa(i)sh bug




Thinning Honeycrisp apples






Eensie weensie baby praying mantis




Tulameen raspberry




With the early summer harvest that we managed to pull from the jaws of the many voracious garden pests, I threw together a pasta with bacon, garden peas, garden kale, parmesan, bacon, cream, lemon and bacon.



A recipe to use as a guideline is here.

Cool Green

by Greg

Those who adhere to a strictly astronomical definition know that summer will start on the Solstice later this month. But it doesn't take much astronomical knowledge to realize that in our desert valley, summer is here now. How do we know? It's too hot to ride in the middle of the day. Instead of trying, we headed up one of the local plateaus and found ourselves in a cooler place. Green meadows. Narrow trail. Splashy little creeks. Exotic wildflowers. Cloudy weather and a few sprinkles of rain. Just about everything we needed to contrast with the heat and dust nearer to home.

The Dream of Wading the River

Words and photos by Greg

A small dream: For years I've looked at a certain spot in the river and thought, "Hmm. Could I carry my bike and wade across that?" This is a dry year. The river is low. Time to try.

First up, ride out of town, then miles and miles of beautiful chunky singletrack, climbing upward through the desert sandstone past a few lingering spring blossoms.




Next, a rollicking trail that dipped in and out of small, rough canyons, high above the valley and town.






Then, while storm clouds darkened the sky, a doubletrack descent to the river. Then further upriver to the shallow riffle where I hoped to cross.




I waded out into the "shallow" riffle to find that nothing was quite as easy as it seemed from high on the cliffs above. Deeper, swifter water than it had seemed. And under the water the footing was nothing but loose, slippery boulders that threatened to toss me into the flow.


Could I have made it? Maybe. But it didn't seem worth the chance of my bike and I being dragged down the river over the rocks. I retreated. But luckily, "just happened" to have my old Sherpa packraft tucked into the orange bag strapped to my pack.


Inflated the raft, tossed my bike and myself on top. Then, just below the riffle, I paddled across with my hands. Landed on a convenient rock where I re-packed the raft.




Rode the rails for a minute, then dragged the bike up the bluff. Looking back down, it still looked pretty easy to wade across.




Then more trail back toward town.


The small dream of wading the river? Failed. The bigger dream of crossing the river? Fulfilled. It's been about a year since the concept of the packraft and bikerafting fully whacked its way into my consciousness from merely a fuzzy idea that someone else might do to something I might do. (Thanks, Mike! Roman!) And so far, so good. Rivers are no longer barriers to mountain biking. Maps are twisting into new shapes and possibilities. And I'm dreaming new dreams.