School In Our Jammies

Spring had finally arrived in the polar north. Inuksuk paced the tundra.  In every direction, native rhodies burst with pale pink blossoms. Lush salal packed primeval trails. Inuksuk’s ancient land, having again weathered the harsh winds of winter, needed a bit of cleanup.

“I shall make fire tomorrow,” Inuksuk announced to Oma-Inuksuk.  “With our branch grabbers and road bucket, we shall harvest winter’s detritus and pile it high upon our burning circle.  We shall reclaim our plot prior to the summer solstice.”

Oma-Inuksuk agreed.  She brewed mugs of hot brown beverage for sustenance and inspiration.  She delivered them to her warrior king.

Flames soon rose high above the burning circle, snapping and smoking with their gusto and Inuksuk’s expertise. He was a fine fire-starter.

Half the day they worked.  Many trips forth and back had they loaded the road bucket with winter’s wreckage.  Great, billowing, gray clouds rose into pristine skies and drifted across hedges.  Inuksuk’s neighbors voiced no complaint.  Their own burning circles would shortly ignite.  At last, Inuksuk declared their work accomplished.

“Our land has withstood winter’s ravages for many seasons,” he mused.  “We shall never tidy her once-and-for-all, but we shall stop now.  It is the napping hour.”

Later that evening, Inuksuk and Oma-Inuksuk sat at the burning circle. They spoke of the goodness of their land, its verdant foliage, its child trails carved many years ago by their offspring and now adored by their offspring’s offspring.  Barely smoldering, the fiery flames had been diminished into a pristine yet pointy pile of light gray ash. It was a good evening.

“Huh,” said Inuksuk.  “A very large raptor has just overflown the neighbor’s sky patch.”

“An eagle?” inquired Oma-Inuksuk.

“Maybe,” he mused.  “Probably not.”

Through the deck door strode Inuksuk’s own animal.  Scouty-nuk, previously wraithlike and ugly, had shed her winter mats. Now she appeared skinny and sleek, her black-brown coat glistening in the golden hour glow.

She strolled through the mossy glen.  She was heading for the ash volcano.

“Scouty-nuk,” warned Inuksuk.  “Do not potty in the formerly burning circle — it remains toasty.”

Perhaps because Scouty does not speak the language of her people, or perhaps because she did not care, she peed in the ash pile and then wandered forthwith to the tundra.

Suddenly, Oma-Inuksuk glimpsed a raptor, great and fierce, its snow-white head and hooked beak identifiable against the gathering dusk. It was over-flying the sky circle in the opposite direction.

“An eagle!” she cried.

Inuksuk sprang into action.  “My kitty!” he roared, grabbing his whale-spear and rushing into the tundra.  “I will protect you, my ancient and noble pet!”

Visions of a mighty sky-fighter, beady eyes trained upon his Scouty-nuk, filled Inuksuk with righteous rage.  He knew this foe.  Many times had he observed sky wraiths snatch protein packets from the family fishing hole.  Silently swooping from great heights, they resembled death maulers — razor-sharp talons piercing tough skin and scales, mighty beaks tearing flesh from bone.

Armed with his whale-spear and scanning the skies above, Inuksuk stood at the ready.  Scout ate a blade of grass.

The eagle flew on.  Inuksuk lowered his whale spear and returned to the burning circle.

“Danger has passed,” he declared.  “Yet, I shall remain vigilant.  Our kitty and our offspring’s offspring shall not face a foe whilst I remain ruler of this good and ancient land.  You have my word.”

Inuksuk’s boast pleased his lady well.

“You’re a good man,” remarked Oma-Inuksuk.  “I smell like smoke.  I’m going to the bath.”

… and beautiful horse Chrissie

For the second spring in a row, Opa and I have ditched the PNW for the heat, dust, altitude, starry nights, and adventures of the high desert.  Two weeks in the company of our fave New Mexicans, the Thrussells, warms us up and dries us out.  We call this spring interlude “Summer Camp”.

Many popular summer camps include horses.  Ours did.

Ghost Ranch, located in Abiquiu, NM, is famous for its cattle rustling history, for its landscape-inspired artist, and for cowboy movies.  Having missed out on a van tour last year (and we all know why), we eagerly sought reservations in February for our May visit.  Then! One of us discovered that for a bigger wad of cash we could ride on a horse rather than sit in a van  — and after confirming that the other three adventurers were agreeable,  she plunked down our gold for a 90 minute trail ride.

Although Abiquiu is a mere 45 minutes from Thrussell Home Base, we elected to double the fun and find an AirBnB right in town for two nights. Our quaint and comfy casita included a fully equipped kitchen, spacious rooms decked out in tasteful southwest decor, a private patio with views of cows grazing just beyond the fence, and a bit of drama when a coyote showed up one morn.  Plus, there were hummingbirds and a hummingbird moth.  And a Chow-Chow.

Were there any pre-trail-ride jitters the evening before?  Was anyone remembering the last time she rode a horse and how ridiculous she looked trying to dismount?  Who laughed nervously when one of our party was told he’d be riding Bone Crusher?

Who’s the most excited to ride a horsie today?

However, after being expertly paired with Nacho, Tonka, Little Bit, and Bishop, and having paid careful attention to the demo on mounting, sitting, steering, squeezing, keeping a horse length between the horses, leaning correctly through the arroyos, and hollering “potty break!” when one’s steed pulled off the trail to do his business, we were lined up according to horsie personality and off we rode into the desert.  (For the record, my horse and Jessica’s were besties, so Little Bit didn’t mind one little bit that Bishop was crowding him the whole time.  Thanks, boys.)

Three minutes later, were ready to quit our day jobs and move to Abiquiqui. We loved our wrangler, we loved being by ourselves in the desert, we loved our horsies.

Unless next spring’s Summer Camp includes a horseback rerun, we may have to boycott.

Of course, Summer Camp involved much more than a 90-minute horse ride, and I shall get to parts II (Baking with Jessica) and III (Camping in Chaco) shortly.

Having heard rumblings of boredom with the ongoing Space Unit, Oma created an irresistable lesson plan.  She froze blue water inside of balloons. She consulted Mrs. M on the particulars of ice cream making.  She ordered rock salt and heavy cream from Clicklist.  (Also Lunchables, chocolate milk, and Ritz crackers, as both mommies were dropping and leaving this day.  There would be little time for pizza cooking or sandwich making.)   She brought the fort materials in from the garage. All set.

Miss Em arrived early and hid from her cousins.  Cousins arrived shortly thereafter and found her straightaway.  Baby E snagged his favorite adult.

Neptune was the focus of today’s lesson. The preschoolers already knew that Neptune was the name of a planet; that it was blue; and that it was a gas giant.  Neptune’s model currently hangs from Oma and Opa’s schoolroom ceiling, between Uranus and the non-planet, Pluto.  (Oma’s sympathies lie with Pluto.)

Preschool enthusiasm for space had begun to wane of late. They know about the moon.  They know about the sun.  They know about planets (although they cannot name them in order, nor do they care to) and the stars.  They know about rockets.  They know about the Space Shuttles.  (Mr. Mo dreamed of floating in space with Oma!) The “space wall” is a hit, even with visitors.  The planet models haven’t dropped from the ceiling yet.  Alas, Oma needed just a lesson or two more before shifting focus to bugs.

You’re up, Neptune.

“Today we’re going to learn all about Neptune!” she announced.  “Can you point to Neptune?”

They did.

“What letter does Neptune start with?”

“N!”

“Right!  Did you know Neptune is very, very big?”

They did.

“And did you know that Neptune is made of gases?”

Yep, they knew that, too.

“And did you know that Neptune is very, very cold?”

“Why?” asked one.

“Because it’s very, very far away from the sun,” answered Oma.  “I have a surprise for you.  Go sit on the floor and hide your eyes.”

Mr. Mo didn’t want to hide his eyes because he couldn’t find where to sit.  Oma helped him and the girlies find the floor and sit on it.  She tiptoed up to the kitchen and opened the freezer.  Inside were three spheroids, made earlier by filling balloons with tap water and blue food color.  Oma had peeled the balloon rubber from them right before Miss Em arrived that morning, and now she put each in a bowl and placed the bowls in front of the preschoolers.

She told them to open their eyes.

One of them asked what was in the bowl.  “I made a Neptune model for each of you!  Go ahead and touch it.  What do you think?”

“Can we lick it?”

“Well, sure you can.”

“My hands are blue!  Mmmm…it tastes good!”

Oma asked, as tongues licked frozen Neptune balls, if they would like to hold their Neptunes in their hands?  They would, and they did, and they declared them too cold to hold but not too cold to lick.  Oma thought briefly of what happens when a kid licks a frozen basketball pole in the snow, but she but let that go.

“Can you name other cold things?” asked Oma.  They listed snow, ice, popsicles.  “How about ice cream?”

“Yeah!”

“Shall we make some?”  Of course we should, so all grabbed their Neptune bowls, took a slurp of the delicious-looking blue water, and headed to the kitchen.

Ice cream, as we adults know, is easily made from simple ingredients:  ice, rock salt, cream, vanilla, sugar, and Ziplock bags.  Salt depresses the freezing point of water, as a solution always freezes at a lower temperature than the solvent it is made from.  Preschoolers don’t care about that, but they do care that their hands become very, very cold from shaking their ice cream bags for ten minutes.  Opa and Oma jumped in to help, and voila!  Ice cream was created and tossed into the freezer while Baby E had his after-nap drink.

Declaring the results not as thrilling as donuts or milkshakes, the preschoolers nonetheless ate their concoctions and shared the leftovers with Opa.  Since Oma still has enough rock salt to make ice cream every Thursday from March through July, she is sure to try again.

Meanwhile, her final lesson in the Space unit will likely be “comets” and “asteroids.”  Then, it’s on to bugs.

“Bunnies!” exclaimed Oma as she wheeled from the “wine and beer” section of the grocery store to where the gift bags were located.

In just 49 days, it would be Easter.  Seasonal goods had shifted from red and pink to soft pastels. Spring tablecloths, napkins, mugs, vases, greeting cards, baskets and phony grass now filled the shelves.  “I must buy bunnies!” thought Oma decisively.  “Opa will be so happy.”

Indeed, Opa would be.  Very few purchases had ever not made Opa happy, so buying chocolate bunnies 49 days before they were needed was a done deal.

Oma pushed her cart down the Easter stuff aisles, eyes peeled for those elusive chocolate rabbits.  Dove eggs, Ferro Rocher balls, gaudy yellow marshmallow Peeps, Lindt Neapolitan exclusives (those were wrapped in soft purple foil and sported “limited edition” on the box) and so many jellybeans caught Oma’s eye, yet she pressed on.  “Just bunnies,” she told herself.  “Preferably not the hollow ones.”

First, she found the hollow ones.  Priced at $1.99 yet on sale for $1.49, they were a decent deal. “No,” Oma said to herself.  “Preferably not the hollow ones.” She continued.

Off to the side, on an endcap (because they were pricey?  Or special?) Oma found ‘em. Thrilled, Oma yelled in her best preschool teacher voice, “I found bunnies!  I’m buying bunnies 49 days before I need them!”

Not really.  Oma does not yell in public places unless Opa is about to do something embarrassing or to suggest purchasing princess hats at Disneyland because his tired daughters are whining for them.  Oma did not yell aloud, but she did yell in her head because 1) she found solid chocolate bunnies weeks before they would be needed, and 2) Opa would be so happy.

Since January 1, 2022, Opa had reminded Oma weekly to buy chocolate bunnies for Easter treats.  “Chocolate bunnies!” Opa would announce from his desk chair, out of the blue.

“Yep,” would Oma reply.  Having every intention to not be skunked by bunny hunting again this year, Oma was on it.  You see, Easter 2021 had been a bunny disaster.  Not because of the pandemic (although that does make for good excuses any time), Oma had attempted to purchase said treats the Friday before Easter Sunday.  No bunnies.  Fred Meyer had no bunnies.  Target had no bunnies.  Amazon probably had bunnies, but could Amazon deliver them the next day? For less than the price of Kobe steaks?  Doubtful.  Oma at last tried Costco and came away without bunnies but with a bag of small Cadbury eggs.  Those weren’t thrilling enough for the masses, let alone for Opa.

Oma began loading her cart with solid chocolate bunnies, made by Lindt.  She bought eight of them, retailing for $4.99 each but on sale for $4.49.  Although Oma was capable of rounding up and multiplying eight by $4.50, she did not do the math.  Refusing to consider that little voice in her head which might whisper “you can find them cheaper elsewhere”, she wheeled to the self-check and began to scan her bunnies.

Those, along with one bottle of weekend wine, a gift bag and tissue paper for the baby gift she was knitting, totaled $58.  “Good for you, buying bunnies early!” the clerk did not exclaim in approval as she completed the override on Oma’s alcohol purchase.  Oma strolled out to the parking lot where Opa was contentedly waiting.

“Guess what I bought?” she asked him.

“Wine?”

“Well, yes.  But also, bunnies!”

“Bunnies?”

“Solid chocolate Easter bunnies for the masses,” answered Oma with a smile.  “I was so happy, I yelled at the top of my lungs right there in the aisle!”

“You did?”

“No, of course not.  But I felt like it,” answered Oma as she sat down in the car.  “Now, you can cross that little item off your list.”

Oma is not sure if Opa crossed “buy chocolate bunnies” from his list or not.  She thinks she’ll leave them where they sit – on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker – for now, just to delight in her accomplishment. This morning, as he waited for the Keurig machine to fill his second cup, Opa noted the bunnies.

“Hey!  It’s a gaggle of bunnies!”

“A gaggle?” wondered Oma.

“I dunno.  A herd?”

No matter.  They are purchased.  Oma is still smiling.

Dateline on a Thursday: The mood in mission control was bubbly.  Rocket Science Specialist Oma and her three novice engineers — Miss Nomi, Miss Em, and Mr. Mo — were about to launch Bottle Rocket Prototype One.  Eagerly, the engineers had first procured colored markers from RSSOma.  No rocket worth its fuel can leave the confines of earth without some glam.

Lead engineer Miss Nomi had brought the Rocket Launching Manual with her from the top-secret locker at Easley Propulsion Laboratories.  True to the tenants of good science, RLM cautioned that “mistakes can lead to discoveries.”  Oma knew this.  She also knew from thirty-years of RSS experience that simple, good-looking science labs one finds in “science for kids!” books really ought to be tested before the eager engineers perform them on a preschool Thursday.  Nevertheless, she signed off on “EPIC Bottle Rocket Experiment”.

RSSOma consulted the manual:  First, prepare and decorate your rocket (plastic bottle).

Done.  The following instructions were standard for mixing bottle-rocket-fuel – vinegar in the bottle, baking soda in a napkin packet, cork which fits tightly into the – HOLD THE PHONE, Mission Control:

Oma had two corks.  Neither of them fit tightly into any of the three bottles.

Now, RSSOma knew the launch was destined to fail.  An ill-fitting cork will not make enough of a seal to prevent the ensuing chemical reaction from leaking all over the launch pad.  Leaky rocket fuel prevents the pressure buildup which is necessary to overcome inertia. But try explaining that concept to pint-sized engineers.

As expected, all three rockets fizzled and flopped on their sides, much to the dismay of the ground crew.

Oma debriefed the engineers and suggested they reschedule a launch for the following Thursday.

Dateline the next Thursday:  RSSOma and two of the three engineers gathered in the control room.  (Unfortunately, Miss Em was unable to attend, but all agreed rocket fuel is cheap and rocket bodies plentiful, so we’ll catch her up next time.)

During the week, RSSOma had consulted several advanced “bottle rocket” manuals from Planet Pinterest.  She made a couple of key design modifications, including a larger rocket body, launch stabilizers, and a very snug cork.  She was ready.

RSSOma fueled Engineer Mo’s rocket and announced countdown.  Opa and Little E watched from the Observation Lounge.

Ten, nine, eight, BAM.  Rocket #1 blasted into the space about 20 feet from the launchpad, much to the surprise and delight of its crew.  Rocket #2 did the same only in another direction, causing bystanders to duck.  Both prototypes fell to earth and were promptly retrieved.

Will EPIC Bottle Rocket Experiment go down in history as a success?  Yes. As the Rocket Launching Manual states — quite clearly — “sometimes the best reactions aren’t always the first reactions!”

And also, “Fluffy Slime Experiment” is next in the queue. Oma has four days to locate/make saline solution with “boric acid and socium borate” as ingredients.

Uh, oh.

On our lolling day, Jessica brought out her copy of The Book on Pie so she and I could choose a pie to bake together the following weekend.  If you have ever been afraid of pie crusts, or think you can impress your dinner guests with a pie from Safeway, or you’d rather bake a cake because — why would you, though? –– I think you should buy The Book on Pie by Erin Jeanne McDowell.  Jessica found it first, then bought one for me.  She bought one for Amy as well, so you can pretty much expect pie for dessert if any of us invites you to dinner.

The Book  on Pie is not just chock-full of pie recipies, it is a pie-baking manual.  It will take your pie-game to the next level, guaranteed.

“Mom, let’s choose a pie!” said Jessica, bringing the book and another cup of coffee to the couch.

We thumbed through the pages, from fruit pies, to custard pies, and cream pies.  We asked the men for input.  We evaluated our time and the list of ingredients.

And, we landed on “Triple-Chocolate Caramel Truffle Pie” which, fundamentally, is a candy store in crust.

We spent the better part of a day after returning from Santa Fe baking this beauty of a creamy, cold-set, three-kinds-of-chocolate pie.  See that crust?  It’s the Chocolate All Buttah Pie Dough, and I’m certain it would work well with cherry pies, too, and shall I give that a try soon?

Inside the crust, from the bottom up, are three chocolate ganaches:  dark on the bottom, milk in the middle, and white on top.  Between each ganache is a layer of caramel.  As each layer needs to set before the next is poured on top, this pie is best done with two bakers and at least five hours to spare.

Those are Whoppers.  We cut them in half, as we weren’t able to locate “white, milk, and dark chocolate pearls” for the finishing touch.  Nobody minded.

Fortunately, calories don’t count when you’re on vacation in New Mexico with your kids.

After two lovely nights in Taos, we hit the road for Santa Fe. This time US 64 took us over the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, which depending upon the Internet site consulted, is either 650 feet or 565 feet above that river.  Some visitors choose to walk and admire the gorge from the span; we chose the park on the far side to stroll and gawk.

I think of my mother when I’m in the desert, because she didn’t like them. (Too flat?  Too hot?  Too much sky?  I’ve no idea.)

I’d like to think that she would have changed her mind had she ever strolled through this one:  vast, sunny, big skies.

We arrived in Santa Fe just in time to see “A Quiet Place 2” and then to check-in at La Fonda on the plaza.

On previous visits to Santa Fe, we used the bathrooms in La Fonda hotel as they were convenient and nobody seemed to mind. This time, we booked a room for two nights and enjoyed the place fully.  We slept there. We wandered through the hotel shops.  We explored the nooks and crannies — sitting rooms, balcony views. We strolled the nearby plaza. We ate southwestern food in the hotel restaurant and enjoyed drinks on the rooftop bar.  I bought a Navajo vase.

Santa Fe plaza, like Taos Plaza, is a historical, touristy, walkable place.  Santa Fe is not new. When John Smith and his lot were eking out a living in Jamestown, Spanish colonists had already pushed the locals out of Santa Fe.  The oldest house in the US is here, built in 1646.  Tourists can go inside and admire the adobe construction and purchase souvenirs at the gift shop, and outside they can admire the bees constructing a hive within the outer wall.  “They showed up two weeks ago,” answered the gift shop guy when we asked.  Old house, new hive; New Mexico, but not Mexico.

Jessica and Jasper joined us for our second night in Santa Fe, also staying at La Fonda.  We rendezvoused  at the rooftop bar, where we shared a plate of nachos and realized that the governor was at the next table.  “Don’t look now,” whispered Jessica, “but I think that’s our governor right behind you.”  It was.

Then, we walked a couple of blocks down from the plaza to enjoy dinner at La Casa Sena in an outdoor courtyard, amongst twinkle-lighted trees and gently-bubbling fountain. 

And, before saying nighty-night, we four strolled the plaza one last time as the sun set.

The annals of Baumgaertel lore hold tales of championships and exploits; misadventures and accomplishments; lifelong friendships and family trips. Famous ones include “Exploring Mosby Woods”, “Winning the Albuquerque City Basketball Championship”, “Fossil Hunting in Scottsbluff”, “Field Ball Fun”, and “The Time I Conned my Submarine in a Circle.”  These are tales worth their retelling.

So are the others, but a clear standout is “Hiking Truchas”.  Truchas, a substantial mountain in Northern New Mexico, is the second-highest peak (or “peaks” as it has four identifiable summits) to Wheeler Peak, rising above 13,000 feet.  Truchas means “trout” in Spanish, and it is part of the Santa Fe National Forest within the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. Lying below North Truchas Peak on its south side, are Truchas Lakes.  One could assume that is where the trout live.

Truchas is synonymous with buddies Eddie, Dennis, and Louie.  Truchas, the town, was where Eddie’s grandmother hosted the youths overnight before their hike up the mountain and into Baumgaertel history.  Truchas, along with Nambe, Chimayo, and fellow pueblos, lies along one of several scenic routes to Taos — the High Road to Taos.

Jim’s and my destination Monday morning, as our hosts had to work for a livin’, was Taos.  As the gettin’ there is absolutely part of the fun, we chose the “high road” route because why not? and because it would take us through Truchas.  As scenic routes go, this one scores high on my scale of “would I do this again?” Yes, I would.

Prior to Truchas were several lovely pueblos, wide-open vistas, and mountains off in the distance.  Near Chimayo, I saw a sign for “Santuario de Chimayo” and made a spontaneous right into the parking lot. Strolling the grounds and reading about the place reminded us of strolling through cathedrals and abbeys in Europe:  quiet, historical, beautiful.  We were tourists again!

Truchas is a remote community, 8,000 feet above sea level. We moseyed through, enjoying the vistas.

Onward, we continued on the high road and arrived in Taos in time for lunch.  As the sign indicates, Taos is old, has a plaza, and merchants still display their wares in it.  Taos also has ice cream, which was lunch.

Our two nights in Taos were the first two nights we’d slept in a hotel in over 469 days, certainly a record for us.  In those annals of Baumgaertel lore, where 2020-21 is mostly a big, blank space of notdoingmuch and stayinghomeallthetime, Taos will hold the honor of “we’re sleeping in a hotel and eating in restaurants”!

In addition. we will remember the Placio de Marquesa as the first ever hotel where we did not see a single staff person:  check-in was via clipboard in the empty lobby, no maid service due to COVID protocols, and whoever set our yummy breakfast basket on the stoop knocked and ran before we could say thanks.

Unlike Western Washington, New Mexico has dark skies filled with stars.  Compare our backyard on a rare clear night —

To the land of wide-open vistas —

In addition to talking for long hours, eating with abandon, driving without traffic, hiking through hidden valleys, cuddling one cat and respecting another, we four spotted the Milky Way.   The Milky Way, as you know, is the galaxy we’re in. Spotting it — or photographing it — is both special and hard because

1. It’s big.
2. It’s far away.
3. It’s only visible during “Milky Way season.”
4. It’s only visible if the night sky is clear of clouds.
5. It’s only visible if the night sky is free of light pollution.

However, my people are willing and adventurous!  Plus,

1. They live just down the street from  Overlook Park.
2. Overlook Park overlooks the Rio Grande, which is cool.
3. I have the right camera stuff.
4. I read a lot about astrophotography in anticipation of our trip.

This one, while not stunning, is what I accomplished with the help of Jessica, Jasper, and Jim, who deserve gold medals for being the very best astrophotographer-pit-crew in all of NM.  Twice they ventured out where the coyotes howl and the skies are black; once setting their alarms for midnight, and the last time not even going to bed first.

Thanks, guys. I’ve got big plans for next year’s Milky Way season!