Lisa bought me a new rock tumbler to replace the vibrating one I finally wore out (it lasted 8 years). The tumbler takes longer to polish the stones, but I think I will get a better finished product.

The young men from the two church wards in Anacortes held their annual “high-adventure” outing earlier in the week.  Ian is the Young Men’s President in the Anacortes Ward and he was short an adult leader for the trip so he asked if I would go. There was no way I going to turn down the offer. While Lisa kept the home fires burning I spent five days in Canada. Let me tell you about it:

Bishop Gary Grimnes is part owner in a cabin on Vancouver Island. The cabin is located on the Uchucklesit Inlet, about a mile northwest of the Kildonan Post Office (see map). The cabin, additional buildings, and docks are all floating on the water. The cabin is off the grid, not relying on public utilities. Water is taken from a stream behind the cabin and power is generated from electrical panels and stored in batteries. Cooking is done with propane. 


Ian, myself and Lance were the assigned leaders from the Anacortes Ward. We rode in Lance’s 30 foot Kingfisher, along with five other boys to Gary’s cabin. We took the water route from Anacortes to Victoria, then checking in with Canadian customs officials. On our way to Victoria we came across a pod of Killer Whales south of San Juan Island. From Victoria we motored up the south side of Vancouver Island, through the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Port Renfrew to refuel and then further up Vancouver Island to Barkley Sound. The waves were incredibly rough, so much so that I registered 30,000 steps on my fitbit without every leaving the cabin on the boat.

Barkley Sound is just north of Bamfield on the southwest coast of Vancouver Island and forms the entrance to the Alberni Iinlet. The Broken Islands Group lies in the sound. Barkley Sound is part of the traditional territory of the Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations Indians.  In 1787, Captain Charles Barkley explored the sound and named it after himself. The Nuu-chah-nulth, also referred to as Nootka Indians, are one of the indigenous people who still reside in the area.

Entering the sound we motored north up Alberni Inlet and then northwest into Uchucklesit Inlet, which is where the cabin is located.

The other half of the group drove their boats up to Vancouver and took the ferry to Nanaimo and then drove to Port Alberni. After putting their boats in the water at Port Alberni, four in total, they motored south through the inlet, arriving shortly after our arrival.

Gary’s cabin is one of many located on the water in Uchucklesit Inlet and they are all off the grid. If you need supplies from the grocery store, hardware store, or lumber yard, you can place your order by phone to Port Alberni and the ferry will deliver your items to your door the next day (beat that Amazon).

View from the front of the cabin

After dinner on Tuesday, Ian and others went fishing.  Ian caught a nice salmon on his first cast. The remainder of the week included a lot of fishing for everyone. You can tell from the pictures below. Unless you are Native American you can’t fish directly out front from the cabin in Uchucklesit Inlet. The local Indians own the Sockeye salmon run. 

There is one post office in Uchucklesit Inlet and it is open two days per week. The ferry will pick up and deliver the mail.

Post Office

Ian caught a small rockfish one afternoon. A bald eagle was circling overhead so Ian tossed the fish out in the water for the eagle. The eagle dive-bombed for the rockfish, caught it in it talons, and flew away. No sooner had the eagle done so that another eagle swooped down on him and forced him to drop the rockfish. When the rockfish hit the water another eagle grabbed it and flew away. We decided the two thieving eagles had worked together.

Can you recognize the face in Mohawk Mountain (picture below)? The uncut tree line forms the mohawk. Funny thing about the face. It points directly across Alberni Inlet to a hidden Native American burial cave.

Can you see the cave entrance at the water line in the picture below? 

Here is the entrance into the cave

Inside the cave are a number of burial boxes and skeletons.

Ian and I didn’t stay in the cave very long (who likes to look at human bones?). The boys loved being in the cave and took their time getting out.

That is the trip in a nutshell. We saw some beautiful scenery and shared in many new experiences. It is great to live in this part of the world, to have family and friends close by. Friends with boats and cabins (ha, ha, ha).

Remember Paul Harvey’s “The Rest of the Story?” Here is the rest of the story I didn’t share above:

What do you think your body does when it has too much calcium? It will stockpile it in your kidneys, slowly building a future present for you. That present will be in the form of a calcium oxalate kidney stone. I received my present on Tuesday.


I had suffered from a few mild reactions to kidney stones prior to the days leading up to our departure on the boat to Gary’s cabin. At home Tuesday morning I felt great, assuming I likely passed a small kidney stone and I would be fine for the trip. On the boat, at just about 11:00am and south of Victoria Canada, I discovered what maximum pain really means. Suddenly, without warning, Babe Ruth entered the boat, swinging and hitting a home run into my groin. 

This powerful blow took my breath away and I looked at my groin to see if I had been shot. There was no blood but there was plenty of pain. I tried my best to be a hard-guy, like Stallone was in Rocky or Rambo. I wanted my son Ian and the boys to see how tough I was, how I could handle the intense pain. But it didn’t work. I eventually slid from my feet to floor below rolling up into a ball. For the next few hours I was on a journey of a lifetime. Ian and others on the boat were sympathetic, but there was little they could do. Lance, the boat owner and physician, gave me 800 MG of ibuprofen which attacked my pain like a kitten fighting a lion.  

I don’t know if the roughness of the boat ride contributed to the passage of the stone down my ureter or not. I’ll never know. I simply know the boat’s bouncing off the waves did nothing to add to my comfort. 

By the time we reached the cabin the episode was over. My research told me to drink large quantities of water, which I did. That was the best advice I could find. At this point, I thought I was now OK. I was comfortable, the worst was over. The bad news was I was on borrowed time.

Just before dinner I was hit back into reality with the same forcefulness as the initial Babe Ruth home run. While all this was going on, I was thinking about the most painful episodes of my life. I was trying to compare the kidney stone pain I was experiencing to how I felt during the worst times of my life.

I remembered the removal of my wisdom teeth when I was 20 that forced me to cry like a baby once the novocain wore off. I remembered being squished for hours by the tractor on the farm when I was 21.  And I remembered seeing dad in the Alzheimer’s unit of the care facility after the doctors turned him into a vegetable. I can’t say which came in second to the torture I was now experiencing.

The dinner episode finally ended, only to be replaced with another at bedtime. I awoke the next morning pain free, but was soon on the floor once again. Ian spoke with the other leaders and determined the best solution was to put me on the boat and take me to the clinic in Bamfield, a small fishing community at the mouth of Barkley Sound. Bamfields main street is the waterway with homes and commercial buildings flanking both sides.

 Bamfield waterway

When I got to the clinic my kidney stone pain level had reduced from a 10 to a 3. The nurse at the clinic mentioned if I wanted to be seen or treated, because I was not a Canadian citizen, I have to hand over my credit card and agree to pay the clinic fee of $765.00. My emotional pain level then jumped from a level 3 to a level 10. $765 dollars? Are you kidding me! There was no way my suffering, no matter how bad it was, would make me fork over that much money. Then I came to my senses and decided to call my insurance carrier to determine how much, if any, of the bill they would absorb. To my surprise, my medical coverage would take care of all the bill except $30. I handed over my credit card and went ahead with the evaluation.  


Yes, I was passing one or more kidney stones (I knew that). Yes, there was blood in my urine (I knew that). The nurse contacted a doctor in Victoria and he agreed with her assessment, then recommended she dispense Tylenol 3 to help me with the pain. I got 20 tablets. The  most expensive medication I’ve ever received.

While at the clinic I passed my first stone. I knew I was passing a kidney stone because it felt like I was passing razor blades. That is the most descriptive interpretation I can come up with. For the next 24 hours, each time I went to the bathroom, it felt like razor blades. 

I had two more episodes during the day but my pain medication made them tolerable. Come Thursday morning all was calm, all was quiet. Could it be I passed all my kidney stones? As of this writing I have been pain free. Grant Cochran, one of the leaders at the outing and also a physician, said that passing a kidney stone is said to be more painful than giving birth. I think I would rather try giving birth than to experience another kidney stone.

Other pictures:

I’m 65 years old.  How the heck did that happen? 

Turning 65 is one of life passages, an important transitional period in one’s life, such as having children or getting married. It seems most people target reaching 65 as a milestone for retirement, but I’ll never retire if retirement means not participating in some sort of business venture or physical activity. 

When I was 30, 40, or even 50, I couldn’t imagine ever being 65. It simply didn’t compute.  Then, without warning, I’m here.  I don’t feel any older.  Sure, my kids are in their 30’s, but that’s some kind of cosmic trick.  I’ve got grandkids approaching middle school but that, too, is an unexplainable aberration, a puzzling black hole in the fabric of my life.

In some societies, turning 65 means instant recognition for accumulated wisdom.  On the other hand I’ve already experienced a marginalization of sorts when attempting to converse with the younger generation.  It’s as if I’m not even in the room.  Hello, I’m here!  Not always, but sometimes.

Is it because I’m beginning to look like I might be 65?  That’s the tough part.  Personally, I choose to ignore those telltale nose and ear hairs, the age spots on my skin, and my sagging muscles.  I don’t avoid mirrors.  I simply don’t recognize that guy looking back at me.

One of my kids asked me if I felt 65.  Well, yes and no, now that I think about it.  The “yes” part is that my life experiences have taught me quite a lot.  I’m happy about that.  I have more confidence as a 65 year old than I ever could have had as a 30 year old.  There can be no substitute for decades of dealing with and solving problems, of survival through hard times, of seeing one’s own progress in striving to get better.

My body keeps reminding me I’m 65, although I’m one of the lucky ones who is in fairly good health.  I am grateful every day for this fact.   When a friend or classmate dies suddenly, I get perspective as to how lucky I am.

My ideas about being 65 have evolved.  I’m aware that I’m getting ever closer to the end of life’s conveyer belt, but I see 65 on the road ahead and it’s all good, for now.  I’m younger today than I’ll ever be.  I should celebrate my relative youth and toast to the beauty of experience and being wiser than I was at 20.

Lisa has made my 65th birthday a memorable one.  Lisa took some time off work and we were able to go golfing (Lisa did really well), watched a movie together, went hiking with Jim and Tisa, walked around the Saturday Market, went to Friday Harbor with the Treiber’s and the Weaver’s, had dinner with Norm and Mary, and invited a few couples over for cake and ice cream (Once again Lisa made my mother’s cake recipe. Yum, yum).  Thank you all for your birthday cards, gifts and well wishes.

 On hike with Jim and Tisa on Fidalgo Island

 Trip to Friday Harbor

                        Limbs of a 125 year old Camperdown Elm tree in Friday Harbor

 New birthday ties from Chelsi, Demri, and Scotty

 Lisa's cake making handiwork

 

It’s summertime in the park.  When Lisa and I take our regular walk around the loop in Washington Park we hear the sounds of campers in the forest and take in the smell of their burning campfires.  Campfire smells, like many smells, can conjure up some powerful memories of time spent with family and friends in the wilderness or along the water’s edge.   Do you have any you want to share?

It’s sunset.  The sky is transitioning from blue to orange and then black.  We go to the fire pit and begin to strategically place paper, dry leaves, and small twigs the kids gathered into the shape of a tepee.  I light a match, and we watch the leaves and paper smolder.  And then it reaches us, the first bit of smoke from the campfire.  But the smells don’t stop there.  We throw in some fir, pine, or oak limbs and out comes the flickering flame, the whispering hisses, and the sizzling pops.  

Sometimes we, as a family, cooked over the fire.  Other times it was simply s’mores.  We’d get out the lawn chairs, and as the night grew darker and colder, pull our chairs closer to the fire for warmth and comfort.  There would be jokes, hot chocolate, snacks, and stories of “Remember when . . .”  We watched for falling stars.  Pointed out the Big Dipper.  Listened to crickets, bull frogs croaking, and fish splashing.  You could close your eyes and let your eyelids paint yellow and orange kaleidoscopes as the heat of the campfire washed over you.  It was warm, inviting, and peaceful.

And the campfire smell stayed with you when you got home.  It got in your clothes and in your hair.  We never really noticed it until we walked into our clean home.  The contrast between our smokey smelling selves and our antiseptic home gave us one last chance to revel in the scent of the campfire, before it was washed down the shower drain.

I don’t get around a campfire as often as I used to do.  Somehow I’ve gotten away from the rest and relaxation a campfire can bring.  I think we all need a few campfires in our life every year.  We need to gather together as family and friends.  We need the peace and the tranquility a campfire brings.  We need the warmth, the gentleness, the comfort.  To simply talk, and perhaps more importantly, to listen.  Perhaps to be silent with each other.  A gentle touch.  A hug or two.  To be present and in the moment.

A few weeks ago our friends from California, Rich and Leslie Goddard, stayed with us a few days prior to getting onboard their Alaska cruise.  We toured them at a few local sites as well as taking them to San Juan Island for a day.  Below are a some pictures from our time together.

A week ago, Lisa and I were driving home from Utah/Idaho.  We spent a week visiting each and every family member that lives in either state (kids, grandkids, nieces, nephews, spouses, cousins, etc).  Lisa and I are blessed and fortunate to have great family and extended family.  Most of my day was spent installing backsplash tile in Sasha and James kitchen (which turned out great).  Below are a few pictures from our trip.

 Kitchen before tile work

 Kitchen after tile work

                                                     Sasha, James and boys

                        Lisa's nephew Eli working at his first job in a snow cone shop

With Chelsi and my Dad's Day gift from the girls

Lisa with Aspen and Oakley

Out walking Chelsi and Eric's new dog Jones

Do you remember Popeye the Sailor Man?  He’s the good-natured, easy-going guy who tries to get through life as peacefully and cheerfully as possible.  In the animated cartoon episodes, his emotional fortitude is always being tested by mean, nasty, abusive people around him, some of whom like to whale on him physically.

At a certain point in each cartoon episode, he reaches his tipping point and says, “That's all I can stands - I can’t stands no more!”, after which he blows up.  He whips out a can of spinach, downs it in one gulp, flexes his muscles, and then mops the floor with his tormenters.

I refer to that instant of self-assertion, metaphorically, as the Popeye tipping point.  I imagine that almost every one of us has had one or more Popeye experiences during our life.  Lisa and I recently reached our Popeye tipping point regarding the master bedroom shower.  After having to endure over five years with the horrible, nauseating color of the shower tile (the previous owner choose the color because it reminded her of the ocean), we decided to do something about changing it.  

We received a bid to replace the tile… $35,000.  Well, that’s not going to happen anytime soon, so we investigated reglazing the existing tile.  Reglazing is also called resurfacing, refinishing, or even painting (though painting isn’t quite accurate).  The reglazer strips the finish from the tile and then sprays a thin coat of enamel over the entire surface of the tile wall and floor.  They sprayed the first coat last week.  They will come back next week to finish the job.  See pictures below.

Old bathroom tile

 Shower after reglazing

While Lisa and I were cleaning out the hair from the floor drain, the pliers slipped out of Lisa’s hand (the plastic grip slid off) and the pliers fell a couple of feet down the drain to the P-trap below.  My sweet wife suggested we simply use a magnet to retrieve the pliers.  At first, the logical side of my brain thought, “This is a stupid idea” but then remembered I do have a high powered magnet in my arsenal of man tools.  I tied a string onto the magnet and lowered it down the drain.  Voila, it worked.  My Lisa is soooo smart.  

Great news.  Ian got his first job, as a new business owner, inspecting his first septic system.  I went along on the maiden project.  Two days later he was doing his second inspection.  Hopefully this is a good sign of things to come.

Some of you will be disappointed to know that we have sold our share in the sailboat.  We are grateful for the experience of learning how to sail, but our next boat will be a motorboat.

Happy birthday Sasha

Happy birthday Kaylene

 

I am sitting at my new 27” Apple iMac computer this morning.  My previous iMac computer started to give me problems and I thought it best to replace it before the internal motherboard died on me, which is what happened to the one previous and I lost a good deal of information, data, and photos.  Hopefully this iMac computer will last another 7 to 8 years or longer.

The church recently held their annual Father / Son campout at Deception Pass State Park on Whidbey Island.  Ian, Lucas, and I attended.  So would that be the grandfather, father, son outing?  Or the father, father, son outing?  Or the father, son, son outing?  So confusing!

The park is in a beautiful setting in the fir trees and next to Cranberry Lake.  Lucas spent much of his time fishing on the lake.  There was much excitement when he hooked a record setting fish (as seen in his eyes).  It’s like they say, it’s not the size of the fish that counts.  It’s the anticipation, the tug on the line, the fight, the battle between man and the aquatic unknown.

Lucas slept on a foam pad and Ian slept on his new air mattress.  Both got a good night sleep.  I, not so much.  The older I get the more I like sleeping in a comfortable bed.  The next time I sign up for sleeping in a tent it will be a resort style experience with all the amenities and glamor associated with traditional camping.

The Polar Bear swim was held early Saturday morning.  The first 12 (insane) participants received a doughnut.  No amount of inducement or persuasion would get us into ice cold water, especially when the outdoor temperature was not much warmer.

When you camp you want a hot breakfast and that is what was provided.  Eggs, pancakes, bacon and sausage prepared over a flame bring a highly appreciated sense of the wilderness experience.  Something you can only get while camping and being outdoors. 

Many of you are aware that Lisa, and her sisters, own a 2 acre lot south of Hilo, Hawaii.  They inherited the property when their dad passed away in 2004.  Their aunt purchased the property in the 1950’s, back when Hilo was the “happening” place to be. 

There has been a lot of information on the news recently regarding the Kilauea volcano eruption and we have found it difficult to get specific information as to whether the lava flows are (or could) impact the property which is located in the Fern Acres Subdivision.  I was able to pull up some current information on the web that I want to share with you.

The first picture below shows the location of Fern Acres, highlighted in red, on the big island of Hawaii.  The second picture indicates the boundaries of the subdivision, highlighted in red.  The third picture shows where the current flows are happening, colored in dark brown.  These flows are happening to the south and east of Fern Acres, further down the mountain in and around Leilani Estates.  For now, the property is spared from lava flows.

For six months now, Lisa and I have been violating the round hole, square peg rule.  Instead of ignoring the reality that there is no way we are going to fit into the new house in the Doe Run neighborhood, we have attempted to squeeze our square peg lifestyle into the home’s round hole, but it has been for not.  The straw that broke the camel’s back, the final square peg needed to tilt the balance into not selling our home and buying the one in Doe Run happened the other day.  The garage is too small for our truck and car.  Well, let me rephrase that.  We can squeeze both vehicles into the garage, you just can’t get in or out of them when they are in the garage.  Lisa and I have come to the conclusion that we are happy here in our home on the water on Washington Court and we are staying. 

 Our home

Doe Run home