The $200 we socked down to go with Hawaii Forest & Trail’s Greg to the top of Mauna Kea’s huge observatories was worth every penny  (plus 9 hours’ time).  Mauna Kea’s belly button (pu’u) is 14,000′ and, unlike some, we stayed down in respect for the most-revered sacred spot above the observatories.  They issued parkas and mittens for 14,000 feet, pointed out a rare owl, goats, Franklin birds, a mongoose, turkeys, and neighboring islands above the clouds while adding history of Parker Ranch (800,000 acres where horses/cows/sheep changed the ecology from native forest to grassland, now reduce to much fewer acres with Waimea’s shops and residences on half-dry, half-wet and lush mountainside. We ate delicious chicken terriyaki at an abandoned goat farm (had I found a house I could afford?), watched the Army’s explosive plumes toward Mauna Loa to the south. The sisters remain peaceful now, but Mauna Loa’s biding her time to make a display for Pele to reconfigure the area below her home, either south-to-Kona or north-to-Mauna Kea’s valley. I sensed it will come.

Hawaiian lore tells of Fire Goddess residing at Mauna Kea and erupting often in fights with her sister, Mauna Loa (snow goddess’ mountain that’s set to erupt sometime again). We contemplated what would happen to Kona if Mauna Loa came alive, as predicted for several centuries, as we crossed the saddle. Silversword (a relative of sunflower, looking more like yuca) is again protected on the a-a and lapahoehoe’s barren surface and is coming back. We stopped twice, once at 9000′ and to “set a personal record” at port-a-potties after 4 spine-jarring miles of non-pavement winding to 13,780′. The observatory in a Jody Foster movie about UFOs came to mind at the satellite lined up with New Mexico and other points in the world.  The US observatory opened and lined up while we watched sunset. Many countryies (13?) use Hawaii’s clear air to study stars and spend amazing amounts on even more amazing equipment to make space discoverires. After a light-headed, slow walk at Mauna Kea’s edge, we came down to 9000′ and had a star look and lesson: Venus (w- white ball), Conicus (s-shimmering with scintillating reds, greens, golds), Sirrus or Dog Star (very bright). Venus-to-Jupiter (rings of gas, 3 moons atop, one below) make up the zodiacal path and we followed Greg’s laser from Aquarius to the Crab, visible at full dark. Others rise later as the earth moves at 1000′/second, I believe he said. Orion’s belt began all the constellation stories. We saw many comets and satellites above as we ate chocolate chip cookies and sipped hot cocoa.

Next day was Sunday; we listened to a Waikoaloa Community Church minister in aloha shirt and kukui lei expound smartly on scripture and had coconut-macademia cookies and guava juice with folks in gorgeous muumuus, then looked at the opulent Hilton grounds and determined that $400,000 golf course condos were not our idea of a Hawaiian experience. A short walk to Hualalai property’s Kuki’o Beach, with natives swimming and fishing, was more to our liking.  We returned to the Summer Palace Festival with street vendors singing and selling for blocks, sat on the sea wall and watched the Merry Monarch’s Band and Singers do a concert that included hula, chants, and cooling salt spray on our backs. One dancer placed her lei around my neck after the last traditional hula. Another day, Hapuna Beach’s turquoise waters, turtles, Queen’s Bath, islands, and few Maui-facing houses brought even more bliss. Friend Bob and I hiked a half-mile past Loretta Lynn’s (boarded up), pacemaker-inventor’s yellow plantation-under-a-roof, and the Bali House (reconstructed twice, from Indonesia, with roofline of a Thai temple in gorgeous woods). Owner, Paul Mitchell’s son is rumored to give it to Hawaiian Trust, a fitting gift for royalty. Paul evidently used to use the beach lean-to with a plastic chair, cook stove, cot, and idyllic sunset scene daily before illness took him. I figured the beach shack would work pretty well for me–home comforts and island breezes. It occurred to me that, when this body’s worn out and ready for rest, ashes tossed into the Pacific from South Point cliffs would fittingly mingle with lava turning to black or green sand. The greater drama remains unchanged from ten years ago when I stood at this point.

I divide the 4/5 of the remaining bale, load it in a wheelbarrow, push it through snow (that turned to brown slush over the next few hours), and hoist it over the high fence at four strategic spots that are not within kicking distance “in case they get to bickering”. Winnie paws to get out to the hay, then changes her mind about going beyond the grass in her pen, Joe tries to come in, and I finally win the battle of wits. Pat Parelli’s carrot stick helps; I only apply a little pressure or show it to them and they move where I want. Zoe drinks her water down daily, but temperatures stop freezing, so I carry her a bucket each feeding. Then it’s time to lock the gates and cover the hay in case bad weather or deer move in to spoil the bails. I needed a bath after each feeding foray, sometimes finding hay beneath three layers of clothing! It’s good exercise, and as long as I got it done in daylight, interesting and enjoyable. Thanksgiving, after a late dinner and two Scrabble games, friend Elsie and I wrestled bales and sank into muck with my headlamp’s help. I returned to her kitchen today for a reward: dipping mint/walnut/vanilla nougat in chocolate. We ate our share of samples. Happy holiday time, whether you eat hay, oats, or candy!

Our first morning’s challenge was to open the garage door without electricity in a rainstorm. We borrowed Buzz’s car and made the rounds an hour late. That left two hours to walk Siesta Key beach. White sand there feels like walking in powdered sugar. The afternoon sky turned cobalt with silver lining the bottoms of white clouds. Seagulls liked it too.

Sarasota Magazine   mentioned a penguin exhibit at MOTE Marine Laboratory, so we were off! We communed with sharks, skates, octopi, manatees, sea turtles, and grotesque fish large and small. The senior guides at various stations shared an impressive amount of knowledge. Lunch at The Salty Dog was fish, of course. However, Sarasota’s big news was its fourth annual Chalk Festival.  We watched pastel artists covering pavement with 3-D street art and heard exerpts from “Madame Butterfly” performed on one chalk backdrop. So the normal next step was to call for Sarasota Opera tickets; it didn’t disappoint. Cio-Cio-San’s tragic life touched our hearts, Pinkerton made us hate his weakness, and Sharpless had our sympathy as they sang their hearts out in Italian. Subtitles helped.  Three days without defined plans filled our time with Sarasota’s best experiences. We went to Turtles for crab-filled shrimp and filet oceanside to avoid cooking one evening, another memorable taste of Florida. Too busy to put even a toe in their pool, and all without a schedule! I returned to snow in Denver and icy wind in Spokane. Across Thompson Pass, I drove in slush. Mountain rams were eyeing their conquests in my driveway as I turned home, glad I went and glad to return. What wonderful places this country has for enjoying life!

I dedided this valley is gorgeous in every season. Turning attention to the river, I crossed the highway for a closer picture. Looking both ways–twice–I hurried across the new double yellow lines. Between me and the view lay the route of eighteen-wheelers, logging trucks, SUVs, Subarus, Suburbans, old clunkers, and occasional bikers. All but the bikers were going well over the 65 mile/hour speed limit. Thank goodness the mountain sheep hadn’t been seen down there for awhile.

Someone had tossed a plastic bag in the grass. I picked it up and started filling it with juice cans, pop bottles, Bud cans, breakfast bar wrappers, faded celephane, a washcloth, and broken glass. No more plastic was handy, so I left the rest of the debris in the grass, except for a hunk of heavy chain that will go to the scrap recycle.  At first, I was angry; after all, I’d picked up four miles of the Perma Curves with Women’s Club Highway Clean Up and added another couple of miles for the Methodists’ Clean Up Stretch last week. Women’s Club made a game of it–prizes for the most unique finds picked up by plastic-gloved hands. As I recall, one rubber child-sized shoe won over a dime, an unopened energy bar, a diaper, a car tag, a potholder, and a faded Horton Hears a Who.  We’d filled, on average, a giant garbage bag-per-mile on each side along the roadway near the Plains’ Weigh Station too–just outside the city limits. Driving along, it doesn’t seem like much to toss your coffee cup or beer can (some even crush them!) out of a car window into the grass and weeds alongside the road. If it’s over a guard rail, you never see it again–until you have to retrieve it and the rest of the trash folks pitched. How can we be so inconsiderate of others and nature? I don’t understand it.  I began to hurry homeward, itching to wash my hands. (I’ve heard horror stories about what truckers toss out their windows.)

The breeze fluttered my driveway tree leaves, and I lifted my eyes again to the hill colors. Maybe tomorrow, weather cooperating, I’ll take my own garbage bag and do a half-mile each way on my own. The neighbors will probably not notice, but I’ll feel better and have another day in Fall’s glorious colors. Come join me!

One more freeze and windstorm and all this will be gone for 2011, maybe before Halloween. Here’s my costume: “The Good Witch” feels about right today, living above this clutter that hides under Montana’s glorious color.

Leaving before the buffet, we drove to Fredonia. I caught up with my Class of 56 on a trailer at the tail end of the parade. My brother’s class, in ’61 tee shirts, sat on bales on a flatbed a few floats behind the high school marching band.  Our tees would mostly have had to be XXL, I’m guessing. No corsages (like Prom days), but it was definitely chyrsanthemum weather! The most poignant mini-reunions in Bateman Gym were with people who were courageously fighting cancer, heart problems, diabetes, Parkinson’s, and broken bones. Warm sunshine lifted our mood and restored lively memories and relationships. The Stone House Gallery featured local artists’ works, the ferris wheel still brought squeals, and a friend’s family hospitality shared home-made soup and salads just off the square. After a 30-mile drive to visit Mom, I returned for the class dinner. I found out two friends from my class were grandmothers of the bride and groom–small world! Roast beef and fried chicken with mashed potatoes claimed our attention before a candle-lighting remembrance of our 12 deceased classmates (2 women, 10 men). Banter and informal discussion led to offering of rooms for those of us who had a hard time getting a room in the area; most left by 8:30 pm. I remembered dancing ten years ago! Next morning, the Catholic Church’s pancake feed brought out half the town. I talked with retired farmers, one friend finishing a small machine repair building, ex-inlaws and classmates from several states. Pictures from the past popped up as agine profiles suddenly became the same smiling eyes I’d looked into 50 years ago!  Another overnight at my daughter’s plus two super-long days’ driving, and we pulled into Home Sweet Home in Montana. Slow drizzle fell, much needed cleansing and refreshment for parched mountains.

First lesson, sans hat and veil, showed dividers with hexagonal hints of beeswax beginnings. Female workers will make wax, build cells, receive honey and pollen, and build them until their separations drip with honey, usually nine-per-bee box.

I stayed safely behind truck windows, but the guys donned hat and veil (bees are attracted to breath. They didn’t want any aggressive ones pumping out alarm pheromones that furthers stinging attacks. Ties around ankles and sleeves (over gloves) insured no bees would end up trapped under clothing. Brian deftly used the smoker to calm the busy workers and moved slowly without all the gear. We arrived at an alfalfa field with an oil well donkey bobbing up-down in its center. Late Spring rains and a record-high temperature Summer had affected the alfalfa–and the bees pollination activity.  I watched the sequence–smoke, remove the top or the apartment, inspect a divider or two after bees are smoked or brushed off, and replace until more production happens.

Their work? The queen, the only breeding female, must produce 1500-3000 eggs/day. The nuptual flight that marked her hive position long ago took flight after 15 days of being placed there. She mated with thousands of the hive’s 30-50,000 large drones high in the air, they returned later to fertilize the eggs, where their work was over. They were driven out into  winter to die. The normal worker eggs hatch to make more workers. If destined to become a queen, the hatchling is raised on royal jelly and grows to be another large queen destined for her own, other hive.  Brian extracted frames, uncapping them with his knife, but it wasn’t yet time to extract honey for filtering. We went home emptyhanded, but excited about the look at this colony’s activity.

We were in good company: rock paintings on four continents show ancient bee activity. Pharoah’s tombs contained honey. Pots appeared in Chinese writings. Aristotle discussed bees, who went scientific in the 18th century. France tried glass observation walls (that destroyed entire hives) until medieval monastaries perfected honey production for mead. 19th century brought Yorkshire bee farmers to the US, movable comb hives,and spaces between frames (for removal without destroying comb). Bees cover the world: 4,500,000 in Turkey; 9,800,000 in India; 2,400,000 in the US.

It turned out that female workers, who appeared busy by my standards,  were in a low work output mode in the Summer. They go non-stop for six Fall weeks and 16 Winter weeks–cleaning cells, incubating, feeding young larvae, receiving honey and pollen, making wax, building cells, guarding the entrance, and pollen foraging. I didn’t notice any larger drones, and we didn’t locate the queen.

Brian showed us how a queen is shipped in a small box within a larger frame; we peered into his pristine separator and noticed stacked buckets of honey awaiting a journey toward hot biscuits. Even better, it will mix with peanut butter (PBH?) and become a healthy sugar substitute.

I came back in time to work on Voices of MT Baroque, this eighth Festival year. Handel and Vivaldi played on baroque instrumentss, a marvelous mezzo, bbq at Quinn’s Hot Springs, and a cultural exchange with Salish Kootenai drummers and dancers kept me wanting always to be in MT this time of year! Friend Gayle and I drove backroads across Sloan’s Ferry Bridge and stood awhile above Flathead Bend’s alkaline cliffs under a perfect sky. It was worth every gravel mile.

Today, I contacted my nephew and determined to walk August 5-6 to raise money for Relay for Life to combat cancer. I’m hoping friends will want to contribute or buy (and decorate?) a luminary that continually reminds all-night walkers around the Plains Fairgrounds of those who did not survive and the hope of those fighting the good fight, whether in their own bodies or in research laboratories. I’ll target each hour’s walk at $100 and hope Jed’s Mayo Clinic heart and my aging body have to walk several hours!

“Shake that bottle” brought down the house with applause. “We are the World” brought tears.  I received flowers and a standing ovation from parents after kindergarten graduation. I felt honored, useful, and productive. It wasn’t hard to pack up my desk, one corner of the teacher’s lounge. Having the water cooler and fridge plus two couches had opened the door to relaxed communication with the teachers. They seemed to genuinely have appreciated my being at My Little School. Aida’s husband, Ali made me a seafood dinner at their home. The glow dimmed with a press of folks and bundles bound for India at 4:30 a.m. in Riyadh, much confusion in the London airport, and 25 hours in the air. I returned to weeds pressing around my redwood house, with my yellow roses bursting into bloom. The community welcomed me: talk about Saudi and Women’s Issues at Plains Women’s Club, enter paintings in Art on the Walls, and cook for friends. After June 24 dinner, my brother called from the bottom of my long drive. “Some lady hit a moose; he’s on your land.” It was friend, Dixie’s Prius with a shattered windshield and neighbors who dressed out the meat after Fish and Game shot the injured yearling. No one was hurt but the moose and Dixie’s car. I hiked back up my drive, thinking how I had seen a red fox, two hummingbirds, and a moose on my place in one day. That’s a long way from camels and sand!

Dubai’s “tallest building in the world” is just that–gleaming silver into a blinding blue sky that defied fitting into one photo–unlike the Burjuman whose entire length I could see  from Al Manzril Hotel,  a nice 5-star that treated me well with Thai soups and a huge buffet after comfortable pool time. I did a dinner cruise on Dubai Creek in a dhow (early boat) with 399 others with an Egyptian dancer show with a horse’s head that peered into our hairdos and plates. I also met some Chinese folks here for an Expo who brought back memories the way they hit the dessert table first.  Saudi cultures excel at sweets, so the table was full.

Next day was a city tour and a beach tour on a double-decker with commentary in seven languages (A/C went out, and we about died for a bit at 42-degrees C–113-degrees F). City tour explained history:  Internet City was a mangrove swamp in 7000 BC, 3rd century found Dubai a ceramics capital, 1892 was under UK protectorship; 1966 introduced oil for the seven United Arab Emirates just south of the Persian Gulf. That’s quite a long haul from a place called home by a tribe of pearl divers.  The beach tour showed us the monorail to “Lost City of Atlantis” with its dolphin swims at the end of a palm-tree configuration with high-end hotels and condos on reclaimed land. The “World” configuration of islands would have been more impressive if the double-decker had been a helicopter: islands in the shape of this half of the world are located in the Gulf. Movie stars and monied people are buying them, beginning at 10 million for a small island. Switching back to the city line,  I saw the indoor ski slope; Dubai Mall with several-story acquarium and 10% discount at Bloomingdales; souks–especially the gold market (walking around the city in pedal pushers and tee made it great).

The third day’s unexpected adventure was unforgettableI hired a driver to take me into the dessert where I could photograph camels and dunes without the wild rides safaris offer here. He got stuck on the first ridge; we spent two hours, watching temperatures climb from 42-degrees Celsius to 47 (117 Farenheit) while he scooped hot sand and tried to drive out. It took four men and a shovel plus letting air out of tires to finally do it. Gas is cheap, so A/C was blasting all the while when the car felt safe enough to enter. I got to the Dubai Int’l (United Arab Emarites, seven tiny countries along Persian Gulf) airport with ten minutes to spare. It felt good to be home at the compound!

Another couple of good memories were with Pakistani workers: one guy who helped us dig out wanted to know why America was fighting his country and we had some good exchange about Osama bL, another guard near Dubai Mall parking got excited when he met “an American” and told me of a Christian man in CA who had helped him a lot. I came home to see my Indian driver and tipped him 100 riyal for delivering and picking me up safely. Only in Saudi Arabia, maybe? I told my Pakistani morning driver of the sand dune adventure this a.m. and he said, “Why you not call me? I come for you.” These guys haven’t been home for more than a couple of months in 6-8 years, working here for little pay (I think Aida pays her staff well) and sending it back to their families. Another memory: waiting in the Ladies Room while man after man was waited on at many lighted windows at the embassy where I had to get my visa stamped to reenter Saudi. The guard happened to see me and asked if I had been seen yet; he pulled some strings and my visa was stamped after I paid 450 riyal. Otherwise, I might be in Dubai still–not a bad place to be. I came back to school and watched chocolate-filled croissants, dark chocolates, and cheese pastries carried into my office/teacher’s room. No Cokes (lots of guava/mango/OJ), like the life-size ads I saw in Dubai, but our teeth could become like those marked out on the ads.