Bear's Bedtime Story
told in stream-of-consciousness style over multiple emails

Long years ago, a fisherwoman sat beside Ohop Lake, watching trout make sparkling ripples as they dimpled the surface of the water in search of mayfly nymphs. This particular spot was not the public fishing access where fish came easily to the hook. Further up the lake this was, at a place the locals call the High Bank. "High" is relative. A dirt cut drops ten feet to the water's edge, but it is possible to sit there in a lazy canvas chair to wait for the tug at line's end...

The High Bank is not the most productive water, but the lack of other fishermen make it a desirable post for one not too intent on catching fish.

On this particular day, the water was still as glass. Tatty beach homes on the far shore stood upside-down in reflection so clear and pure that a photo taken from the spot could be either wrong-side-up or not, and the only subtle difference would be that of a slightly redder shade; that, and the occasional dimple of a trout disturbing someone's porch railing or their barbecue in the water's image.

This image faces east. The sun peers between a lace of evergreen above the colorful houses patchworked on the shore. A dock or two projects a finger into the water, and a blue-bottomed boat lies on the lake margin, turned over on its hollow.

The lake is quiet. Only small bird sounds ripple the air, or the occasional hum of a fly, sounding for all the world like a 747 in the calm.

The fisherwoman sits on the earth. Her yellow line stretches into the distance, a small belly hanging, waiting to tighten on an unwary trout. Her full attention is on the line, observing any slight change in its tension. Her mind, however, is empty of thought and filled with the peace of the moment.

There is a sudden break in the tranquility as a woodpecker (pileated) knocks on a nearby tree. *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *brrrrrrrrt* and then a pause as the bird's long tongue probes beneath the bark in search of breakfast. The fisherwoman follows the bird with her eyes, her hands now sensitive to any vibration in the rod she holds. The woodpecker drills again, spirals around the tree and out of the fisherwoman's vision. Her eyes drift casually back to the lake and focus on her line. Yellow line, for visibility in cloudy or grey skies...today, it makes no difference, not to the weather's whims or to the elusive fish.

Nothing disturbs this moment. The fisherwoman, lost in semi-trance, feels the water and its reflection in her spirit. There is no tension in her body, not even as she holds the rod at ready. She is in a natural pose, sitting on the ground with legs dangling over the High Bank edge. Beside her is a cup of coffee, long forgotten and cooled. One hand strays to it out of reflex and carries it to her lips. The draught she takes is unobserved, a mere formality like breathing, done without thought or purpose. She sets the cup down with her attention never moving from the line.

A breath of breeze shifts the golden streak of line by half a micron. The fisherwoman tenses, but the motion is side-to-side...wind and nothing more. On the surface of the lake, a narrow stripe of corrugated ripple runs five feet before subsiding once again into the varnished water. Calm, both fisherwoman and lake resume their silent communication.

Distantly, a duck comes feet first to a landing. The spray flies up at its sides and the light shatters into rainbows. Duck-wake subsides, the bird sits calmly as a floating twig.

Now the sun rises above the fringe of evergreen. The morning's light crispness transmutes into golden noon. Wisps of steam rise from the warming water, but the reflection remains clear...wisps rise above and wink beneath, dissipating in two directions from the water's smooth mirror.

A new ripple creases the water, one which progresses in a search pattern just below the surface. The lake hides the fish, but not its upper fin. The duck raises its head, although the fish is not within its reach, and suddenly strikes downward with an arching thrust of its neck, tail saluting the sky. It re-emerges with a small reward, a three-inch minnow which it orients headfirst to swallow. Then, shaking its beak to settle the meal in its crop, the duck flutters its wings and small raindrops fly into prisms.

The larger fish cirlces near the point where the fisherwoman's line scythes the water, but she does not move a muscle, does not tense for fear of translating the motion through the fine web. The water is fifteen feet deep where her sinker lies, and the fish is on the surface. Patience, the patience of the Aborigine stalking a wallaby. The disturbance on the water disappears. The fish is plumbing the depths for the scent of bait.

Another playful fret of breeze moves the fisherwoman's line toward her. Mischievous zephyr, this, hoping to fool her from her concentration. The belly of line reacts differently to a fish's tug, so she laughs silently at the little breeze. It sulks off and leaves her in observant reverie, her senses tuned to the slightest alteration in the natural course of the world.

In the next moment, the belly of line makes a gentle forward motion. the fish has found the bait, noses it with the merest bump, then swims off to observe the oddity's behaviour. Time is nothing in this scenario...five minutes, ten? Who knows? The line moves again with more vigor, then again subsides into stillness. This fish is not hungry, merely curious.

Still, sit very still without tension. The rod lies easy in the fisherwoman's hands, her posture is comfortable, despite the stony ground. The cup of coffee, idle at her side, is no more still than she. The only motion in this scene is the duck's gentle drifting, and the repetitive opening and closing of the fish's gills far beneath the surface, inches from the bait.

Patience, patience...patience of the spirit, not enforced. Patience empty of thought, living the moment of tjukurrpa like an Aborigine.

Quietly, the fisherwoman waits. The duck makes a lazy circle, ripples following. Small breezes shudder eddies in the water. The woodpecker is silent, the reflection in the water pure on one bank, scattered on the other. A sense of peace and confirmation of life comes like fog, and the fish swims away to its lie.

edited to include missing portions retrieved from Bear's personal hoard

The Great American Shad Fishing Expedition 2006 launched from here at 6 AM (promptly!), three of the four team members still a bit bleary-eyed. The fourth (your humble narrator) is never bleary-eyed in the morning. Mornings are too precious to veil with half-lidded eyes.

Sande drove. I rode shotgun with Sande's two daughters Daphne and Daniele in the back seat. Daphne nodded off a couple of times, but as Daniele and I got sillier and sillier, she perked up and joined in the fun. Daniele's sillies surprised me. She is normally a straightforward sort of person who detours occasionally into joking play, but on this morning, she was delightfully fresh and wacky, admirable qualities in a person who has gone short of sleep in pursuit of broader horizons. Daphne, on the flip side, is always kooky, and a hoot to be around. How many other women do you know who smoke cigars?

Now in telling this tale, I will be speaking a bit more about my Bear, despite his physical absence from the Expedition. There are circumstances between us that make revealing our love for one another impossible but to dearest, closest friends, at least for now. Thus, Sande knows the story, but until this fishing trip, the girls were unaware that your author had a love interest, or indeed any interest in having a love interest until my cell phone rang, and the ensuing conversation included several repetitions of those deep three words we long to hear and say. I will not hide my love for this man, except in certain venues, and if family censures me for being too careless in giving my heart too soon, then let it be. My reasons for being confident in him are profound, and perhaps unfathomable to many, if not most. Suffice to say, the Bear and I are a long-term Item, and after the call that came as we sped down the highway in pursuit of shad, my two sisters-of-the-soul had had an insight and, before we reached Bonneville, they had had another. I am quite fond of Bear's calls, oh yes, even when we must be somewhat guarded in what we say.

However, this tale is genuinely about fish and the fishermen, so let's hop out of the car at Bonneville and cast our gaze along the rocky shoreline of the mightily roaring Columbia.

Behind the concrete outhouse, the dirt bank slopes steeply down, cut by myriad braided trails which pass from grass clump to grass clump, affording footing for the younger and surer-footed folk than Sande. Sande is, after all, 85, and it frightens me to see his years becoming more and more apparent. His mind is less clear, his body less strong, his attention wanders, his memory falters in disproportionate amount to the man who walked this riverbank a single year ago. I try not to see it, the accelerating aging. I do not want to face the loss of so dear a friend so soon ahead, when so many rivers lie unfished. No, this access to the shad-filled waters is not for Sande, but we stand and watch men with rods bowed and silver sides flashing in the current for some minutes before moving on.

In all my years fishing with my buddy, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he has arrived prepared to assault the waters. There are always to be knots to tie, lures to find, sinkers to crimp and so forth. My rod is ready, and my friend's fingers are no longer nimble, so I take the leader, hook and lead and craft them into functionality. The girls are donning layers against the wind for, despite sun, the Columbia draws a strong and chilly breath down its throat. I am comfortable in twill trousers, a t-shirt, cotton work shirt, wool overshirt, bandana wrapped around my ears, and the inimitable fishing hat slammed atop my head. Boots? Boots always. We have a rocky path to descend, and rockier travel to our chosen bases.

In my fishing pack lie three trays of gear: lead jigs, lead weights, bits of plastic and feather, spools of leader. It will be the most weight I have slung over the injured shoulder for many months. I would prefer to enter the pack left-armed, but such is not my habit and the awkwardness of the motion defeats me. Right arm through the strap, I swing the pounds across my back and bend forward so it does not fall abruptly on the joint. The girls and I take portions of Sande's load so his hands can be free, and we walk down a small trail where the riprap has been pushed aside.

At the point where the trail meets the water is a perfect spot from which to hit a crease in the Columbia's channel, a crease lined with hungry shad, if I've guessed the run correctly. This channel, however, is known to many, many fishermen and we find the best rocks occupied. Sande has no choice but to make his way through riprap, at least for a dozen yards or so.

Now I am not as light on my feet as I once was. I can no longer leap from one wobbly boulder to the next and next without danger of falling. I find myself picking my way more carefully, mindful of the shoulder, and even so, I teeter once or twice, but never go completely down. My boot catches between two rocks, making me aware that I was not paying attention. I have not caught a boot for some thirty years or more of riprap rambling. At length, I take a position some 50 feet or more from the rest of my party, and I see the girls helping their father to a seat among the rocks. Sitting? Sande never sits to fish unless we're at lakeside, but there he is. A chill runs up my spine that has nothing to do with the breath of the Columbia.

A few casts brings one small shad to the shore at my feet, and Daniele has hastened across the rocks as I fight it to take my picture for the Bear. First fish! And the smallest shad I've ever seen, no more than a pound at best. The phone rings in my pocket. Across the many miles, Bear has caught his first shad through my hands. "Unfathomable to many, if not most," I said, back a paragraph or five. Bear knew. Oh yes, Bear knew.

Among the four of us, we have two poles only, with two far less sturdy trout outfits in the car. The daughters have not fished for shad, and neither is a fisherman in the sense one generally means the word, so Sande and I take turns with seminars on casting, retrieving, learning to resign one's self to breaking off another lure which has become snagged somewhere in the depths. Daniele's casts land at her feet (or worse, behind her), so I cast and let her reel. We have brought the girls here for an Experience of a Lifetime: "shad, the poor man's tarpon," as local newsprint tells. There is no compulsion to fish for sustenance here. Shad are amazingly inedible, except as pickled herring. I will keep two, no more, so let me share my day with one who has not played at this sport before.

The Bite, so touted in fishing articles, goes off. A dry spell ensues, during which the rocks grow hungry for the tiny shad dart jigs we throw out to them. My supply of slinky sinkers dwindles into non-existence and I switch to pencil lead, much harder to repossess from the river's depths. My arm is tiring. My disposition is losing its glitter. Another full rig caught on the bottom, and again I tie up, cursing. Two hours go by with few bites from anything but rocks. I watch the other fishermen along the bank (very few this year, compared to others). It's not me. The Bite is off. Changing colors makes no difference. Changing retrieve makes no difference. Changing weight makes no difference. The Bite is truly off.

The wind raises waves on the water, surges. My mind wanders to thoughts of the Bear and Living Water. I am calmed in spirit and it translates down my line as the yellow-red shad jig with its golden hook passes through a fish's field of vision. I am yanked back to ordinary reality with a fight beyond the tip of my arcing rod, and a fine female laden with twinned sacs of roe finds a home in the hollow of the cooler. Another few casts, and another fish brought to land. The inhaling and exhaling of the universe has returned the coveted Bite under the noontime sky, and I forget to make the tally.

Daniele has been sitting with her father. Unbeknownst to me, Daphne has had a fall on the rocks, and damage has occurred to her wrist, her leg and to Sande's heavy rod, the rod's injury a mortal blow inches above the ferrule. Daphne has gone back to the car for a trout rig to continue the day, and I cast in ignorance, another shad surprising me with its vehement attack. I call to Daniele to come and take a picture. She begins a slow progression over the cruel riprap, cautiously picking her way among the boulders lest she repeat her sister's pattern. I am anxious. I don't want to land the fish until she has camera in hand.

Daniele is twenty feet from me, and my pocket rings like a morning robin, "Cheery-up! Cheery-up!" (pause) "Cheery-up! Cheery-up!" I haul on the fighting weight bending my rod toward the water. "Cheery-up! Cheery-up!" Nothing for it now, I stick the rod between my knees and try to unclip the phone one-handed. "Cheery-up! Cheery-up!"

"Daniele!" I shout, "Take my rod!" She is ten feet away and hurrying. Still holding the fish at the end of twenty feet of line, I push the answer button. "Hiya, Gorgeous!" I say, addressing the only person who could possibly be calling, since Sande is only a few yards away. "I've got a fish on!" I add, and then turn aside to order Daniele to land the dratted thing. I don't believe I did that, but there you are. Bear may measure his importance by the fact that I passed up a fish fight for the pleasure of him.

Now my recollection of events goes cloudy. Did Daniele keep the fish, or did she release it? I think she gave it to the Asian family fishing at the bottom of the trail. So never mind, this part of the story finds me seeking a soft spot on the pointy riprap, bum down a hole, upthrust beneath one wing, hip cocked against another, and my head back on the softest boulder it could find. First things first! I talk to Bear.

However longer later (and this period is indeterminate), I rise from my rocky nest and resume fishing, only to find that the Bite is dwindling yet again. Would I trade it for these moments in the basalt? Not hardly!

At this juncture, however, a change has occurred. I am not yet aware that it lies within myself, and as I cast repeatedly and snag repeatedly on the same rock, I am growing tired. I have pulled a muscle bundle in my bicep, and the arm is screaming fire and foe with every cast. Because my injury went so long untreated, I have large areas of atrophy which have yet to be restored by normal muscle-building, and I am hoping that it is just a strain and not another tear. The fishing compulsion is heavy on me, so I cast and cast and cast, but am seldom rewarded with the mica sparkle of scales on the rocks at my feet. I am tired, and I won't admit the hour's come.

To my left, the girls and Sande are hooking fish. I see the rods bob and nod, see the scrappy shad fighting the flow of the river, see them landed, given to the Asians, and another cast flies out over the water, drifts to 60° and the rod acknowledges another strike. I say to self, "What the heck am I not doing right?" and I try several variations. Nothing works, and six times in a row, I feed that selfsame rock. It does nothing beneficial for my attitude.

At last, I've had enough of playing second pole. I commit a sin against my creed, and move in on Sande. But can I buy a bite? Not hardly! I cast and cast and cast, and the water remains blank as a high-end mud puddle. I switch lures for what Sande is using. I catch one fish and think I've got it made in the shade, but again I'm wrong and return to featureless, fishless casts. Daniele says, "Let me see your pole," so I hand it to her. It's not doing me any good, that's for sure. She casts. She lands the fish and hands my rod back to me. No four-letter word has been written to express the dichotomy of fury, frustration and high amusement kicking me in the seat of my pride.

Oh yes, I am laughing. I am distraught, but laughing-laughing-laughing at myself. I've had a fine old day with friends, the fish have been forthcoming (if not precisely in expected numbers) and my Bear has danced the spirit of the Columbia through my aching arms. It's time to clean shad and go home.

There's not a word yet,
For old friends who've just met,
Part heaven, part space,
Or have I found my place?
You can just visit,
But I plan to stay.
I'm going to go back there someday.

Come and go with me,
It's more fun to share.
We'll both be completely
At home in mid-air.
We're flying, not walking
On featherless wings
And we hold onto LOVE
With invisible strings.

Ah, Gonzo! You're a...whatever, but your Vision is keen and your guidance true, for these words link two spirits across time and land, two spirits as deeply bonded as life and breath. I speak of Bear and Crow, here and there, and yet never apart, never, not ever, now that each has found the other. Gonzo, prophet, silly Muppet! You have hit the nail upon its veritable head.

Yes, there is a Person in the life of your humble narrator, a Person live and breathing, conditions which might surprise many of the author's friends. A gentle stalker, this Bear who crept up quietly and stole my heart before I felt his paws and without any sense of resignation, gave myself into his possession; a Bear who for a long time was content to watch from a distance, lest he frighten the flighty Crow who was the object of his gaze; a Bear who allowed another to watch over me in his stead, all the while afraid I'd fly and disappear forevermore from reach. Silly Bear! If I had seen you watching, waiting, wanting, I would have flown, oh yes, I would have flown straight into your arms long time since, and not away.

My Bear, my poem, my dawn and thunder, the Sky World is your realm and the only place one small Crow shall ever fly.

I sing us, sing us to the spirits. I dance us, dance us under Heaven, as is my way.

We go with good spirits, Bear, and God blesses us with love.

(A note to Mr. Bear: I am typing, not mousing. Typing does not stress the shoulder as much, therefore I *think* I can be excused??)

The eighth of August 2005 brought the end of any serious endeavour involving use of my right arm, and thus my days of blogging came abruptly to an end. For the seven and a half months following that date, I was either in pain, in surgery, or in physical therapy, or a combination thereof.

The day itself was one of those which tempts us into achieving goals: warm, sunny, full of life and hope. I had begun in the early morning chill, mounting my bicycle at a trailhead in Olympia with plans to ride a minimum of thirty miles. I had gone less than half a mile when the morning's light chill struck through me and made me consider returning to the car for a jacket, but instead, I convinced myself the air was bracing in its assault on my skin. I let the goosebumps rise as they would, small shivers shaking me as I pedalled a steady 12 miles per hour. I don't go fast, no...my goal this day was distance, not speed. Thirty miles at minimum, with plenty of space on the afternoon side of the day for more, if more was wanted.

As plans of mice and men will do, this day did gang agley. Oh, the thirty miles fell readily, and forty, and still I was feeling young and fresh, alive with physical activity and the breath of summer in my lungs. I have always loved the sense of fulfillment that using my muscles brings. Perspiration, phooey! To work up a good old-fashioned sweat is what I like, and if I smell like an elk in rut when I'm done, a shower takes care of that.

As it would happen, I was also geocaching on this day. I'd stop the bike when the prize was near, spend some moments searching (always finding...of course, always finding!), then mount the bike again and pedal on my way. There was but one detour from the paved bike path onto city streets, although until I'd made it, I had no idea the trail picked up again mere blocks away. I was delighted with this discovery, and asked a jogging passerby how far it might extend. "To Woodard Bay," he told me, and I asked for mileage. A quick computation in my head, and I realized I could still strike out and bag a 60-mile trip by the time I'd returned to my car. The day, if not young, was not yet past its prime, so off I went.

It was on the way back that I had the first mischance. At relatively fast speed (for me, that's 15 mph), I drove the butt end of a bee into the skin across my collarbone. Mind you now, the bee did not sting me, and lucky that, because I am quite allergic. No, I drove the bee into my hide, killed it dead on impact, and therefore the little dickens didn't have time to pump me full of venom. And still it HURT like blazes!

On the bike, I went along massaging this affront with a free hand. Then I came to one of the most devilish of barricades I've encountered in my bicycling career: a maze of pipe and concrete, designed that no bicyclist of any skill, not even Lance Armstrong, could navigate it while mounted and pedalling. I got off and, walking astride the bike, began to pass through. The knockoff lever on my front tire caught a piece of concrete. The handlebars twisted sideways. It wasn't a hard jerk by any means, but it was adequate to finish the on-going story of cortisone treatments to my shoulder. Not only did the rotator cuff part completely from its moorings, a tendon tore off at its junction to the bone. Hurt? I forgot all about the bee. My arm hung useless, and I was still six miles from the car. I mounted the bike, took my wrist in my remaining hand, laid the arm across my lap and rode the distance. How I got the bike into the car is not a pleasant memory, but the deed was done.

My physician, I have often said, couldn't diagnose a broken leg if you kicked him with it. For the next two months, he kept me on a wait-and-see. I couldn't sleep for pain. Lying down was impossible. What dozing I accomplished was done sitting up in bed and folded over the arm across my lap. I spent two months' nights in tears of pain, waiting and seeing as per doctor's orders. As the days progressed, I could feel the remaining strength in the arm ebbing as the muscles atrophied from disuse. I could move the forearm, but the upper arm wouldn't budge a quarter inch from its limp position at my side. Enough of this! I finally said, and drove myself one-handed to the doctor and insisted...yes, insisted that he send me to a specialist.

The following week, I was sent for an MRI which showed extensive damage. Less than seven days from that, I was in surgery. I have two screws holding my shoulder together now, and after five months of physical therapy, I have nearly total use of the arm, except for the range of motion which would allow me to put it behind my back from either above or below. The strength is returning, the areas of atrophy in which you could have sunk a golf ball are filling in. I can pull the starter cord on the lawn mower, although I wish I hadn't, and I can hold a quart of water at arm's length again.

You might say I'm "together" now...and that word leads to an entry soon to follow, one involving the aforesaid Mr. Bear. Sorry, my Bear...this portion of the tale had to be told before you could make your entry. The center stage is waiting, so come on in.

Perhaps the heats of summer are to blame, those fevers brought on by rising temperatures and seasonal hormonal fluxes, for in the last several months, your correspondent has noticed a growing incidence of road rage to a point that makes me a bit afraid to drive in town. Admittedly, I am a little old lady used to driving country roads where the center line is used in alignment with the hood ornament to keep you on a true course, but in town, I stay to my own lane, heed signs, offer courtesies and generally cannot be faulted for my skill behind the wheel. Nevertheless, for any out-of-towner, there are such pitfalls as abruptly terminating lanes to take one by surprise, but most native drivers make allowances for the momentarily confused pilot who happens to find themselves in the wrong place at an inopportune moment.

I found myself in such a situation a month or so ago. I came over the rise in the rightmost lane, intending to go straight through the traffic light, only to discover that the lane petered out in less than half a block. I knew that a righthand turn would take me across a freeway and thence back through the core of urban shopping and a long detour, so I flipped on my turn signal and indicated that I wanted to move into the lefthand through lane. I was unable to move immediately into the correct lane, and was therefore blocking traffic, but the person who was in the left lane indicated their willingness to let me cross over when the light changed.

A young man, possibly 24-25 years old, pulled up on my bumper, rolled his window down and began screaming profanity at me. Screaming? Shrieking would be a better word. He thrust his head out the window, the better to make his oratory heard, although there could be no doubt that his vocabulary was somewhat limited to the crudest of terms. He kept at it throughout the entire cycle of the street lights, only pausing briefly for breath between fricatives. When he was barely able to clear my bumper, he sped past with a squeal of tires, still abusing me verbally and adding gestures in case I'd missed his point.

Yesterday, another incident occurred. I was travelling in the leftmost southbound lane through a construction-caused traffic backup, and several people in the right lane had already angrily cut across my lane and the center lane to make illegal U-turns. My attention was focused on the traffic light, and my vehicle was too far ahead of the man to my right for me to notice that he had his turn signal on (if, in fact, he actually was indicating that he wanted to turn). My awareness was drawn to him when he made a vulgar gesture with a hand held at arm's length where it was clearly in my field of vision. Then he pulled a jack-rabbit start and sped ahead several car lengths, forced his way through a narrow gap and spun into the inside northbound lane. When he had cleared the cars in line ahead of me (headed toward me now), he veered into the center two-way turn lane, pulled alongside my car and attempted (with another vulgar gesture) to flip a burning cigarette through my driver's window. He regaled me with foul language as he drove on past. The smoldering half-cigarette bounced on my front windshield and I flicked the wipers to knock it to the ground.

It would be one thing if these were isolated incidents, but they are not. I drive in town once a week, and unfailingly, some such event occurs. Am I being singled out as a grey-haired, vulnerable granny, or is this the prevailing trend of city driving? The offenders mostly fit a stereotype: rough-looking young men between the ages of 20 and 25, although I was hassled once by a girl in a hot little red car who looked to be no older than 17.

Such occurrences make me fear for my safety on urban streets. As summer temperatures continue to bake us, I am reminded of "Fahrenheit 451" and its violent uprising amongst the automatons. Surely, these people are as disturbed as Bradbury's machines, maddened by the heat playing hob with their wiring.

Oh, and I should bite my tongue right off! The next log entry for the cache I wrote about in my previous post came from the same folks and was a "Found it!" In it, they thanked me kindly for my help and said that the coordinates I had given were spot-on and the containers were all well-hidden, then went on to add that the fault was theirs for not trusting their GPSr and for misinterpreting the hint I had given.

You have to laugh when karma bites you on the bum.

Yesterday was one of the lousiest in my geocaching history, and one has to wonder if the poor showing was due in part to being distracted by the shoulder injury and an overall malaise which I suspect stems from the bee sting. Plainly put, I tried for five caches en route to a family reunion and only found three of them. Oddly, the two I missed were purportedly 1) the simplest and 2) the largest container.

I had no problem locating a small plastic box in a huge wall of landscaping rock set close to butt-prickling blackberry bushes, nor with an ammo can (somewhat over-rated) stowed inside a hollow stump and covered with bark. Nor did I experience any difficulty with the three-star hide which hung suspended on a wire deep inside a metal fencepost, secured to the end-cap by a knurled nut. I walked straight to that one, eyeballed it briefly, stealthily popped it off and withdrew the log, all within easy sight of several muggles with their dogs out for a Sunday morning constitutional. My finds took mere minutes. I searched at least half an hour for each of the two failures before time caught me out as I remembered the reunion and my real mission of the day.

It was tempting to accuse muggledom of waylaying the ammo can I couldn't find with a GPS that told me I was on top of the dratted thing when up against a chain-link fence, and I would have done, but for one thing: another cacher had retrieved it and filed a log ahead of my begrudging "Did Not Find." Likewise, the magnetized Altoids tin which was supposedly easy and straightforward did not turn out to be sticking to any of the metal plates either alongside or under the footbridge, not as far as I could see. It was also found by the other cacher, but all I earned was a headdress of spiderwebs and a few incensed arachnids in my hair. I wanted to say it had been muggled, but could not even suggest it fairly, given the circumstances.

And there's the rub: failure must, perforce, be due to outside factors, doesn't it? I was ready to point fingers, lay blame elsewhere (if perhaps not in print), and even as the accusations crossed my mind, a DNF log came through the mailing system regarding one of my own hides. "We looked and couldn't find it," it claimed. "The hint said to lift the lid, and we lifted several, including a brown one, a green one and a black one. Our GPS told us the cache was 30 feet away, but that would have put us somewhere we might have damaged the landscaping. Only one other cacher has found this, so people must be looking but not filing DNF's. We think this cache is really gone."

I was crabby from heat when I read this, and had to bite my tongue hard not to write a snappy reply. Instead, I responded simply, "The 'lid' you were to lift is a small stone on the top of the rockery." Such hides are very common, and this hunter's statistics showed that they were relatively inexperienced with geocaching on the whole.

Never mind that caches in my area draw very few seekers due to distance from a population center, and this one has no reason to be an exception to that fact. Never mind that the hunters' GPSr told them to go There, but they went Elsewhere instead. Never mind that they allowed preconceived notions to jade their eye for "lids." Obviously, the flaw lay with my cache, my coordinates, my maintenance record, because it certainly couldn't have been through any fault of their own that they didn't find a film canister, any more than my failure to find an ammo can or a magnetized Altoids tin could have been through any lapse in my powers of observation.

This is apparently human nature, and I am human, whether I like to own up to it or not. The shoe seems to fit, tacky and old as it is, even when it's on the other foot.

Ice. Heat. Rest. Well, one out of three's about par for me.

Following instructions, I apply an ice pack for twenty minutes to relieve the swelling in the injured shoulder. That works, and it actually makes it feel better, moreso if I leave it on for an hour. Application of gentle heat following the cold pack restores pain along with circulation. I conclude that this is not a good idea. Rest? I know that word. I've even used it when speaking to other people, but it has little personal significance, and I'm paying for my ignorance of the technique.

Since the accident, I've placed a new cache and found two, one of which involved jeeping in my Toyota up another Log Road From Hell. The logic was that if I could stay in second gear the whole way, I wouldn't do the arm any harm by shifting. The road wasn't as bad as I'd feared, although the car nearly bottomed out on one of the cross-cut gutters, and we left a bit of paint on some close-growing alders, but the theory of second-gear travel worked quite well. The cache was found in the roots of an upturned stump, was loaded with treasures, and was heavily guarded by deerflies, each of which wanted their pound of flesh. I was resting, wasn't I?

The arm will now move out to the side an inch or two, but no matter how hard I try, it will not go forward. I wish I'd stop trying, because it hurts to do so, but I am driven to work through the pain, foolish as I know that is. I pushed too hard today, and the Vicodin is calling my name though I am trying to ignore its insistent voice.

The bee sting has ceased itching for the most part and the swelling has gone down, although I think I can see the remnant of a stinger still embedded under the skin.

I look back a year to 13 August 2004: I totalled my bicycle on that date in a collision with a small child. What is it about August, anyway? I'll be ever so glad when September arrives!

I am injured. For the last year or so, my doctor has been treating me with cortisone injections for suspected bursitis in my shoulder. The treatment has been more or less successful; at least I have been nearly pain-free for as much as six weeks between dosages. Nevertheless, the nature of the pain has made me doubt his diagnosis, and doubting one's physician is never a good thing.

Yesterday, the geas was upon me to do a bike ride/geocaching combo, and given the projected temperature of the day, I chose the shady, lovely Chehalis-Western Trail. My goal was forty miles and seven caches. I had previously found half a dozen or more hides along this particular trail, and had wisely left a few unsought to inspire me to ride it again.

I began at the Chambers Lake trailhead and headed south. At this point, I was thinking of turning around at the intersection with the Yelm-Tenino Trail. The morning was cool and misty, and I had gone no more than a tenth of a mile when I began to wonder if I should turn around and get a jacket from the car. No, the temperature was slated to rise, and I knew as soon as the fog lifted, it wouldn't take long to warm up. I shivered valiantly, welcoming the occasional opportunity to get off the bike and search for treasure-filled Tupperware in the woods.

The first few caches on my list were puzzles, and without exception, were based in math. I enjoy puzzle caches (I've planted several), but my math is long behind me, so there was room for error. Fortunately, I had made no miscalculations, and all my searches culminated with the prize.

By now, the morning fogs had disappeared, and the miles slipped away beneath my rolling wheels. I reached the intersection with the Yelm-Tenino Trail well before noon. I felt good, and quickly decided to go partway down the trail toward the small community of T-9-0, as it was called in railroad jargon. I wasn't planning to go all the way, but one thing led to another, and soon I found myself in the park at the end of the line. I took a quick spot of lunch at a picnic table and then began the return journey, looping off briefly to pick up two caches in suburban Lacey, adding a few miles before re-attaining the trail and returning to Chambers Lake.

One last cache remained on my list, and to access it, it was necessary to travel city streets. I had no idea that there was an extension of the Chehalis-Western Trail north of Martin Way, not until I began pedalling toward where I remembered a railroad trestle from years ago. Yes, the trail picked up there again, at the spot where the prickly gorse once grew. I was glad to be out of traffic. My odometer was reading approximately 43 miles at this point, and I had a mile to go to the cache site. After making the find, I thought, "Well, why don't I make it a nice round 50?" despite the hour of the day.

The more I considered the matter, I wondered how far this unexpected "bonus" trail would take me, so I stopped a pedestrian and asked. When I was told that the northmost trailhead was at Woodward Bay, a mere four miles ahead, it seemed only logical to continue on. Quick computation told me that I would have almost 60 miles to my credit if I did so, and I could have dinner at Taco Time as added incentive.

Well, I attained Woodward Bay in short order, stopped and picked some ripe blackberries to tide me over until supper, and was pedalling along at a fairly good clip when I collided with a bee. In retrospect, I will say that it must have been preparing to get into stinging position, but I was not stung...or not exactly. The stinger penetrated my skin directly above my collarbone, but the bee was too wonky to inject venom and merely buzzed off, down inside my shirt! I grabbed it and pinched hard, shook it out the sleeve, although I wasn't positive of that until I'd gone into the woods and stripped. My neck hurt like mad, but not precisely like a sting. I am extremely allergic to bee stings, and react severely within mere minutes.

Riding on, massaging my poor wounded neck with one hand, I came to one of the obstacle courses designed to slow bicyclists down when they approach an intersection with a highway. These are very narrow and almost impossible to navigate while riding, and in fact, most people choose to go around them on a social path on either side (also very narrow). I am not the steadiest rider, so I stopped here and put both feet on the ground, although I was still straddling the bike. As I attempted to walk it through the opening, the knock-off lever on my front tire struck a concrete block and wrenched the front wheel sideways. Holding the handlebars, I felt something tear in my bad shoulder. With difficulty, I made my way back over the remaining miles to the car, a tidy 60.0 under my belt, and seven of seven caches found.

I don't know how I loaded the bike into the car, nor how I drove home. The pain in my shoulder was excruciating and kept me awake all night in tears, despite ice packs. This morning, my fishing buddy drove an hour from his home to mine, picked me up, drove another hour to take me to the doctor, and then brought me back again with nothing more than a prescription for Vicodin in my hand. The diagnosis? Possible torn rotator cuff, possible burst bursa, possible sprain. Wait two weeks and see if it heals up. If not, I go for an MRI.

Grand. This is what modern medicine gets you. I can't take the pain meds because I develop unsavory side-effects, although I may risk one in order to sleep tonight. I can't lift my upper arm an inch, although I can move the lower arm just fine. I can't drive, can't hold a book, am not supposed to be using the computer. In short, I'm miserable and beyond the pale of medical knowledge once again.

The insulted bee has also left its mark. Apparently, my sensitivity to the venom is so great that I itch from ear to larynx from having splattered the creature on my hide. I was in too much distress from the shoulder to remember to ask doctor about it.

"Thunderbirds Are Go!"

Undoubtedly, that makes very little sense to you, nor would it matter if I told you it is commonly abbreviated "TBAG" and is best said quite loudly, regardless of whether or not anyone is around to hear. There is something gratifying about that cry (pronounced "Tea-bag!") because it denotes moving up one more rung on the game ladder.

Back in the days when parties had little to do with either booze or sex, people found enjoyment in amusements such as "Twenty Questions" and "Charades." "Thunderbirds Are Go" was undoubtedly called by some other name in that era, but it is by this title that it appears in the Groundspeak (geocaching) forum called "Off Topic" (a corner reserved for members only).

The game rules are essentially the same as when played in the parlour. One person speaks a number (the traditional round begins at five), and conversation continues in a normal fashion. At some point, another person will slip the next number in the countdown into a sentence, so forth and so on until at last the number one is reached. At that point, the first person to call "TBAG!" scores a point and begins the next countdown. However, there is a stipulation that no single person may say "one" and "TBAG" in the same round. They can, however, say "three of my dogs chased the neighbor's two cats," counting off both 3 and 2.

In the chat room version, we are using any reasonable starting point and, where possible, the number is accompanied by an image or repeated images showing the correct count. The first number of the countdown is posted, and generally the next several numbers fall into place fairly quickly. As the critical moment approaches, though, time begins to drag. If you are to win, you must be quick to follow the person who says "One," so this means refreshing the page frequently to see if a new number has been added.

Sounds easy, doesn't it? It's not. It is just past 8 PM presently, and I have been refreshing, hoping to see a 1 posted, since 5:15. Our present top scorer has 37 points. I just earned my 15th. There are gaps and shared counts in the roster, and only seven members have scores equal to or greater than mine. Earlier today, a similar tardiness caused two people to jump at once. One (myself) was a split second quicker, and the post of "TBAG!" which followed mine was subsequently lined out by the poster. Oddly, I am scoring points against people with broadband when all I have is dial-up, and slow country dial-up at that, and to further add excitement, I scored the 14th point while in the process of reading the last chapter of "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." Talk about multi-tasking!

If geocaching sounds like nothing more than an adult version of "Scavenger Hunt" to my readers, let me assure you, it sometimes holds more surprises than a giant economy-size piñata, more thrills than bungee-jumping, and more benefits than you might expect (in my case, the dramatic increase in my activity level has substantially reduced high cholesterol readings).

Yesterday morning, I was in the mood for a challenge, and decided to take on a cache rated 4.5 for terrain on a scoring system which runs from 1 (wheelchair-accessible) to 5 (technical equipment or an overnight stay required). I had tackled this particular cache on two previous occasions, following a series of waypoints which were clearly outlined in the cache description. In this I erred, assuming that the hider's knowledge of woodsmanship was equal to or better than my own. I had no justification for having made that assumption; consequently, I invited disappointment.

The second of the posted waypoints had dropped me to stream level in a steepening canyon lined with devil's club, salmonberry thickets and nettles. The stream itself was often hidden beneath a canopy of outstretched thorny twigs, the rocks in its bed slick with the slime of having spent eternity in wet shadow. I had reached an impasse twice in my blind trust of the printed numbers, and was on the verge of breaching ecologic protocol to carry a machete in my pack until I conferred with another cacher, a woodsman by trade, who convinced me to go with what my woodscraft told me was correct.

By staying high on the trailless ridge, I fought my way through head-high sword fern and mats of spiderweb, past the slashed coulee that debouched into devil's club 60 feet above the creek. I clambered amid deadfall, long rotted and now slickly decaying, drove trekking poles into saturated ground to give my feet something to brace against as I slipped over a massive log and into the unknown footing on its nether side. I was in my element here, alone, with the distant sound of the creek in my right ear, assuring me that I wasn't off my route. It might seem an odd place to find a tiny, scrawny grandmother, but I am more at home in this venue than in a grocery store. I can easily be "bushed" between the dog food and the soap aisles, yet I can navigate four finger ridges, a gully, two swamps and a cliff to get to the "checkout" as easily as you can find your own bathroom in the dark.

I came then to a rock face, the "Devil's Tower" (by local appellation), a massive thumb atop which stands a solitary tree exposed to the threat of lightning. Perhaps the canyon walls have kept it safe, for it has reached a venerable age, that tree, and it stands sentinel to a deeply cleft cataract set around a corner of geography, invisible until you are almost upon the falls' 125-foot height. This was my goal: the falls and the geocache at its feet...that, and getting back to the car again unscathed.

It was a small moment in my day, but a pleasant one, and after a few minutes enjoying the roar of the cascade while I signed the log and made an exchange of items, I again shouldered the pack, climbed up to the base of the monolith and crossed beneath it into the dense and homey forest, outward bound, feeling that I'd earned my stripes as a true geocacher on this adventure.

Only once in my travels did I fall on the sharply banked hillside, and hard enough that several bones in my bum shoulder sounded off like popcorn in a hot skillet as I jammed a trekking pole into the duff to keep from sliding down ten or more feet to a small terrace. The ridge befriended me, led me unerringly to the road a mile beyond. It had been many years since last I pioneered a route in wilderness, and it was good to know I hadn't lost the knack.

Ah, but the day held another surprise. My itinerary took me to a public pheasant-release hunting area later in the afternoon, and as I searched for the geocache hidden on its margin, I discovered what was surely the container: an opaque white jar two quarts in size, like a giant vitamin bottle placed beneath a hawthorn shrub. I knelt to pick it up, discovered it to be heavier than expected and consequently sat it down on the ground instead of placing it on bent knee as is my usual wont.

I spun the lid open, expecting a trove of McDonald's toys and Dollar Store trinkets, but as the jar rocked and the lid was freed of the threads, a dark blue fluid smelling strongly of gasoline sloshed out on my hand. Blue gasoline? My recollection could call up nothing beyond pink or clear. Whatever this substance was, it smelled flammable, and it was parked in bold exposure to the sun at the edge of a 40-acre prairie where the dry, tall grass was swept in undulating waves by the surface breeze. I hastily closed the lid, debating the proper course of action, and by the time I had walked back to the car, I had decided the authorities needed to be called in.

Cell phone reception was marginal and my knowledge of road names was not much better, although I did manage to give sufficient directions to the 911 dispatcher as to my location. Geographic coordinates mean nothing to these people. Had I told them longitude and latitude to the thousandth of a degree, they might have sent aid to south Timbuktoo without the small piece of technology I held in my hand. They wanted cross-streets, so I walked a quarter mile to the intersection and read the numbers off the signs.

An hour passed, and no one had arrived to remove what I was now mentally referring to as an "incendiary device," despite its lack of wires or trigger. A jar of gasoline or other flammable substance set out on a 90-degree day in direct sunlight on a dry prairie certainly smacked of arson in the making as far as I was concerned. I called 911 again, and was told that all deputies were occupied with a rash of domestic violence, child abuse and an accident thrown in for dessert. The potentially life-threatening situations had to be dealt with first, but the dispatcher gave me permission to leave the site when I suggested marking the location with a "ribbon." Having no ribbon, a blue WalMart bag had to suffice. I tied it to the fence adjacent to the bush, but I was not settled in my mind. Why hadn't the fire department been dispatched, rather than the sheriff? I remembered seeing a fire station on the opposite end of town, on my homeward route.

Well, the fireman on duty was as mystified as I was with respect to which department should have answered my call. He listened to my explanation, understood precisely when I explained that I was a geocacher in pursuit of a container filled with silly toys because another member of his team is quite active in the sport. He took note of my directions to the WalMart "ribbon," and told me he'd go right out to investigate. My last hunt for the day was nearby, and as I drove past the firehouse on my way home, the big rig had been stowed inside, indicating that he had indeed gone out on the call.

Will I ever know what the substance was? Not unless I see it again somewhere. Will I ever know how the issue was resolved? Probably not. The small town where this event occurred has neither a police station nor a newspaper. Did I save the prairie from an arsonist? Possibly.

Knowledge reached a balance on this day. In finding Sulphur Creek Falls, I drew deeply from the well, only to find it empty at day's end. This is the inhaling and exhaling of the Universe, the healthy, living organism of which we are all a part. It was a good trade, as all caching trades should be.

A recent experience has reminded me that to be fair, I should present the other side of geocaching: the painful failures. Ah, yes. Some are genuine mistakes in observation, when you overlook the one bit of moss concealing a film can at the base of a tree, only to discover that the same cache has been found by someone's four-year old daughter on the very same day you looked for it.

It was no missed clue that generated my latest DNF (that stands for "Did Not Find"). It was not doing adequate background work. When I first began geocaching, I listed a selection of caches I wanted to hunt in my "little black book." Most people cache in the fashion known as "paperless," having the ability to download coordinates and data directly into their GPSr's and PDA's. I do not have these capabilities, so I jot down the relevant information in a Neopets 4" x 6" spiral notebook. I can get five to seven caches on each page, using my personal shorthand for the salient points. These are the waypoint abbreviation (an alphanumeric code issued by geocaching.com), the coordinates, the size and difficulty level of the hide, and enough driving notes to take me to the site. The latter occupies the bulk of the info.

Some caches are more seasonal than others, and that was the case with this one. It required fording a stream. When I had entered it into the notebook, the water was running higher than calf-high boots could manage, and not wanting to suit up in waders, I postponed it until a few days ago. I knew the spot well for its infamy in angling circles as the place where the term "combat fishing" was born.

I hiked in a pleasant half-mile along the gurgling river, and at the mouth of a feeder stream, turned up it and made my way along the bank to where I knew there were some logs and rocks. With the aid of a trekking pole and some very careful footwork on the mossy, slick surfaces, I reached the opposite bank with only a slight dampening of the socks incurred when stepping in the water over the instep of my hiking boots had been unavoidable. I slid my fanny over the last log, climbed a small embankment and discovered a fisherman's trail leading through a salmonberry thicket. I thought I was home free.

Unfortunately, after passing through the tangled berry vines, I came to a minor swamp. There was no way around it, so I went through, slogging in mud above my boot tops. I wished I'd thought to put on the barn boots that were in my pack, but I hadn't expected that first step to act like quicksand. The damage was done. Proceeding seemed to be the logical course. The boots would have to spend the night on the boot drier, no more than that.

Once out of the mud, I came into the general area of the cache. I knew that it was hidden in or near a fallen tree. There weren't many downed trees nearby, and because I knew the particular hider's modus operandi, I shut the GPSr off and concentrated on the root mass of the largest one. After several minutes of futile search, I fired up the GPSr. Yes, I was in the right spot.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, I combed every horizontal log in a 100-foot circle, in the process trespassing on even deeper mud sumps dozens of times. I climbed the root ball, examined the grassy top of it like a gorilla looking for lice on its offspring. I crawled beneath it, dragged out copious webwork in my hair and disturbed the local mosquito population. As I widened the search, I slipped and fell, wrenching an already painful shoulder. "For Pete's sake!" I cursed, "It's a flamin' ammo box! You've gotta be able to find it. Blind Freddie could find it!"

I did not find it. I plodded back across the muddy hollow, deliberately slid down the bank on my butt to avoid a precarious jump, took advantage of the water flowing across the rocks and logs at the ford to wash the exterior of the boots, then hiked the half-mile back to the car, wondering how I'd missed it.

How simple the solution was! I should have checked the cache logs instead of relying on information I'd written down in May. The ammo box had been reported missing, and had never been replaced.

It hasn't happened often enough that I'm worried about my reputation, but a few days ago, my fishing buddy took the prize for Fish Of The Day with a rainbow that could have eaten all mine for dinner and still had room for dessert. Far worse than that, he caught it in a spot I had objected to fishing on the grounds that it 1) hadn't been producing and 2) was too exposed to the sun for my tastes.

I don't do well in hot weather, perhaps because I'm native to the Everwet State and have grown accustomed to cloudy days and drizzle. Although my illustrious partner in angling was also Washington born and raised, he spent over 40 years of his life in brilliantly-lit California. What is hot to me (above 72) is pleasant according to his scale, and what is hellish in my book (above 80) only begins to touch the toes of hot by his standards.

This particular angler's roost is on the steep, rocky north bank of a river running east to west. There are trees to the south, but their shadows can't make the stretch over the main channel, not by half. The northern rocks last saw shade before the dam was built, back when the river lay deep in the bottom of the gorge and the surrounding timber had never heard a chainsaw's engine burring up to deliver doom, twenty years gone.

I don't often gripe and grumble about fishing, even when I fail to fool my prey, but on this occasion, heat, sun, fishlessness and excruciating pain in my casting shoulder combined to produce a mood most foul. I ripped something in there two weeks back, felt the rending of sinew or muscle as my line arced across the water of a different river. The shoulders, which have taken some of the worst of my lifetime abuses, seem to be determined to be the first to go. At any rate, I expressed my displeasure with voluble complaint, shocking my companion who has largely only seen my sunny side.

Sunny side, did I say? Who got the idea that the sunny side of a cool-weather Washingtonian was their best?

The sun is shining in a cloudless sky, the temperature is a pleasant 72°, you've been to geocaching.com and picked out the cache you want to hunt for (following my guidance, of course, since you're a novice). You've taken notes of the cache size, copied down the encrypted hint (in case you need it), and referred to past seekers' logs for possible enlightenment. Most importantly, you have entered the coordinates into your GPSr, so today we're going geocaching. What fun!

We drive to a wooded park not far from your home. There, in the parking lot where there are no trees to block satellite transmissions, you fire up your GPSr and let it acquire a signal. This process takes a scant few minutes, and you make good use of the time by referring to your notes. You have brought a pack or carry-bag with you containing trinkets to exchange, stuff that we refer to as "swag" (it's an acronym for "Stuff We've All Got").

Let's see what's inside! You've brought a wide range of items, since the rule of the game stipulates "trade up," i.e., exchange a higher-quality item for the one you remove from the cache container. Among your treasures are a Red Rose Tea figurine, several plastic puzzles from the Dollar Store, a brand-new deck of cards, the Columbia River Gorge keychain you picked up on a whim last summer, a few foreign coins, a used CD, a Beanie Baby collectible plushie, a cat collar studded with rhinestones. Yes, that ought to cover just about any eventuality.

Your GPSr has acquired a signal, and its screen tells you that it's presently speaking with eight satellites. Above the displayed image, text tells you that you have an accuracy of 12 feet. You click to another screen, select the waypoint for this cache and request a "GoTo." The navigation page displays an arrow pointing 45 degrees to your right, and distance to the goal as 0.15 miles. Why, that's just a walk in the park! Turn until the arrow points straight in front of you and start walking across the grass.

Whoa! Suddenly, you've come to a creek bisecting your line of travel, and the distance to the cache now reads 0.12 miles. The trail makes a T at the creek, so you must make a choice between left or right. Since I have found this cache before, I advise you to take the right branch. Next time, you'll be on your own without my guidance.

We enter the woods a few yards beyond, and the trail begins to wind. The GPSr has a hard time picking up the signal amongst the trees, sometimes cutting out entirely, but as you keep moving, it connects to another satellite and the arrow again points you toward the goal. Sometimes as the trail takes a bend, you find yourself losing ground on the distance, but then another kink in the path takes you on the correct bearing and soon you see the numbers change from tenths of miles to feet. You're closing in!

526, 454, 302...the arrow begins to shift a little to the left. You go around a small curve and it straightens out, but only momentarily. Now it points toward a tree half a dozen yards off the trail. Keep one eye on the tree and one eye on the arrow as you get closer. Yes, the arrow turns even more as you approach. That tree is definitely suspect. You walk past it, just to be sure. The arrow seems to point behind you, and the distance has wound down to 50 feet.

You know that the cache you're seeking is an ammo can. The cache description listed it as a 2/1.5, representing the difficulty of the hide and the type of terrain. The scale goes from 1 to 5, so a class 2 difficulty may be a bit more cleverly camouflaged than the stereotypical pile of parallel sticks at the base of a tree (a telltale that cachers quickly learn to spot). 1.5 terrain is flat, but not accessible by wheelchair. On the other hand, a 5/5 is extremely cleverly hidden and may require specialized equipment or require an overnight stay. The terrain might be anything from a scuba dive to a rock climb under the class 5 definition.

Step off the trail gently to preserve the integrity of the location. Proceed toward the tree. We arrive at its base, but the distance to the cache still reads 20 feet. However, we do recall that we had an accuracy error (EPE) of 12 feet back at the car. Chances are it's greater here, under the forest canopy. Let's start looking around for "geosign," since this is a popular cache.

Much easier than tracking an animal, finding evidence of previous geocachers is an important tool and one that shouldn't be considered a "cheat" because it's unavoidable except in First To Find scenarios. Look for trodden vegetation, broken branches, disturbed moss, heel marks in the forest duff. Yeah, see that? The moss is packed down at the base of this tree. People have stood here, searching. Did they find anything? We're looking for an ammo can, aren't we? The trunk of this tree is less than a foot in diameter. No ammo can hiding there. I see a geotrail leading to a stump. Stumps are good. Ammo can might hide behind or in a stump...but no, your examination of the stump yields up no can. The back side had rotted away, no can inside the hollow, just pieces of shattered bark.

How 'bout that log? Could the cache be underneath it, right where that fern lies close? The moss on top of the log has been patted down into a mat. Hands may have made that print. Go down on your knees and look under the log. Do you see a cache container? No? Look at the base of the fern. No, no cache, not even under the dry, dead fronds. Rats. As you sit down on the log to think, you realize that your bottom is resting on the imprinted moss. So that's how it got packed down!

No other geosign is visible, but you check under four other logs within a 50-foot circle, take up a handy stick to poke through all the ferns, probe into the debris-lined crotch of a twinned fir tree, and then you cuss. "Where IS the damn thing?" you wonder aloud, hoping that no other visitors to the park are walking on the nearby trail. Feeling defeated, you may browse some huckleberries growing atop that ragged stump, unwilling to turn back quite yet from this, your first cache hunt. You now begin to think that the cache has been "muggled," removed by a non-geocacher (the word derives from the Harry Potter books, and refers to non-magical folk).

Because this is your first time out, I am going to give you a small nudge. I take you by the hand and lead you around to the back side of the stump. "Try harder," I say, and point. You reach inside the hollow and remove just one piece of "fallen" bark, and there beneath it, laying flat in its nest, is the ammo can.

I will stand back, the better to observe your delight as you sign the log and exchange your Columbia Gorge keychain for a tiny plastic McDonald's figure. Forty-five minutes from the car, you have found a geocache, and met the challenge. Gratifying, ain't it?

Don't forget to write a geocaching.com log when you get home!

In my last post, I mentioned geocaching, and that's a word many of you may not be familiar with. It's an adult version of "Scavenger Hunt" (more or less) or, as one person put it, "using multi-billion dollar government satellites to track Tupperware in the woods." As do so many of my pursuits, this one takes me out of doors and provides a compelling goad to get more exercise.

Let's begin with a basic explanation: Global Positioning Satellites orbiting the earth can pinpoint any spot on the globe when used in conjunction with a sophisticated tool called a GPS receiver (GPSr, for short). This little bit of technology has been rendered pocket-sized and inexpensively available to the general public. Sure, you can spend thousands of dollars on one, but its accuracy may be only marginally better than the $100 model due to vagaries of sky condition, tree cover, magnetic disturbances from solar flares and so on. Nevertheless, when coupled with a bit of common sense ("geosense," in the parlance), you can get amazingly close to your goal using a handheld gadget.

How close is close? Around here, 20 feet is good. If you're looking for something that's hidden, that figure narrows your search area down to a 40-foot diameter circle. If you were looking for a Volkswagen, you'd spot it immediately, but these "geocaches" we hunt are significantly smaller. The largest I've seen was a five-gallon bucket, the smallest, a 1 1/2" x 1" x 1/4" Altoids mint tin (not counting the minuscule pet ID tubes I'm planning to hide some day soon). Only the cruelest of us hide the "micros" in the woods! The stereotypical geocache is an ammo can measuring approximately 10" x 8" x 4". There is one stipulation to their concealment: they may not be buried. Buried loot is the stuff of pirate tales. We look for goodies above ground. Now how hard could it be to find an ammo can in a 40-foot circle? The answer is: "Harder than you might think."

So what exactly makes a geocache? The bare bones need only be a container and something identifiable within it, although most contain a small logbook of some sort for the finder to sign, a physical log which precedes logging the find on line. The larger ones are likely to harbour a variety of items for exchange with other geocachers: plastic toys, dollar bills, fridge magnets, small stuffed animals, keychains or sometimes even genuine treasure. The rule of the game as played by members of geocaching.com is to "trade up," i.e., exchange an item in the cache for one of your own that is equal or greater in value. (Geocaching.com's services are available for free. They provide coordinates to geocaches, area maps and a place to log your finds. Paid membership allows you to download coordinates directly into your GPSr or PDA as well as offering a few other perks, but it is not necessary to become a premium member to thoroughly enjoy yourself!)

Now you're wondering why anyone would expend the energy and the financial resource to hunt these crazy things? As Sir Edmund Hilary is often misquoted, "Because it's there." In my next post, we'll go on a geocaching trip and you can see why it's so much fun.

It's been a long time since I posted a blog, and a lot of water has passed under the bridge. My mother, who had been in my care for over a year, passed away just before Christmas.

I've been in the process of putting my life back together. Odd pieces of pattern have disappeared; I can't recall what I used to eat before cooking became a matter of packing as much nutrition as possible into small, soft servings, and hobbies which once appealed to me no longer seem enticing. I have a greater measure of freedom, yet I find myself rushing home to meet the five o'clock deadline which bound my forays into town. My days have been returned to me, but I am too dizzied by the circumstance to grasp them.

Stress has worn me grey and torn pounds from my already scrawny frame, so exercise and activity have become my focus. I devote myself to bicycling, geocaching (a sport which often takes me on brief hikes) and fishing, spending as much time out of doors as weather will allow. When confined by rain too hard to brave, the cat takes advantage of my lap, psychically projecting alpha rhythms which often send us both to the Land of Nod. I feel my years when I am forced to confess to napping, a pastime some folk call art but which I consider wasteful.

Odd as it strikes me, I have a life of my own again. Dazed, I suppose I shall have to figure out what to do with it.

The link given in the previous post isn't as reliable as I'd like it to be, although if you click on the word "link," it will take you to the USGS site where you will be able to navigate to several different St. Helens movies. I'm sorry for any confusion this may have caused my readers.

This link is from the USGS's St. Helens update site. It is DEFINITELY worth the download time! Click on "Watch the movie!" and the red flashing "NEW" arrow.

All right, if you're hanging from the tenterhooks...I got two nice salmon, a buck and a hen, and it was thanks to Clyde, who staked out the best spot on the river shortly before sunrise and stood his ground. I arrived some twenty minutes later to find him in the best spot, Dennis in the second best, and the fast, hard-to-fish water left for me. Not to worry, I've been there before, and brought home a 25-pound king.

I geared up with the proper amount of weight on the first try and let the bait of eggs drift through the hole. For the first half hour or so, nothing happened, and then I hooked into a large, bright hen. She was on just long enough for me to realize I had the drag of my reel set too tightly, but before my hand could move to relieve the pressure, the line pinged and I announced matter-of-factly, "Fish off." Within ten minutes, I had landed the buck, Dennis manning the net.

The fish truck pulled in shortly thereafter and dumped a short load. The talk on the river is of how swiftly the fish run up or down stream this year, and I theorize that this is due to administration of a new, short-acting anaesthetic during transport. The snaggers are not faring well, for all of being out in hordes, for active fish are not as easy to foul-hook as those lying torpid and in plain view. As the mob of salmon finned hastily to concealment, a hen took one belligerent swipe at the mass of eggs before her snout, eggs concealing my predator's sting. Clyde netted her for me when she came near the bank, and with a greatly improved disposition, I bade the boys farewell. Last on the river, first off...I was content. Both fish were bright and firm.

Stress is taking its toll. I very nearly forgot to post a blog last night, and apologize for filling the gap with another rant about illegal fishing.

Those of you near and dear to me will know the conditions which are pushing me to the brink of nervous collapse; those who don't shouldn't have to be bothered with them. Therefore, with some regret, I am prematurely ending my self-imposed task of daily blogging until a literary masterpiece begs to be let out of the box or some event worth public mention occurs.

I would like to give special thanks to three faithful readers: Paul, Paul's mother Jane and my beloved cousin Toni. It's been wonderful, knowing that you were there, and I hope you'll continue dropping in from time to time. Like Schwarzenegger and the bad penny, I'll be back.

Clyde came over today, bearing half a smoked salmon wrapped in foil, and I greeted him unkindly with, "Are you snagging?" I couldn't help but wonder.

Behind the dark glasses, I couldn't see his eyes, but although Clyde may stretch a fish in the telling or add a pound to its weight, his moral sense is stronger than any man's I know, and I believed his simple answer of, "Nope." As an afterthought meant to console me, he added, "I didn't get any yesterday, you know."

Today was Dennis' son's day to shine as he brought home the bacon, though the story goes that he sat out part of the dance at the truck, infuriated at the jigging going on beside him. Clyde, the proverbial immovable object, stood his ground. I do not know if his stubbornness earned him a fish. It was not a question I could bear to ask for fear of the answer.

Being kept out of my favourite fishing holes by people fishing illegally is really getting on my nerves. Sande and I made a circuit of all our familiar spots today, and without exception, all were filled with snaggers having their heyday in the absence of the game warden. And just where is our one enforcer? Tied up on a huge elk poaching case, to the jiggers' collective delight. Although the local police have been empowered to write citations for fishing infractions, their patrols have so far consisted of nothing but driving around, waving to their friends and neighbours on the banks. One wonders if their evening meals include fresh-caught salmon?

A delightful surprise awaited me today: the discovery that, in my two-week absence, approximately two more miles of the Foothills Trail have been paved. The remainder (about the same distance) will be completed in a week or two, providing a hard, level surface for the entire route between McMillin and South Prairie.

That was not my only pleasure, for a heavy fall of maple leaves now lays on the asphalt, and no child of any age can resist the temptation to pioneer a path through the crackling blanket. As my tires shattered the fragile scraps or my foot dragged in the windrows, I was reminded of running through the piles my father raked behind the house. How does debris hold such magic?

Now, as my memory plunges into the midst of the pungently scented windfall and comes up slightly damp with sticky moisture, it turns to the corn shucks tidily bound and the sultry steam rising from the compost pile. The pumpkins and squash are turned to harden their pallid undersides, and ranks of drying onions perch atop a minor berm beside them. Pears hang yellow on half-naked boughs, the remaining leaves golden as the fruit. My father leans on his rake, and I perceive him as part of the autumn landscape, smelling of the good earth, frost, and harvest. We stand paired shocks by the driveway gate, and the year is done.

Today, I breathe fall's reminiscences and my father's soul rises once again, for it is here that I see him most clearly, the central figure in a moat of my childhood's maple leaves.

There is one certainty regarding our pet volcano, and that is that nobody knows what's coming next. Theories are as thick on the ground as scientists, if not moreso, every one of them the personal hobby horse of some geologist. Most hypotheses are based in good logic, although as they stack up, it's obvious that they can't all hold true simultaneously. The long and the short of it is that vulcanology is an inexact science. We truly do not understand the workings of our planet's bowels.

St. Helens has been putting up a steady column of steam all morning, piping away like a merry teapot on the back burner. Seismicity is at a low, but very regular level, in an action similar to a pressure cooker's weight giving the occasional wiggle and spurt of vapour. One speculation suggests that the magma is moving steadily upward, with tremors occurring when the surface rock cracks and deforms.

Although one would think that complacency was ill-advised in light of the events of 1980, the Volcano Alert Level remains at Orange these days, and tourists by the droves are dancing on the lid of the dynamite keg, disdainful of the hidden forces at work beneath the earth's crust. An estimated twenty-one million cubic yards of new material has moved into the crater since this episode began, a volume incomprehensible to the average viewer, and at an intrusion rate twice that seen prior to the famous blow. Something is brewing, and the lid is sitting too lightly on the pot for anyone to take their eyes off the stove.

A cozy Ohrwurm has been with me today...the chorus to a song called "Grandma's Featherbed."

"It was nine feet high and six feet wide
And soft as a downy chick.
It was made from the feathers of forty-'leven geese,
Took a whole bolt of cloth for the tick.
It'd hold eight kids and four hound dogs
And the piggy that we stole from the shed.
We didn't get much sleep, but we had a lot of fun
On Grandma's featherbed."

I've never filed the full lyrics or tune in my mental database, only the refrain, for in my childhood, too, there was a featherbed, and surely at least forty-'leven geese and a full bolt of ticking went into its manufacture. Unlike the rhyme, however, for the most part, I had it all to myself unless I invited my tiny pet poodle Marie into its folds.

How or when my mother came into possession of this marvelous piece of bedroom finery, I do not know. I believe it was constructed by Old-old, my great-grandmother, and undoubtedly, the feathers for its filling came from her own geese. Likewise, it may have cosseted the full membership of her family, dogs and a farm animal or two, for such was the way of things in the days of its youth.

My first encounter with the featherbed was shortly after the appearance of an appliance-sized cardboard box in our family room, a carton which bore large crayoned letters commanding, "Keep!" I remember being warned away from the box, possibly because it was suspected of harbouring Eastern Washington spiders (read, "black widows"), but no child could resist turning back the flaps for a peek. What lay beneath was indeed "soft as a downy chick," somewhat musty smelling, and altogether enticing. I crawled inside.

I no longer recall the outcome of that experience. Chances are, I fell asleep and was later discovered and removed to my own bed, for such was the pattern followed on many subsequent occasions. "Keep" (as the featherbed became known) was my fortress. I would burrow into the loosely packed mass until I was totally concealed from view, the light down posing no danger of suffocation.

Sadly, "Keep" was eventually devoured by moth and mice, but its memory remains dear to the child it comforted. It just wouldn't have been the same in polyester, y'know?

Last January, I discovered Blogger, and after a few days, I discovered its value as a tool for levering out the substantial chunk of writers' block which had been obstructing the creative plumbing for quite some time. I set myself a daily goal of a three- to five-hundred word essay, a rate of flow I hope(d) to keep for at least one year. This self-inflicted task progresses well, as you can see, although the literary quality often falls short of my desire and the dratted thing reads like a diary at moments, but overall, I believe the job has been worth its agonies. However, I may have expected too much. As with many old homes, the restored system may lack some part of its full functionality, and I am ashamed to say I have not been moved to submit a single article or story in the last nine months.

My strength is my weakness. I am verbose. I love words for words' sake, and greatly desire to build edifices with them, irrespective of plot or content. A 150,000-word novel resides in the drawer of my desk, awaiting a massive rewrite to introduce a more substantial story into its population of vignettes. Scraps of direction fill folders in the computer, but no three point to the same bearing. My characters are not quite lost in their forest, but they follow a trail of breadcrumbs obvious only to me. "It's beautifully written and the imagery puts you right in the scene," two agents and several readers have told me, "but it needs more plot." I could protest that a pie without a crust is a custard, and some people prefer them for desserts, but I rather imagine the editorial ear would be deaf to such an argument.

Will Blogger redeem me, or have I only dug the pit deeper by indulging my passion in its electronic venue? Do I care?

A brief blog, since I've only just remembered that I won't be home until past bedtime tonight.

Yesterday, I purchased a Little Chief smoker to take care of all those fish I've been catching. Fish? What fish? Well, all those fish I'm going to be catching, then, from the far side of the river where only the boldest go. My mother, you see, has developed a passion for smoked salmon, and of the dozen or so pieces provided by Clyde, I was able to shanghai but one before the bag mysteriously turned up empty.

I have a brine for dehydrated fish...fish jerky, if you will...which I'm adapting for the smoker. You may try it, if you like, and feel free to add spices or condiments of your own choosing.

Brine for salmon or trout:
3 cups warm water
3/4 cups non-iodized salt
3 Tbsp. brown sugar
3 Tbsp. teriyaki sauce
1 1/4 tsp. garlic powder
1 1/4 tsp. minced garlic

Combine the first three ingredients in a jar and shake until the sugar and salt are dissolved. Add the remaining ingredients and refrigerate until cool.

Place fish pieces in a glass or plastic bowl and add the brine. Stir well, being sure that the pieces of fish do not adhere to each other. Refrigerate for at least four hours (I usually leave mine in the brine for a full day), stirring occasionally.

Before smoking or dehydrating, rinse the fish lightly under cool tap water. From there, follow the manufacturer's directions for your equipment, or put in a good old-fashioned smokehouse over alder wood.

Sounds like I'm going to have to wade. My neighbours are bringing home salmon, snatched from under the snaggers' collective noses from the far shore, and I'm straggling along behind with a stringer of measly silvers. Okay, they're large silvers, pink-fleshed and salmon-flavoured, but they're too far removed from the parent breed to give me complete contentment. A 14-inch jack coho which counts statistically by its entry on my salmon punch card is bound to taste better than an 18-inch silver which has spent its entire lifetime landlocked, I'd bet on it.

I had a bad experience wading last year. The simple fact that I am a foot shorter than my angling peers often keeps me from the prize, and on occasion, I have become so piqued with Salmon Fever that my shortcomings escaped my awareness.

I had left Sande on this occasion and gone downstream to where the big boys were merrily catching fish upon fish, standing waist-deep in the swift water of the Puyallup River below its confluence with the Carbon. The far side was overhung with trees and the deepest portion of the channel ran beneath them in a perfect gutter for fish. The distance was such that from the near shore, I could barely cast to the backs of the string of fishermen, let alone to the piscine highway, so I edged out into current which was rather strong for its modest depth. The footing was sound and gravelly, although the water was disturbingly opaque, and I encountered many dips and rises as I progressed. Eddies were often unpredictable. A shallow spot might be unexpectedly swift, or a hole more calm. I had no wading staff, and my hundred pounds was buoyed up rather too readily by the flow.

Unlike many of my colleagues, I have the sense to wear a wading belt, a simple cinch which, if the fallen fisherman doesn't panic, can save a life if he or she will but raise their knees. However, it also makes one a bit more buoyant when upright, and I found myself being carried inch by inch downstream, toward a small and rapid cascade.

Several of the other anglers had noticed me and were giving words of encouragement, oblivious to my lack of height. "It gets shallower out here. Once you're through that deep spot, you'll be okay," they enticed. I bore on, and shipped water in at my armpits. Again, I was lifted downstream and into faster current. I tried to retreat, but I had passed the point of no return. Upon turning a more flat area into the flow, the force of the river heaved against me too powerfully to resist.

I have had two near-drowning experiences in my life, and I knew I was not far from a third. I swallowed my pride with a gulp of fear and asked for assistance back to shore. The angler at the end of the queue tucked his rod beneath his arm and piloted me back to safety, remarking that he'd thought I was much taller. I barely reached his shoulder. The river which came up to his chest would have been shoulder-depth on me.

I am leery of wading, belt or no, shallow waters or not. I cannot swim, or not well enough to be comfortable in a standard pool. I'm going to have to give this project a serious chunk of think. Short of shooting sixteen snaggers, how will I ever get a salmon if I do not wade?

At approximately 9:00 AM, PDT (according to the seismogram at the Longmire station), Mt. St. Helens put up another sizeable steam and ash emission. I tuned into the VolcanoCam shortly thereafter (unaware of what I would find), and she was spewing voluminous clouds a thousand or more feet above the crater rim, clouds which at times the sun could not penetrate, covering the valley floor in a nighttime pall. The drift was northeasterly, and from the photos, I guessed its path would come near my location. Staring out the window, I could see nothing. Since I was waiting for Sande to arrive, I left the computer on with the VolcanoCam updating automatically every five minutes. For the next hour, billows of ash and steam rose from the Lady's core, burdening the sky. Only minutes before he arrived, the updated image showed a subsidence of activity. The emission had continued for more than an hour from its inception. Referring to the seismogram for current data, I discovered its lines to be nearly flat for the first time in days.

As we drove across the Divide separating the Nisqually valley from that of the Cowlitz, we could see the plume trailing northeast toward Mt. Rainier and almost to its flanks. The colour was pale and cloud-like. The air surrounding us was hazy, but I believe the tinge was not an effect of the eruption, merely lingering smoke from the morning wood fires of Morton's population, and identifiable cumulus structures were beginning to form in the southwest, preparatory to a change in the pleasant weather.

Near noon, a man fishing beside us remarked that the communities of Packwood and Randle had received light ashfall, enough to whirl up in dust devils behind passing cars.

Funny....last night, I dreamed of tiny bits of pumice falling like a shower of small hail.

The following update has just appeared on the USGS Cascade Volcano Observatory web page:

"This morning the rate of seismicity was at a high, sustained level when, shortly after 9:00 a.m. PDT, the most vigorous steam and ash emission of the current period of unrest began. The emission originated from the same vent as have others this past week, as well as from another nearby new vent in the intensely deforming area on the south side of the 1980-86 lava dome. For more than one hour, steam clouds billowed from the crater. The ash content varied with intensity of steam jetting from the vent. For the first time, ash content was sufficient that it was detected by National Weather Service Doppler Radar. Steam and ash clouds reached about 12,000 feet and drifted north-northeastward. Ash forecasts warned downwind residents. Media reports indicate that a light dusting of ash fell in Morton, Randle, and Packwood, Washington, towns about 30 miles from the volcano. Nearby traffic on U.S. 12 stirred up the ash, slightly reducing visibility. We have no reports of ash falling at greater distances.
"The rate of seismicity dropped during and the emission and has stayed at relatively low rates. We infer that magma is at a very shallow level and could soon be extruded from a vent in the deforming area. Additional steam and ash emissions are likely and could occur at any time without warning. Conditions suggest that there is also an increased probability of larger-magnitude and more ash-rich eruptions in coming days."

For those of you minding the pumice, here's today's report from the USGS's Cascade Volcano observatory:

"This morning visitors to Mount St. Helens witnessed a 40-minute-long steam-and-ash emission starting at 9:43 PDT. Steam clouds carrying minor ash billowed out of the crater to an altitude of 10,000 to perhaps 12,000 feet. The event did not generate earthquakes or an explosion signal. We infer that hot rock was pushed up into the glacier, melted ice, and generated the steam. Part of the vent for today’s and other steam and ash emissions of the past few days is now covered by a boiling lake. The emission occurred during a time of gradually increasing seismicity, which dropped slightly after the emission, but continued to increase gradually through the afternoon. Another period of smaller steam and ash bursts occurred between 2:10 and 2:40 P.M. Visual observations show that the area of uplift, which includes part of the glacier and a nearby segment of the south flank of the lava dome, continues to rise. We infer that magma is at a very shallow level and could soon be extruded into the vent or elsewhere in the deforming area. Additional steam and ash emissions are likely and could occur at any time without warning. Conditions suggest that there is also an increased probability of larger-magnitude and more ash-rich eruptions in coming days...Yesterday’s gas-sensing flight detected slightly lower concentrations of carbon dioxide in the crater, but for the first time the airborne instruments detected the presence of hydrogen sulfide."

No! Those thieving sons-of-jaybirds ate every last grape! My lovely Interlaken vine was bearing prodigiously for the first time in its life, thanks to uncle Eddie's pruning expertise, and an estimated twenty-five pounds of round, sweet fruit was hanging in the cover of its leaves only a week ago today. Lover of birds that I am, I professed my willingness to share the harvest with the robins who were darting into the greenery, hardly expecting them to rob me blind.

I had gone to the grocery store, where red Flame and green Thompsons were featured at 99 cents per pound, and I passed them by although saliva rose beneath my tongue in a Pavlovian response. Why buy grapes sprayed with who-knows-what pesticide or dosed with chemical fertilizers when my own were setting sugar in the chill of morning? Another week would have seen the crop ready to strip, and only those small bunches which eluded the picker would remain to be found when the leaves turned pale and fell. I went out to the vine with my largest Tupperware in hand, mental cornucopia spilling out the best and largest bunch in a memory clear as a snapshot. I expected pilferage from the exposed clusters, but when I threw back the gown of leaves and found naked, ravaged stems, I swore the words my father used to start the tractor.

Share! I said I'd share, not give you the lot, you blue burglars! Yes, I am certain the Steller's jays played their part in the mischief, too, and no doubt a major role. Was it because of my neglect, and the days I left your feeders empty of sunflower seed, or failed to give you breadcrumbs, corn or mac and cheese? Have I not provided well for you, my erstwhile friends, that now you repay me with larceny?

Well, I am older and wiser for this lesson from my corvid companions and their chums, and though there be no raisins in the sun this year, next year's crop will be guarded by a net or plastic. Fair's fair.

For quite some time, my mother's bedroom door has squeaked when opening. It was a tiny squeak, mouse-like, a friendly sort of noise of the sort old houses make, akin to creaking hardwood and settling of timbers in the dark of night, and altogether familiar and easy to sleep through, no matter how many trips out the room's occupant might make. With our own door closed, the cat and I could slumber on through its small complaint, unperturbed.

Then one night about two weeks ago, I was wakened by a solitary drumbeat and a feline squeal. I determined with a foot that the cat was on the end of my bed, although I suspected her ears were perked for another sound of motion from the strange animal at the end of the hallway, but the only rustlings were of my mother's feet, the toilet seat, the feet again, and then another thump and yowl as she went back to bed. The solution was obvious: the hinge's voice had changed, dropped in pitch and raised in volume, and the door had swollen with autumn's pervasive humidity, to stick slightly on its jamb.

It took several nights to become accustomed to this new chorus, for I am a person who wakes to the slightest unnatural sound. Nevertheless, once a noise is identified, it raises no alarm in my slumbering brain, and I have been known to sleep peacefully through the racket of a cow elk using the exterior corner of my bedroom as a scratching post.

Small jobs are so very easy to put off, whereas the larger ones demand the attention immediately. I ignored the grumblings of malcontent coming from the brass, turned a deaf ear to its objections in all but my more wakeful moments until this morning, two ayem.

A substantial dosage of caffeine and a volcano in your back yard are not conducive to restful sleep in any event, but I had nodded off after hours tossing and turning, and was just at the border of La-la Land, prepared to show my passport, when a caterwaul split the darkness like a bolt of lightning. My first thought was of a vandal crowbarring the car's doors or gas tank, and I came bolt upright in the bed. Before I could throw up the shade to peer into the carport, I heard the plush-covered toilet seat's muffled clunk against the tank. I was groggy from lack of and proximity to sleep and couldn't quite make the equation until I heard the shuffle of moccasins on the bathroom vinyl. Again a hard drumbeat sounded to the accompaniment of a cat caught in a wringer. Resentful of my slights, the hinge was taking a more demanding tone.

I slept no more than twenty minutes in a stretch, owing to harsh punctuations in the night and to the dawn. So reminded of my duties, I dispatched the suffering beast with one trusty shot from the WD-40 caliber not long after rising, and tonight, I won't be surprised if I'm again wakeful in the space of abnormal silence.

We are now at Volcano Alert Level 3. A second small steam eruption occurred today, and seismic activity continues to increase. Official sources are saying that another eruption is "imminent," and likely to happen within the next 24 hours. I am ill at ease.

Fish or not, I'm glad I wasn't there. Sande caught a small jack (his words, not mine), although at the price of two confrontations with other fishermen. Thanks, folks, I'm not that desperate for a fish.

It is precisely the upswing of belligerent behaviour which is keeping me off my favourite waters this year. My fishing buddy is obviously elderly, despite his vigour, and for him to get his hackle up at a group of young-buck snaggers who were trying to crowd him off the river is a risky business, especially in a small logging town populated largely by hungry folks and ne'er-do-wells. Sande is normally very diplomatic in dealing with rudeness, but yesterday, his best efforts at an agreeable solution failed and he was forced to say, "I've got as much right to fish here as you do, so back off." In the second encounter, he told the fellow next to him that if he cast across his line one more time, he'd cut it. Salmon madness brings out the worst in people, and it saddens and angers me to see my gentle, easy-going friend forced into the war. To his credit, he says, "That's it for me. I'm not going back," and although it grieves me sorely, I'll take that as sound advice.

Shortened seasons and more stringent catch restrictions this year are doing nothing to alleviate the problem. Lack of enforcement exacerbates it. In the six or seven hours Sande fished, the sheriff drove by once without getting out of his car or stopping, and the county's sole game warden never appeared. This, however, can be construed as progress. This is the first year local law has been empowered to participate in game management affairs.

By Sande's telling, 99 percent of the fish taken from the site yesterday were illegally hooked. With those odds, an honest fisherman doesn't stand a chance.

Smugness may be unbecoming, but I can live with it. Permit me to say, "I told ya so." Yes, St. Helens spewed a little steam and ash today, and in the process, broke one of the more important seismic registers, so once again, the numbers aren't being posted timely. PNSN claims that the quakes have subsided, however, the question now is: will seismic activity increase again, indicating the likelihood of another eruption? On that point, I'm not going out on a limb. I like to have some facts to back up my predictions, y'know?

Yesterday afternoon, the phone rang and I answered it, ready to hang up on yet another politician, pre-recorded or otherwise, but it was Sande. "For a nickel, I'd get up before breakfast and be down on the water at first light," he said. I allowed as how that would suit my fancy fine if there was some assurance of it turning out to be worthwhile, so he suggested I grill Clyde, who had again left before sunup.

I waited patiently until I saw my neighbour's rig pull in, its occupants disembark and all three stand staring into the bed at something I was certain must have been piscine. Sure enough, Clyde went for his cleaning board, and from the motion of his shoulders, I knew something was being gutted. Of course, I had no idea if it belonged to Clyde, Dennis or Dennis' grown son, not until Dennis hoisted it up by the gills and lugged it across the property line. It wasn't the world's best example of a chrome-bright salmon, but it was more fish than I've caught lately, and you could have painted a house with a can of my envy. I let the victors retreat to their dens accordingly, and then hopped the fence to buttonhole the leader of the pack.

Well, it turns out ol' Clyde only brought home one, and from his description, that was more than he should have expected. You'd have to be able to cast with enough accuracy to put your bait in a coffee can at 25 yards, and wait to take your turn with the six other anxious anglers all popping to the same small hole. I can do it, but I don't like it, this "combat fishing." The fish were playing hard to get, according to my neighbour, and even those fresh off the truck sped upstream or down without giving lure, eggs or snagger's hook a chance to nab one.

Given this information, it wasn't hard to choose an extra hour beneath the electric blanket, followed by a nice, long bike ride on a sunny, warm day. I gave the facts to Sande, who I think remained unconvinced. His belief in fish is unshakable; mine's begun to wobble. I'm waiting for the call.

I hope I'm the only smug face tonight.