The Jeep Eater
It is my opinion that each region of the Northwest has its own personality. There’s the melting pot of Seattle with its music- and coffee-scenes underscored by the yuppie contingent. Snohomish has its antique-shopping crowd (people shopping for antiques, not old shoppers). The coast has its slow-motion ocean appeal. SunRiver has its camping and glamping enthusiasts. Northern Idaho holds tight to its survivalists and live-off-the-land attitude.
Here in Boise it seems that escaping-to-nature is the primary focus. There are so many trails, dirt tracks and wilderness paths that it’s sometimes difficult to know whether you’re in a real, honest-to-goodness Capitol City or just passing through a mass of civilization on your way to another hidden camp site. There are real 4X4s here. I’m used to highly polished and very clean trucks with normal-sized tires. The trucks out here, though, have mud on them; and big ol’ tires; and mud on the tires.
Mr. Fixer is big into the off-road experience. He is, and has been, so interested in this lifestyle that he built his own off-road monster truck. You really must understand; this truck isn’t just a transportation tool. No, she’s a fierce, aggressive, dirt-eating machine. She can climb, cross and conquer anything. Mud, sand, concrete, gravel; she can take them all on.
Isn’t she pretty???
This 1985 Ford Bronco is Mr. Fixer’s first love. She is, in essence, my step-child just as my dog, also pictured, is his step-child. Having been a step-child, I do my best to be very loving and kind to Mr. Fixer’s Jeep Eater. I only rarely complain about the fact that I need a ladder to get up into her. I always let her have the garage in inclement weather. And, I’ve promised to never drive her, as I wouldn’t want to confuse her with my come-to-a-complete-stop-at-all-stop-signs method of driving.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that Mr. Fixer built this truck. Granted, he started with a normal, average, everyday Ford Bronco, but that’s about where the normal stuff ends. He upgraded the engine, doing all the work himself. He scrubbed, sanded, taped and painted her. Custom exhaust; interior and exterior paint; hand-crafted bumpers; personally-installed lift-kit; springs; mounts; tires; wheels; there is no part of this vehicle that Mr. Fixer hasn’t worked on with his own two hands. He’s truly put his heart and soul into this truck.
Before I came into his life, the Bronco was the only thing that made his life enjoyable. Okay, so that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but I think it’s much closer to the mark than even he would admit. I’ve heard about men having relationships with their vehicles, but it hadn’t hit home until I saw the photo album filled with the various stages of creation – perhaps “recreation” would be the better word. There’s one album dedicated to our wedding. There are boxes and boxes and boxes of pictures of the Jeep Eater.
Okay. Only two boxes, but, you get the point.
Regardless, twice Mr. Fixer has taken me into the hills to show off the power of his baby. The first time – pictured above – was an exciting and delightful adventure including a lot of mud and a lot of climbing. We only got stuck a couple times due to a semi-faulty starter. Getting unstuck in those situations was a simple matter of Mr. Fixer hopping out of the truck, raising the hood and manually bypassing the starter with a screwdriver while I, the co-pilot, depressed the accelerator, keeping her running, until he could get back into the truck.
The second foray into the wilderness was… a little more interesting. Our initial goal was to do some light rock hounding. Because it was hunting season, we figured going out into the Owyhee mountains was unsafe so we opted for the more foot-and-bicycle-friendly Rocky Canyon Road. After all, wouldn’t you think there would be some interesting-looking rocks in a place called “Rocky Canyon”?
We rode along pleasantly, turning off the paved road and heading a few miles in. Those first few miles were rather uneventful. Sure, we had to maneuver cautiously along a couple stretches of not-quite-wide-enough road and a few blind turns, but it was a steady grade and did absolutely nothing to stretch the Jeep Eater’s muscles. Heck, Mr. Fixer hadn’t even locked her into four wheel drive. Then, we took a sharp left and found the trail we really wanted.
But, to hear about that you’ll have to tune in Saturday.
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Copyright © 2009-2010 D. S. Vic.
All rights reserved
The Magic of Music
I first discovered the magic of music when I was very young, living in Bothell. Our family would frequently go on day-trips to Pike Place Market where I would stare in awe at the street musicians. My attention was diverted from them only when we passed the live clams at the fish market. Those little creatures were very, very interesting to an inquisitive five-year-old.
There was one musician that sticks out in my mind still today. She was very tall and slender with very, very long hair and a low, half-sultry half-folksy voice. She had sad eyes. I can’t remember what she sang or whether or not she actually had a guitar, but I remember thinking that I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I thought she had to be very rich what with so many shiny coins in her guitar case.
It wasn’t until many years later, after my first year of college, that I realized you actually had to get a permit to be a busker at Pike Place Market. That seemed fundamentally wrong to me. Back then the idea that I had to ask permission to share my heart with others really offended me. As such, I passive-aggressively refused to sing for the denizens of Seattle.
I was a kid. And stupid.
Anyway, with my dream of being a street musician destroyed, I turned my focus to other outlets. I discovered karaoke. I loved it. Put your name and the song number on a slip of paper and get your time in the spotlight. And, I could do this over and over and over again without needing a permit.
Though I started my journey with the most over-played karaoke song ever, Bette Midler’s “The Rose”, eventually I was singing everything from Linda Ronstadt and Garth Brooks to Aerosmith and Melissa Ethridge. Occasionally I’d even throw in a little “Amazing Grace”. There is nothing quite so ego-boosting as getting a standing ovation, in a bar, for singing gospel.
Karaoke gave me a sense of purpose, a reason for being. I was living my dream. But again time passed. I outgrew the bar scene. I loved the karaoke part, but the older I got, the earlier I left the bar because I didn’t like the atmosphere when the heavy drinkers started showing up.
I don’t go out to sing karaoke very often anymore. I still feel the magic of music, and I sing often and loudly. My audience, however, is comprised of my dog and my stuffed animals. Occasionally my husband gets to hear me.
I no longer have a desire to be a street musician. I no longer need the approval karaoke gave me. All I need is the love of my husband and those private moments of absolute freedom and unbridled joy when I can make the windows rattle a little with just the power of my voice. If my dog had hands, he’d give me a standing ovation, I’m sure!
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Copyright © 2009-2010 D. S. Vic.
All rights reserved
My First Love
The bluest skies you’ve ever seen are in Seattle. At least, that’s what the Perry Como song says. I understand the sentiment, but for me, it’s about the Long Beach peninsula at the Southwestern-most point of Washington state. There’s an awing beauty involved in standing on the boardwalk staring westward and knowing you’re at the end of the world. “Forever” is limited only by the curve of the distant horizon.
I’ve seen many places of incredible beauty in my life. I’ve stood on the white-sand beaches of Trinidad and Tobago, gaped in awe at the purity of Norwegian fjords, felt the fog kiss my cheeks in Scotland, stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon and basked in the misted spray of Niagara Falls. While stunning in their own rights, all of these experiences pale in comparison to the Pacific Northwest, my first love.
I was born in Ohio and moved to Washington at the age of four. I grew up in Bothell and Snohomish, attended college in Seattle and Tacoma then moved to the Long Beach peninsula. For nearly thirty-four years, I have called the Pacific Northwest my home. Though I now live in Idaho, I think I will always consider Western Washington my true home.
There is beauty and natural artistry here in Boise. I recognize this. Still, it’s “high desert”. Yes, there are lakes and – occasionally – trees and what many people refer to as mountains. When you’ve lived with Mount Rainier in your back yard though, foothills that don’t have snow year-round aren’t “real mountains”. At least, that’s what I keep telling my husband – hereafter dubbed Mr. Fixer.
Mr. Fixer frequently points out the expanse of rolling hills – littered with sage brush and cross sections of up-heaved rock – remarking on the beautiful landscape. I know he wants me to be excited and amazed at the texture and intricacy of mineral striation, but my heart longs to return to the deep, rich green that fills the land west of the Cascades. I can’t help it. I like my trees and grass to be green.
Trying to instill a little awe in my I-will-not-change-for-anything heart, Mr. Fixer described the naming of Boise. He suggested that as Settlers were traveling east to west, they came upon the Boise river area. Taken aback by the trees and fertile soil, someone exclaimed, “Le bois!” Thus, “Boise, the City of Trees” came to be.
I don’t think it happened that way. What really happened was that a group of harried, over-stressed and weary travelers had fought their way past the Continental Divide and up-and-down-and-up-and-down over the myriad foothills. They came upon a river that contained the first semi-green, growing things they’d seen in weeks. They looked ahead of them and saw yet more foothills. Someone toward the back of the pack called out, “Forget it! We’ll just stay here!”
I’m sure I’ll grow to love this part of the Northwest, though. After all, I’ve only been here a year. And, this is where my dearest, most loved Mr. Fixer was born and raised. Observing his love for the raw, untamed nature of this place beckons to me, and I want to love it as much as he does.
The Pacific Northwest, however, is my first love. From the gold glimmer of the sun dancing on Lake Washington to the rich, lush green of the Snohomish River valley; from the majestic, towering Mount Rainier to the unceasing power of the mighty Columbia; from the deep, engulfing greens and browns of the Ho Rain Forest to the peace and tranquility of the San Juan Islands, Western Washington holds my heart captive.
There’s a school of thought that suggests recovering from a break-up should take approximately half as long as the duration of the relationship. If that’s true, it could potentially take another sixteen years for me to get over that sweet, idyllic land west of the Cascades. However long it takes to develop a deep and enduring love for the rest of the Northwest, it’s definitely going to take many, many pints of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream!
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Copyright © 2009-2010 D. S. Vic.
All rights reserved
December Vacation
I am taking the rest of December away from this Blog to reflect and decide what I am going to do in 2010. Yesterday was my 62nd birthday. I spent it in reflection and meditation.
Some of the things I am considering for my 63rd year are:
- Write a book about self-hypnosis. It has always been an interest of mine and over the years I have developed my own concepts and style.
- Retire, at least to some degree. I have taken early retirement and, while I may have to take a few odd jobs to make ends meet, I don’t intend to do the full-time corporate thing.
- Move back to Bainbridge Island. I’m not exactly sure how I will make this happen, but I want to make the island my home for the rest of my life.
- Figure out how to make money online.
I will be returning on Monday, January 4, 2010. I wish all of you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year 2010.
Copyright © 2009 – 2010 Moody Publishing Co
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