Mark D. Roberts @ Typepad

Vacation Pics: Idaho

Here are a couple more pictures from my vacation. The first is of the Boulder Mountains in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area (north of Sun Valley, Idaho).

The next picture is of one of the Norton Lakes in the Smoky Mountains, also in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area. The black spot in the lake, in the center of the picture, is my son wading.

God's creation is amazing!

Vacation Pics: The Narrows

A couple of days ago my family and I hiked the Narrows of Zion Canyon. It's one of our all time favorite hikes. Here are a couple of pictures. To give you a sense of scale, in the lower picture I circled my wife and son. Much of the walk is in the Virgin River. If you ever plan to do this hike - which I highly recommend - be sure to rent appropriate gear (special boots and a good walking stick).

Lemons into Lemonade, Part 2

Yesterday I began a story about a recent visit to Yosemite National Park. (The picture to the right is of Half Dome on Monday evening.) After a delightful day in this Sierra wonderland, my wife and I got stuck behind a person who might have been the slowest mountain driver in history. He poked along on a road with a conservative 35 mph speed limit, probably averaging well under 25 mph. Since this narrow two-lane highway had no passing spots, and since the slow driver never pulled over to let the twenty plus cars behind him pass, we were forced to follow him as he crawled through the dark forest.

Finally, after an hour leading us at a snail's pace, the slow driver signaled that he was making a left turn . . . and pulled over to the right side of the road! Free at last, I exulted. The last fifteen miles back to our motel would pass quickly. My shower and bed were not far away, a happy thought for an exhausted hiker at 10:00 p.m.

But then a miracle happened, a devilish wonder. The new lead driver, who had been stuck behind the first driver ever since we left Yosemite Valley, actually seemed to drive more slowly than the previous leader. Soon the speed limit climbed to 55 mph. But we were often going 30 or less, still on a two-lane road with no opportunities to pass. By now there were 30 cars piled up behind us in the darkness as we all crept down the mountain.

More lemons. So more lemonade. Linda and I resumed the mock-argument that had kept us occupied earlier. I claimed, once again, that the driver was too macho to let people pass. Linda, with a more sensitive spirit, claimed that he was probably a visitor from a foreign country, one who was unfamiliar with mountain driving and with the legal and ethical demand to pull over and let others pass.

To add to the fun, I suggested other possible scenarios, besides the "macho bad driver" and "terrified foreigner" options. Maybe this guy really likes being a leader, I surmised. He's on a power trip. Or maybe he doesn't know how to shift out of first gear. Or maybe he's in a huge argument with his wife, who thinks he's driving way too fast in the darkness. Or maybe he thinks everybody drives too fast today, and he's making a moral point about the virtues of poking along. All of this kept me occupied for a while.

Then I started keeping track of the slow driver's speed. I made up a game for him, the "Go-Slow Game." What would be his record "under-the-speed-limit" pace? At first it was 25 mph (30 in a 55 zone). Then 27 mph (28 in a 55). As I cheered the lead driver on to victory, he set his all-time record at 32 mph under the speed limit (23 in a 55). He, and the thirty cars forced to follow him, were driving at almost exactly one-half of the speed limit. I figured this must be some sort of personal record for me too.

Shortly before we arrived at our motel, the world-record slow driver pulled into a restaurant parking lot. I followed him, not because I wanted food, but because I wanted to win my argument with my wife. I'd prove that the driver was some hyper-macho bum. (I'm not sure how I would have demonstrated this fact by spying on him, but it was worth a try.) Alas, the driver was a kind-looking man who, by his appearance, was clearly from a foreign country. Moreover, his car was a rental, and he looked relieved to have his feet on terra firma. So I had to concede defeat to my wife. We weren't following a guy who was too tough to let anybody pass, but rather some pour soul who was so terrified by the mountain road that he probably never stopped to look in his rear view mirror. He wasn't being rude on purpose. He was just confused and afraid. A stranger in a strange land. Oh well . . . .

By the time Linda and I got back to our room, it was more than a half-hour later than it should have been. I was exhausted, but not from grinding my teeth for the overly-long drive behind the overly-slow drivers. No. If anything, I had had more laughs in the last 90 minutes than I'd usually have in 90 days of driving. I wasn't angry and frustrated, but slightly bemused. It was lemons from lemonade. My usually rushed personality had some unexpected moments of slowness and laughter. Vacation does things like this to people like me. It's why we need them.

Lemons into Lemonade, Part 1

I'm sure you've heard the saying, "If life gives you lemons, make lemonade." Well, I had the chance to make some lemonade last night.

First, the context. My wife and I visited Yosemite National Park yesterday (Monday, July 3rd). There are four ways to drive into this Sierra wonderland. Tioga Pass, the only access from the east, is a 9,000-foot-high tightrope walk through gorgeous mountains. The other three roads come from the west, hugging precipitous canyon walls and winding through dense forests. Well over a million visitors to Yosemite brave one of these four roads every year.

But in April there was a major landslide on Highway 140, one of major western routes into Yosemite. It was so large, and is still so dangerous, that California transportation officials haven't even begun to clear it. I've read that they're considering leaving the slide in place indefinitely, and building a bridge to the other side of the canyon on the western edge of the landslide, and then, after building a short road on the other side, building another bridge back to Highway 140. Because of the landslide, traffic on the other roads into Yosemite has increased, especially on Highway 41, which is closest to Highway 140.

My wife and I entered Yosemite by way of this southern access route. I was nervous that the traffic would be terrible, especially given the fact that we were visiting the park on July 3rd, the Monday of a four-day holiday weekend famous for its crowds. But the flow of traffic along 41 was reasonably swift. The folks at the Yosemite entrance gate were ready for the crowd. So we made the 45-mile drive from our motel to Yosemite Valley in just over an hour.

The return trip at night was another story, however. We were exhausted by the time we headed for home. Linda and I had hiked over ten miles during the day, including a tough climb from the valley floor to Nevada Falls and back. (The picture to the right is of Nevada Falls. The falls are full this year because there's been so much snow in the Sierra.)  Since there was a lot of traffic, we waited until about 9:00 p.m. to leave. I couldn't wait for a hot shower and a welcoming bed.

But as we were leaving Yosemite Valley, I got behind a slow driver. He or she was obviously uncomfortable driving on a serpentine, narrow road in the dark. For about ten minutes I sat behind this person, thinking all sorts of terrible thoughts about him or her. But, finally, the car pulled over so I and several other drivers could pass.

I rolled along at the speed limit for about ten minutes before I came upon another pack of cars. This group was going even more slowly than the last slowpoke, averaging less than 25 miles per hour on a road with a conservative 35 mph speed limit. The driver of the van leading the pack would slow down, almost to a stop, before every curve, and there were hundreds of these.

Both the law and common courtesy require the lead driver to pull over so other can pass. But this snail-paced driver never made even the slightest effort to allow the rest of us to get ahead of him. So we sat behind this car for 30 miles. There was no opportunity to pass legally and safely. I, and the dozens of other cars now lined up behind the slow car, were stuck for a 40-minute drive that had now been extended to 60 minutes or more.

I quickly figured that all of this was adding a half-hour to our return trip to our motel. I must confess that I wasn't very happy about this. But, beyond my own frustration, I was astounded that any driver would just sit there with more than 20 cars on his tail, a couple of which were flashing their high beams in desperation. Such rudeness, I thought!

So here were my lemons. How did I make lemonade?

Well, first of all, my wife and I had a long, mock argument about what the slow driver was thinking. I conjectured that he was a macho type who wouldn't ever let people pass because he was too tough to be humbled by faster drivers. My wife countered that the driver was probably from another country, and that he or she was not an experienced driver, and was sacred to death of driving on such a winding road in the darkness. Yosemite draws hundreds of thousands of foreign visitors, so Linda's position had some validity, though I wouldn't admit it. Moreover, the car had its interior lights on, which added to the possibility that the driver didn't know what he was doing. (This is also illegal in California, by the way.) Linda and I argued our various sides for several minutes without resolution. Surely, even someone unfamiliar with such a road and with American driving laws would see the long line of lights in his rear-view mirror and pull over, I reasoned. But Linda held her ground admirably.

My argument with my wife managed to keep us both entertained for the better part of the drive. Somehow we had managed to turn our lemons into lemonade.

Finally, after an hour leading us through the darkness, the slow driver signaled that he was making a left turn . . . and pulled over to the right side of the road! Free at last, I exulted. The last fifteen miles back to our motel would pass quickly. My shower and bed were not far away.

Or so I thought . . . Come back tomorrow for the surprising conclusion to this happy story.