This doesn't do justice to how Bob Mocarski created a magical Southwestern garden in an overgrown suburban landscape in Tucson. He collected river rocks to make winding paths, transplanted cacti and other native plants, and added whimsical sculptures and objects that complement the natural elements rather than distracting from them. Bob died this summer and this is a memorial to his vitality and unpretentious, unpredictable spirit.

More en route

El Malpais National Monument

La Ventana natural arch

Wonderful Western landscapes on our way from Show Low to Santa Fe. Lava beds, buttes, and ranches, and Reservation lands.

Some pix from Southwest

Saguaro National Park

Pine Top is tops

Lucked out with Hotwire for our airport overnight in Phoenix: $50 for a Radisson with a wonderful outdoor pool. Our typical urban nighttime view of lights dotting blackness magically transformed into a brilliant scene of distant mountains behind palms at dawn--that "we're not in Kansas" feeling.

Which continued in our tour of Saguaro National Park on the Bajada Loop Drive.  Pix of that later.

Visit with Sandy was great. Our first view of Bob's "wash," a western suburban wilderness between house lots that he'd transformed into a maze and cactus garden. Also enjoyed meeting her dear friends Scott and Carol, in their spectacular mountainside house that they renovated, hands-on, themselves. Sandy is waiting to hear about when she will get a new puppy, a welcome housemate that will help her through her mourning.  A Golden Doodle.

Drove to Show Low on the dramatic Salt River Canyon Route.  Up here, it's much cooler than Tucson's 100-degree days, with a Northwest woodsy feeling. Outside our hotel window, horses are grazing by a winding stream--there's actually grass. Our evening in nearby Pine Top was excellent. We stumbled across an outdoor grotto and rustic bar, Charlie's Orchard, that featured a band, the Bootleggers, that played primarily Southern rock and blues, everything from "Hot Rod Lincoln" to Pink Floyd's "The Wall"--and they were good--except for The Girl Singer, Bobby Jo, who played a tambourine and couldn't sing a lick. She butchered Pat Benatar's "Heartbreaker"--just could not get that falsetto. Ouch.  The staff built a fire in the chiminea behind us; we were joined in the circle of its warmth by a friendly woman and her grandson, who were Apache; he went off to play horseshoes nearby and got a ringer. She confided her husband had passed away in May, and it is Apache tradition that the widow cannot dance for one year after her husband's death. This was sort of a hint, I think, that she would've danced,even though the cement patio was empty, customers being few on that chilly night (Tim and I were the only ones who applauded the band)--and that one ought to go for the gusto while one can.    We stayed til the band quit, around 9:30, and redolent of mesquite smoke and humming REO Speedwagon, we drove back to our room in Show Low.

Now we're on the verge of our 5-hour drive to Santa Fe, so this is written in haste and now must sign off.

Volunteer fun

Loved zipping around the countryside (in a car) as one of many volunteer photographers for the Bike MS event in New Bern this past weekend. My assignment:  rest stops. But I shot other stuff too. A fun assignment--M.J., you would've been an excellent companion on this photo jaunt.

Cyclists near Oriental, NC.

The organization used the photos for a slideshow for participants, and posted them to a web site.

Still waters

Brices Creek is #13 of the official "Twin Rivers Paddle Trails" in the New Bern area.

From our back yard boat ramp, this morning I set off in the yellow kayak, coffee in the convenient cup-holder, the water itself still and dark as coffee, with shreds of mist in the slanting sunbeams.

Morning mist, a sign that summer is waning (2008 photo).

No sounds except crickets, the occasional woodpecker, the drip from paddle blades, and the splash of jumping fish, at least a dozen.  Some of them I saw cleared the surface by what looked like two feet.

Cruised into "Stillwater Harbour," (yes, with a "u") a former quarry now on the verge of becoming a marina for a prospective development "where nature is your neighbor." (No "u.")

That tagline, which I saw on one of the project's brochures, cracks me up. Their promotional materials show acres of uninhabited woodlands and blue (?) waters. But that's soon to become "64 homesites, including 36 waterfront and 28 interior homes...with docks, sidewalks....[T]he community offers the best in all-natural living."  So far, only one house has been built there.

Actually, the best in all-natural living is in the fishing camps on the southern side of the "harbour."  These trailers and cabins--some funky and primitive, some well-tended--and their modest, weathered, mostly rickety docks, have served as getaways for folks for a long time, it appears.  Under tall trees, on the narrow band of land that separates the quarry from Brices Creek, these sites are "waterfront" both fore and aft.  Last Sunday, a fellow in farmer's denim overalls sat in a lawn chair on the creek bank, smoking a pipe--a timeless Labor Day weekend scene.

The contrast between this simple setting and its neighboring community-to-be of "neo-traditional" homes is typical of the evolution of New Bern.  We're part of that change, of course, as are the many other newcomers here.  As it grows, can New Bern maintain balances between the egalitarian and the esoteric, the traditional and trendy, pokiness and prosperity, charm and sophistication?

Pirates and Earl

Eli and Luke

The Grandchildren loved being on the beautiful The Outer Banks, Blackbeard's former stomping grounds: they are going through a pirate phase, which is more difficult in Upstate New York.  Meeting the Hart family there allowed us to revisit Avon, Hatteras, and Ocracoke, coming home by ferry--before Earl struck.

This marina bar on Ocracoke served up a tasty lunch of grilled drum.

The storm was a non-event in Craven County, where we live. However, Ocracoke lost all power, and Route 12--the vulnerable road that extends along the sometimes very narrow sandbar that is the Outer Banks--was flooded, by water and sand.

Preparing for Earl, however, did inspire me to put together our household emergency kit.

Everything but a whistle and a change of clothes.  And a good book.

We also hauled the boat out of the water.  This precaution was a somewhat nerve-wracking process for us novices.  But as usual, neighbor Ted, our creek guru, helped us out.  Tim did a fine job of driving the truck and trailer.  This was a fortunate exercise, since when we were done, the winch strap gave out.  If this had happened sometime when we were cranking the boat onto the trailer, the SS Sweet Caroline would've slid backwards into the water without anyone at the helm.  We replaced the strap right away.

Still, no rush to relaunch: now that we have a boat sitting on a trailer in the yard, we feel like real Eastern North Carolinians.

Except most Eastern North Carolinians probably don't have organic soup in their emergency kits.