The Wheedle Returns

As a kid, one of my favourite stories was “The Wheedle on the Needle”. If you don't know it, you ought to get yourself out to the nearest kiddie bookstore or library. Basically, the Wheedle is a furry orange guy with a red nose that glows from his perch at the top of the Seattle space needle, and he hates noises that keep him awake. His nose blinks and glows, much like Rudolf's, while the workers below whistle and work. Of course, as there is with any decent story, there's a wee conflict to solve.

My dad lived in Vancouver for a while (for work) when I was around ten years old, and the rest of us stayed in Calgary. My first ever flight alone was when I went to visit him for spring break. Mom dropped me off at the Calgary airport, he picked me up in Vancouver, and I travelled sans adult chaperone, a “UM = Unaccompanied Minor” identification tag pinned to my t-shirt, surrounded by a swarm of well-meaning, helpful grownups, escorting me safely from the arms of one parent to the other. I stayed for a week, which I thought was brilliant both at the time and now in reflection, and at some stage during that week we drove down to Seattle, a mere 3 hours away. I remember sitting across from the Needle with dad, sitting on a park bench to calm his stomach after a particularly jerky rollercoaster ride, licking an ice cream and searching for the Wheedle. To this day I swear I saw his nose blinking away up there in the clouds.

This trip to Seattle also found me searching for the Wheedle's nose atop the Needle with every glance I got. And again, I swear I saw it every time, blinking away up there between the rain and clouds. In my wanderings through the city, though, I realized that it wasn't ONLY on top of the Needle that I saw the Wheedle. I had seen him elsewhere. Recently. More than once! It was as if after over 30 years of hanging out on top of the Seattle Needle, he wanted to stretch his legs a bit. Get some of the kinks out. Check out what the rest of the Pacific Northwest region had to offer.

As I walked around Seattle's famous Pike Place market, I am sure that I saw that red and orange combination flash behind the counter of the original Starbucks location; throwing fish to a monger at the seafood market; and jumping onto the monorail just moments before the door closed on me, preventing me from getting on myself.

He was all over Seattle.

My friend, Greta, who lives in Seattle with her “village” of housemates, tried her best to help me figure out when I'd last seen the Wheedle since that ten-year-old visit to Seattle. I racked my brains. I retraced my movements from Northern California to Seattle to try to recall any new, lingering images of him.

I had arrived in Seattle in the Jamboree direct from St. Helens, on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon, where I had been visiting another friend's parents for a couple of days. They had taken me on tour all over Portland, from their house in St. Helens where a certain contemporary, cool teenage Vampire series was reputedly filmed, to the hip spots of the hip city like Rose's for cake and Trader Joe's for cool food products, and to Powell's bookstore for, of course...

...that's it! The furry, orange Seattlite was in Portland at the exact same time that I was in Portland!

I remember now. He ran between the bookshelves, up stairs and around corners, only to disappear after just a glance in Portland's famous Powell's bookstore! I noticed him among the other shoppers by his telltale blinking red nose and the orange fuzz flashing and disappearing between the books out of the corner of my eye. Moving so fast that I didn't even register it when I was there. I kept thinking it was a bug or a hair in my eye, but in retrospect I realize that it could only have been him. The Wheedle. And he was in Portland!

Then I realized something else. In both Powell's in Portland and Pike Place in Seattle, he was fast. Agile. He turned on a dime. I wondered: How did a fuzzy, seemingly slow-moving orange monster who had spent the better part of 30 years lounging around on top of the space Needle end up in Portland and become so swift?

Ah-ha!

I remembered the one last hint of a Wheedle encounter of the week was at The Nike Employee Store in Portland, where I considered myself lucky to visit and shop. His orange fuzz stuck out from behind the changing room doors as I squeezed myself into bargain priced, high quality exercise gear. Too focused on the deals I was getting at the time, only now do I remember what he was trying on.

In every place I'd seen him this week, the Wheedle had been sporting a brand new pair of Nike running shoes. Grey. Full of support. Cool. Orange trim, even, to match his fur.

Oh the injustice of it all! I had bought a brand new pair of Nike running shoes when I was in Calgary a few months ago. I had had no premonition that I would soon visit the Nike Employee store in Portland, which would offer me a 50 % savings. This store is a legend among Nike fans and ISA community members. It was bad enough when I saw the shoes that I had previously purchased, mine with yellow trim, for half the cost in Portland. But then my beloved Wheedle had to run through Powell's and Pike Place and the Nike Employee Store flaunting his new pair, exactly like mine but the monster version. You might imagine my mixed feelings of dismay and pride.

At least I can say that the Wheedle and I have the same taste: in cities, bookstores, markets, and shoes.

Portland

Seattle

Sleeping with the Giants

The sequoia, or redwood trees, are apparently the biggest trees on earth. In fact, they are the largest living organisim on land anywhere. The only place they live is in Northern California along the coast. According to wikipedia (and State Park brochures agree), the redwood tree “is an evergreen, long-lived, living for up to 2,200 years, and this species includes the tallest trees on Earth, reaching up to 115.5 m (379.1 ft) in height and 8m (26ft) diameter at breast height. It is native to coastal California.”

I've seen the BBC Planet Earth programme on these trees and kept them in mind as I pointed the Jamboree's nose north through California. I wondered along the drive when I would spot the first one, and if it really would be as obviously enormous as I've heard.

I found them. They weren't hard to find. And I'm happy to report that they really are obviously enormous.

I drove into the Humbolt Redwoods State Park very slowly, mouth hanging open in awe at the size of the trees along the side of the road. I found the state park campsite, and parked the Jamboree under one of the giant trees. I got out my camera and walked through the forest. I sat way down there on the ground under the trees as the sun set, sipping a glass of newly acquired Napa Valley wine. Later, I slept with the giants. I woke in the morning, the sun hinting at its existence out there beyond the top tips of the trees, way, way up there. I got Betty out and we cycled 25 early morning miles along the Avenue of the Giants.

I was impressed. Awed. Humbled. Happy. And rejuvenated. Sleeping in this park might have been the most spectacular spot I've parked the Jamboree. It absolutely beats WalMart parking lots and RV parks crammed with bus-homes. I love the quiet of the forest, the moist, cool mornings with sun peering through the tree tops, the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and, often, a fire crackling in the distance somewhere. The smell of fresh dew, green and wet on wood and leaves and dirt. These redwoods took the forest to a new level for me, literally and experientially, and inspired a nod of respect and appreciation for their age and beauty and grace. Anything I try to write might sound cliché and so I apologize for that, but if you have ever slept with these stunning giants, witnesses to the ages, silently and proudly watching over their little corner of the world, you'll understand why I say: Wow.

Northern California Redwood Forest

The Romantic California Coastal Drive

We love to drive. There's a whole romantic ethos to hitting the open road. There's a dedication to one's vehicle, trusty carrier from point A to B. And sometimes its interrupted by drama, fist waving, and venting frustrations out on the idiot ahead of you.

“Driving” can mean so many different things. There's the long, drawn out cruise through the unending desert. There's the stop and start truncated frustration of big city traffic. There's the slow Sunday drive, admiring the gorgeous scenery pass by your window. There's the gas guzzling mountain drive, up and up and around and further up, until the final, satisfactory sail downhill, what goes up must go down, I always say. There's the “I gotta find it!” GPS guided drive. The drive on icy roads, making you suck in your breath and ease off both gas and brakes. There's the lonely drive, turning up the tunes or the radio documentary. There's the drive that makes you forget you are driving, surrounded by chatter and engaged in conversation.

And then there's the California coastal drive.

I started in Long Beach with the big city traffic kind. Slow and typically frustrating. Carolynn in the passenger seat beside me gave conversation and functioned as a pretty good DJ. On the outskirts of the city the traffic took a while to thin out. When it finally did, the highway met the ocean and promised to meander a breathtaking path along the coast, a stunning route we'd been hoping for. The road carved precariously at some points along the cliffs that dove nearly straight down into the ocean. We climbed, curved, and oohed and aaahhed at the unbelievable scenery we were driving along. The hills reminded us of Switzerland and Italy and Ireland. Soft green carpeted hills, well manicured, misty and lush with the warm, moist coastal air. Every 20 miles or so, cars parked along the side of the road and surfers gathered in the ocean waves. Some parts along the drive were so remote, our cell phones lost service for the first time in the US.

This drive was definitely of the romantic kind, Carolynn and I agreed, and laughed that while we enjoyed it together, it might otherwise have been the perfect setting to experience with a lover. The camping under redwoods in state parks along the way was basic and added to the romantic feeling of the journey. We stopped in charming Santa Barbara, where we sipped California bubbly and glimpsed lounging seals, seemingly lovers themselves, on a sunset sail boat cruise. Coffee and breakfast in Carmel, California's answer to the east coast's Martha's Vineyard, where the swanky moneyed Californians go for a weekend or a month away from the hustle and bustle of bigger city life. Walking around the gorgeous San Francisco. Tasting wine in Napa Valley (I recommend my newest discovery, the Freemark Abbey winery).

My rose-coloured windshield was disturbed today by an incident of the fist-waving kind. I realize the Jamboree is big and bulky and slow and since I am rarely in a hurry, I do my best to be considerate. On highways with two or more lanes, I stay over in the right hand side so everyone else can easily pass. On single lane roads, I pull over into roadside pullouts whenever I can when I notice a few cars trailing behind me. I wouldn't want to be stuck behind me either, if I were in one of those fast little cars. This morning, as I wove my way slowly in the early morning across a quiet Napa Valley road, I was faced with a driver of the idiot kind. An irritating, impatient know-it-all. He made a big deal of passing me when there was a long enough stretch of road to do so, obviously impressed with his own daring and skill behind the wheel. Right after this amazing display of driving ability, a roadside pullout appeared, into which I was about to pull, as per my general habit. Since he is ahead of me now, though, and presumably much smarter and experienced a driver than I, he found it necessary to slow down, stick his hand out the window and point at the pull out for me. Good grief, how thankful I was that he was there to teach me what to do! I mean, really, I'm surprised he managed to squeeze both himself and his ego into that tiny little car. I flipped him the bird through the Jamboree's window and pulled over for the cars who were still travelling behind me. Interestingly, none of them thanked me, and along the entire coastal drive, I only got one wave despite pulling over for hundreds of cars. Waves and toots and light flashes to indicate thanks apparently only happen on Canadian roads.

LA-Napa