flying from flat plains

flying from flat plains,

crossing the Cascade Mountains,

amazed by white peaks

On a Monday morning in early April, I drive seven miles to campus to board a small white bus. Our group of ten are heading off for a photography excursion to Vancouver. My husband drives us two hours to Des Moines, where I say goodbye to him at the airport, I say goodbye to him. I've got my camera bag and tripod in a backpack, my clothes in a small suitcase and a little neck bag the size of an envelope for my passport, credit card, cash and smartphone. At the check-in desk, I inquire about changing my middle seat to an aisle seat, but am told that it costs $25 to "upgrade," so I decline. Airlines now charge for lots of services that used to be free, including checked bags, $25 each way. At the gate we're required to insert our carry-on bag into a slot with the maximum dimensions. The bag of the lady in front of me is too fat. She jumps on it but it still won't go in. Finally, she unzips the bag, takes out some clothes and hands them to her little girl. Now the bag fits, just barely. My hard-sided case easily fits in the slot, but when I lean down to extract it, the silver snake chain around my neck catches on something and breaks, scattering my little pendants. Hastily I gather them up and stick them in my neck bag.
          The plane is full. Fortunately, it's only an hour and a half to Denver, where we have a long stopover. I have time to eat lunch and shop for a replacement chain, which I find in a Native American store. My buddy Nicki and I enjoy examining some lovely carved animal fetishes. She especially admires one carved from clear quartz crystal, but they're expensive and she hopes she can find more when we get to Vancouver. I'm not so sure. These are made by Native Americans in the Southwest, many of them signed by the artist.
          The flight to Seattle is about two and half hours. It turns out that a couple end up separated by the aisle, so I offer to trade my middle seat with the woman, who agrees. I'm happy to upgrade to an aisle seat, but then another couple arrives with a one-year-old to take the two seats next to me. I see that there's a window seat empty next to Gabe and Susan, so I offer to let them have my aisle seat so the baby can sit between them and they gratefully accept. Whether this was an upgrade or a downgrade, at least I'm not in the middle. As we fly over the Cascades, I'm glued to the window. Living in the flat plains of Iowa, it's always amazing to see mountains, whether from a car or an airplane. When I see a couple of big snow-covered peaks sticking up from the long range of mountains, I take my first photo of the journey. I'm not sure, but I think it's Mt. Rainier in the foreground.
          We take a shuttle bus to the rental car place and wait outside as the sun turns a bank of clouds flourescent pink while our two leaders, Gabe and Susan, negotiate ground transportation. They were hoping to rent a van, but none are available, so we end up with two cars, one silver, one black. Nicki and I opt for Gabe's silver car, because we like silver. Susan was not expecting to drive, so she's following Gabe, who has the GPS, though it turns out that the GPS doesn't work. Gabe and Susan want to head off immediately for our motel, a two hour drive, but we're all hungry, so at the exit to the parking garage, Gabe asks for directions to a restaurant. Although it's only a couple of blocks away, we get lost. Gabe accidentally turns into a parking lot full of taxis, all occupied by Sikhs in turbans. One of them kindly directs us to the restaurant, which offers an odd combination of Chinese and Peruvian fare. It's late when we starting following highway 5 north about 80 miles, turn west, cross a bridge to Fidalgo Island and continue to Anacortes at the northern tip, the home port for the San Juan Islands. Finally we bump down a dirt road to a little motel, arriving late at night. The ferry to Vancouver leaves early in the morning, so we just fall into bed.