Phoneless in Seattle

My phone has gotten to the point where it’s starving by mid-afternoon.  I charge it every night; but its battery has gotten wimpy with age.  (Not like me!)

Apple doesn’t build a battery door into their phones; they’d rather you buy a new phone. But I found a shop that will put a new battery in your Apple phone, voiding your warranty and phone insurance while you wait.

I made an appointment on the shop’s website, and plotted a trip to the shop with Google Maps.  An hour later, I walked in the door.  I saw a lot of car batteries and I guess other manly stuff for cars.  I walked over to the glass counter.  Anthony stood on the other side, muscular, lavishly tattooed arms crossed on his black uniform shirt.

“Hi, I have a 4:30 appointment to put a new battery in my iPhone,” I said.

He stooped and peered into his computer; asked me my name; and turned to his assistant.  “Jason, when a confirmed appointment comes in, you need to print it and put the printout with the merchandise.  Now I’ve got to do this job, and there’s nobody here to mind the store but me, and you.”

“I could come back another time,” I offered.

“There’s no problem.  I’m just communicating with my employee,” he assured me.  He ran some tests on my phone and had me sign a waiver.  “I’ll need 45 minutes.  Do you have another contact number?”

“I only have the one cell phone.”

“Oh.  Well, come back after five, and it should be ready.”  Jason had disappeared into the back of the store; he started doing something that made a rhythmic whapping noise.  “JASON, I need you to stop doing that about 30 seconds ago,” Anthony commanded.  “It sounds like you’re shooting somebody.”

I didn’t want to sit on a car battery display, so I left.  Maybe there was a park nearby where I could text Pat and look at Facebook.  Wrong!  I’d search on Google Maps for nearby parks.  Or not!  I walked up to Northgate Mall.  I’d hang out there until five and head back.

I entered the mall next to an Azteca Mexican Restaurant and started looking for a clock.  There was a time when towns were proud of their public clocks.  Even in the 16th century when clocks only had hour hands, a public clock was borne aloft by the tower of every cathedral and city hall.  And I remember, as a child, large clocks gracing the walls and halls of public spaces.  Seattle had ornate four-sided clocks on pedestals on downtown street corners.  I remember the streamlined glassless clock over the elevators in the pillared main floor of Fredrick And Nelson’s sweeping away tardiness and disorder with its giant second-hand.

But now I walked the length and breadth of Northgate Mall without finding a single clock.  I peered into some jewelry stores, but all I could see inside was jewelry.  I went into Macy’s, the inheritor of Fredrick And Nelson’s legacy of quality and service, and looked around; no clock.  I didn’t want to pester people for the time every few minutes.  I own a watch, but I hadn’t thought to wear it; I just look at my phone for the time.

Finally I found a T-Mobile booth in the central hall that had some demo phones on display.  When I woke up the first one it showed an obviously wrong time, 11:24 PM; maybe it was set to a different time zone.  But I found two others that agreed on the same apparently current time.  I looked at badly-made shoes in Payless for a while and went back to the phones.  4:55; close enough.

Back in the battery store, Jason was in command of the glass counter (Anthony was eating his dinner).  He tested my phone competently and we completed our transaction.  I stepped out and googled a route home; a 41 express was going to pull up across the street in five minutes. While I waited, I texted Pat that I was on my way, and checked my mail.

I got on the bus and looked around at the other passengers.  It’s a little game I play; how many of the people whose hands I can see are using phones?  Tonight I could see six people’s hands.  Five of them were holding phones.  The last one was holding a phone in one hand and an e-book reader in the other.  What a bunch of zombies!

 

 

 

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Road Trip Planner; add a point of interest

Road Trip Planner (RTP) is an app for MacOS that’s great for planning road trips.  Like Photoshop, it’s a complex, versatile toolset that offers many ways to build your plan.

The data for a road trip is stored in “pins” — database records that correspond to map locations.  There are two kinds of pins:

  1. Route pins.  When you automatically plot your route, it will pass thru these pins.
  2. Point of Interest (POI) pins.  When you automatically plot your route, it will ignore these pins.

A good way to plan a trip is to mark all the places you’d like to visit (POIs), and then create a route that goes to or near as many of them as you can manage.

Add a POI pin to a trip plan

Let’s say I’m going to drive thru Montana and I want to go to museums.  I find the Montana Historical Society Museum in Helena, MT on the web.

  1.  I copy its address to the clipboard.
  2. I open my trip plan in RTP.
  3.  I click Toggle Dividers to make the RTP database “dividers” visible.Screen Shot 2017-08-31 at 8.40.26 PM
  4. In the bottom left corner of the POI Pins list, I click + to add a POI pin.Screen Shot 2017-08-31 at 8.41.03 PM
  5. The Location Window opens.  It gives me three choices; Location, Contacts and Import.  I leave it set at Location.  I paste the museum’s address from my clipboard.   Click the magnifying glass or push [ENTER].Screen Shot 2017-08-31 at 8.42.07 PM

6.  RTP does an Internet search and displays a list of places that it thinks match my location data.  If I enter a complete address, only one item will usually be in the list.  I could instead enter something generic like “Helena Montana museum” and get a list of several items.

  • Whether there is one item or many, I must click at least one item to create a pin.
  • If there are several items (let’s say I’m planning to wander from bar to bar), I can click more than one of them, and then click go to add a POI pin for each of them.click

I switch to RTP’s map view and see my new pin on the map:

pin

There are some other ways to add a POI pin to a plan.  You can:

  • Pick locations in your Apple Contacts
  • Drag a route pin from the Route Pins list to the POI Pins list.  I do this to “hide” a route pin that I don’t want to use for routing right now, and I don’t want to delete it either.
  • Import locations from a compatible program

Oddly, you can’t copy and paste pins.  And you can’t create a POI Pin directly on RTP’s map.  

We can stop now that we have a default POI pin labelled with the address of the POI.  Or we can add some more information to the POI pin.  RTP is capable of adding many kinds of information — probably more than you’ll want.


Rename a pin

When the dividers are visible, I see a list of route pins; a list of POI pins; and in the right-hand pane a set of views controlled by tabs.  The Web, Places, Pin, Dates and Activities views show information about one selected pin.

In the POI Pins list, I click the POI pin I created for the museum.  (You can rename a route pin the same way.). In the right-hand pane I click the Pin tab.  On the top line, I type a new label for the pin:

MT Helena: Historical Society Museum

name.jpg

(I like to put the state abbreviation and a town name at the front of a pin name.  That way, if I need to narrow the width of the name column I can still at least see the pin’s location.)  Right away the new name shows up in the Name column of the POI Pins list.  There’s no OK button; this isn’t Windows.

There’s also a space to write or paste notes about this POI, like the hours the museum is open.  I hate to admit how many times I’ve navigated us to someplace I’m eager to visit, only to discover that it’s closed that day!  Of course, if the museum changes its hours, what I write or paste here isn’t going to change.  I wouldn’t paste the URL of the museum’s website here; there’s a Web tab for that.

iconChange the pin icon and color

Select a POI or route pin in the pin lists.  In the right upper pane, click the Pin tab.  In the bottom left corner of this view, click the pin icon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Screen Shot 2017-08-31 at 8.44.56 PMThis brings up a menu of pin icons and colors.  Oddly, there is no icon for “Museum” (altho I see one for “Casino”).  “Villa” near the bottom of the list looks like a good general-purpose public building, so I use that icon.

To keep things simple, I avoid making blue POI pins.  Interstate number symbols on the map are blue.

 

 

Save a web site in the pin

One pin can hold many web sites.  Again, POI and route pins work the same.  Oddly, you can’t save a website that you find on RTP’s on-board browser.  Point your external browser, such as Safari, at the web site whose address (URL) you want to save.  Select the URL field contents at the top of your external browser and copy it to your clipboard.

URL

Screen Shot 2017-08-31 at 8.46.38 PMIn RTP dividers, select a pin.  In the right pane, click the Web tab.  In the bottom left corner of the lower right pane, click + to add a web site.  The RTP web site is automatically added.

Edit this entry.  Type a name for your web site in the first field.  Tab to the second field and paste the URL that’s in your clipboard.

 

 

 

 

browserYou can view a saved web site in RTP’s browser by selecting it in the list and clicking Show.  To see it on your external browser, click the globe button underneath the web page image.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Screen Shot 2017-08-31 at 8.51.05 PMSave an activity in the pin

One POI or route pin can hold many activities.  An activity is a way to add a cost to your adventure.  It also provides another place to stash a URL.

Select the pin from a list and, in the right pane, click the Activity tab.  Click + .  Fill in the form on the bottom half of the pane to create an entry in the top half of the pane.

You can set a date/time and duration for the activity.  Note that if the pin is a POI pin, you can’t use the Date tab.  That tab is for dates/times that RTP adjusts when it automatically plots your route.

 

 

MacOS Sierra; Install a font

Here’s me installing a font on my iMac.  This kind of font is for use by programs running on the iMac — not for things that run on the Web, such as WordPress.

First, find a font.  I wanted a font that looks like Scrabble tiles, so I googled for “Scrabble font.”  I found some free ones.

Obtain the font file on your computer.  The web page on which I found the Scrabble font has a download button under the font.  So I clicked it.  This placed the files in a folder in my Downloads folder.5 find font

Install the font on your computer.  Every MacOS user has a hidden folder named Library.  It contains a folder named Fonts.  All you have to do is put the downloaded font in this folder.

  1.  In Finder, open menu Go.  While it’s open, hold down the ALT and Shift keys.  The Library folder will appear as a choice in the Go menu.  Click it.10 library
  2. Navigate to the Fonts folder, and open it.
  3. Open a second Finder window, and in it navigate to the location of the font file.  Mine is in a folder in Downloads.  The filename suffix is .ttf (for True Type Font).
  4. Drag the font file to the Fonts folder.15 drag

Now you should see the font as a choice in any program that uses the MacOS fonts.  At the top of this post you see me using my new font in Pages.

iOS 10.2.x; Find and purge invisible contacts

Today on my iPhone I saw an article I thought a friend would like to read.  So I copied its URL, created a new email, pasted it in and sent it to her.  She wrote back that I’d sent it to an old email address of hers, and reminded me to use her current one.

I looked in Contacts; I only had one contact for her, and it held her current address.

Where was the bad contact coming from?

I checked Contacts on my iMac; it only had her current address.  I checked my Gmail contacts, which are stored on the web; this was current too.  Haunted!

I went back to my phone, so see if I could make it do it again.  I created a new email and started keying my friend’s name.  A prompt list of contacts starting with what I’d typed dropped down.  The first contact had the bad address.  IMG_2777 copy

Where was it coming from?  I clicked the “i” icon.  Turns out there is a second Contacts list in the iPhone, apparently hidden, named “Recents.”

How could I get rid of it?

IMG_2778 copyAt the bottom of this Recents contact, I clicked Remove from Recents.

The screen went back to the draft email.  The prompt list now omitted the bad contact.  Problem solved!

How I became a fiddler crab

fiddler_crab01_lIt was late in the snow season, but a forecast for mountain sun meant that our “cascade concrete” might be soft enough to ski on. My cross country ski club’s bus pulled into the Hayak ski area parking lot on Snoqualmie Pass at about 10:30 in the morning. The plan was to drop off the skiers here that wanted to do a one-way trip along the John Wayne Trail on the south side of Lake Keechelus; then move the bus to the Crystal Springs SnoPark at the east end of the lake. The one-way skiers would come to the bus there. Those who stayed on the bus could explore other trails near Crystal Springs.

I decided to stay on the bus. The lake trail was pretty level, and I like hilly skiing. Also, my diagonal stride isn’t that great. So I was still finishing up putting on my ski boots and gators when we arrived at Hayak. The boots have a partial plastic shell to better transmit my kicks to my skis, via the steel bar hidden in a recess under the toe that clips into the ski binding. Their soles are mostly smooth plastic, since they’re not intended for walking. Gators are waterproof tubes that fit around my shins, with a strap that passes under the sole of the boot. They’re to keep snow from going up my pant legs, though that didn’t seem likely to be a problem today.

Soon there were just a couple of us holdouts left on the bus. The driver closed up the luggage bay, came inside and started the engine. He tried moving forward, and he tried moving backward; but the bus seemed to quite like this parking spot and slid back into it. The driver and the trip guide got off, and I could hear shovels scraping outside.

After a few minutes, they came back in and the driver started the engine. We were still trapped. The engine was stopped, the door opened, and the two went back to shoveling. One of the remaining skiers decided not to wait any longer. He put on his backpack, got off the bus and got his skis out of the bay. I had been thinking of doing the same thing; this project could take all morning. So I got off and got my skis. The driver and the guide were shoveling sand under the rear wheels. The temperature was in the upper 30s Fahrenheit. The low sun was making the ice’s surface wet and even more slippery.  I retrieved my ski bag, pulled out the skis and tossed the bag back inside. I told them “See you down there,” and walked to the trailhead at the east end of the lot.

It was a Thursday, so there were not a lot of people around, which meant that the trail should be in good shape. And it was. The snow had been smoothed out by machine and fresh grooves cut into it for those who like to put their skis in them and just scoot along with no need to steer. The snow looked pretty chunky; it was basically roto-tilled ice. This might not be a great day to ski in the backcountry, so it was just as well that I hadn’t ridden the bus down to Crystal Springs. But on a groomed trail like this I thought I might do all right.

I laid my skis down in the snow and stepped into the bindings. But something didn’t feel right. I felt too light and had too much freedom of motion. I realized that I wasn’t wearing my backpack. It was still in the overhead rack above my seat.  So I undid my bindings and left my skis at the side of the trail. I walked back up the lot; but I didn’t see the bus. They had finally gotten it going and were on their way to Crystal Springs with my backpack!

Now I had a choice. I could ski the eight mile trail along the lake with no food, water, extra clothing or any other supplies. Or I could stay here, have a cold and boring day (and a hungry one too) and get picked up by the bus when it headed back to the city in the afternoon. I decided to ski, and to be more thoughtful next time I got off the bus. I walked back down the slight incline to the trailhead, perhaps a bit impatiently.  If I applied myself, I could probably reach the bus and get my backpack in time for a late lunch and still do some exploring.  My feet shot out from under me and I fell hard on my left side.IMG_3499

I was lying on my left hand. It had shot out instinctively to break my fall. Maybe I’d sprained something? It hurt, and the pain was not easing. Two men who’d come up behind me asked “Are you all right?”

They wanted to hear, and I wanted to tell them, “Yeah, sure.”  I told him I didn’t know. They helped me up and walked me, holding my arms, to a little building.  Here they turned me over to a ski patrolman.

He asked me if I’d broken my arm. I told him I didn’t know, but that it was hurting a lot. He told me he would call the park ranger. There was no shelter for me to wait in. It turned out that the building was just a cluster of little toilet rooms, and he and his partner were working out of the janitor’s closet. I could see the mop sink behind him. Downhill skiers have no idea what we cross country skiers have to put up with in exchange for a day of cheap or free skiing.  He started the engine of his pickup truck and let me sit in the cab to wait for the ranger.  I asked him to get my skis from the trailhead. He did, and put them in the back of the truck.

It was good to sit and get warm.  But I was going to need some help with the pain.  After a couple of minutes I went out to ask the patrolman if he could give me some pain killers. He said he didn’t have any, but the ranger would give me some.

The ranger was a capable looking young woman in the traditional uniform and cavalry style hat. She said she would call the medics. She didn’t have any painkiller; but they would.  She took down my details on a clipboard and left.

I called my wife and told her what had happened.  I didn’t know where on the mountain I might end up. But she decided to leave the class she was attending and head up from the city anyway, and work out the details later.  Meanwhile, the ranger called my guide; and he called me.  Now we were all in touch and ready for something to happen.

A red fire department van pulled up.  Two men came out of it, walked me over to the van and had me get in the back.  They explained that injured people are in particular danger of falling.  They took my information down on another clipboard.  They had no way to determine whether my arm was broken, beyond asking me where it hurt.  And they had no painkillers.  They helped me out of my jacket and strapped a cardboard splint on my arm to immobilize it.  Back I went to the “Mobile ski lodge” pickup truck.

When left my own devices, I tended to rock back and forth and moan. I guess I was full of adrenaline. But I was anxious to maintain a calm demeanor when anyone was around; and when I was with someone it hurt less.  Everybody I met on this day was concerned, calm and reassuring.  Loving, in fact.  And that helped a lot.

Soon the ranger drove me (and my skis) down to Crystal Springs in her truck. She briefed another ranger who was stationed at the entrance, so he could direct my wife to the bus when she arrived.

The bus driver gave me some ibuprofen; he helped me get into my street shoes and tied them. The guide came to the bus and gave me some codeine with Tylenol. I wondered if all these pills were going to play well together; but I felt grateful and ready to try the experiment. My wife arrived, and we gathered up my gear. Thanks to quite a few people, i didn’t lose my skis or anything else.

By half past noon we were on the highway to Group Health Hospital in Seattle. I was feeling more comfortable, but thought sadly that it was the end of the season for me. We munched on food from my backpack and her lunch, not knowing when we’d have a chance to get a meal.

Fear of dentists

I just hate it when I go in for my semi annual cleaning and the dentist says “you know, I’ve been keeping an eye on this filling and I think it’s time to do something about it! ”  He demonstrates to the dental hygienist (who, perhaps, might grow up to be a dentist someday) by maneuvering his probe between an old filling on my left lower wisdom tooth and the tooth.

When I hear this, I’m afraid that he’s going to start drilling then and there. But this job is apparently too big for extemporaneous measures. I make an appointment and escape to Seattle’s gray, moist exterior, for now.  But this proves to be an unfortunate escape, because it gives me a week to think about what’s going to happen next!  In what seems like no time at all. I’m back in the chair.

The hygienist checks my blood pressure and pulse with a little handheld gadget. “Your blood pressure is pretty high,” she remarks, rattling off numbers. “Is it always that high?”

“I’m kind of nervous,” I admit.

The dentist comes in. “I can’t be sure until I get in there; but there’s a good chance you’re going to need a crown.”  I got my first crown a couple years ago after I broke a tooth. I’ll bet my blood pressure is really up there now.

“Do what you’ve got to do,” I tell him.  I may be terrified, but I’m not stupid.  An hour and more Novacaine shots than I can count later, it’s become clear that I do need a crown.  The job is maybe half done but everybody is ready to call it a day. He makes some kind of temporary filling and says “let’s try something different next time. ”  Something different is nitrous oxide.  What I know about nitrous oxide: I once read a 1920s mystery in which the villain was a dentist. He used nitrous oxide to knock out the detective (who’d been so foolish as to climb into his chair) and make an escape.

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A week later, I’m back in the chair. My blood pressure checks out high. “The way nitrous oxide works is that it helps the anesthetic to work. It’s not actually an anesthetic itself. It relieves anxiety, which changes the signaling in your nervous system so the anesthetic can work. ”  He straps a sort of cap over my nose; I hear a hissing sound. “How does that feel?”

“I feel a little tingling in my toes. Honestly, I can’t say I’m very impressed.”

I get instructions on how to breathe nitrous oxide. Inhale deeply. hold my breath for five seconds, and exhale.  “It’s the 60s?”  Yes (laughter all around).  And exhale through your nose, not your mouth. We can’t enjoy what you’re enjoying; we have work to do.

“Let’s turn up your mixture, and have you practice for three minutes.”  I remember another relevant book here; The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe.  Or maybe the scene was from a different book?  Anyway, a drug test subject is challenged to say when some number of minutes has passed. He is pretty disoriented and has no grip on time; but he remembers his heart rate.  So he stealthily feels his pulse, counts his heartbeats and astounds the experimenters by telling them when the time is up.

I estimate that it will take me five seconds to inhale and exhale. This plus the five seconds during which I am to hold my breath sums to 10 seconds per breath.  That’s six breaths per minute, for a total of 18 breaths. I breathe and I count, maintaining separate totals for how long I hold each breath and how many breaths I’ve taken. The tingling feeling spreads upward, until I feel like I’m wrapped in a wonderful blanket.  After a while, a voice says “Open your mouth wider, please. ”  Are you talking to me?

The dentist gives me three Novacaine shots and starts in. I can feel what he’s doing, but it doesn’t hurt. And I’m really having too much fun to worry about whether it’s going to hurt.  They cram a lot of stuff into my mouth, and explain how to signal with my hand if I want more or less gas or need them to stop. I want more.  Things go along smoothly. They say I might feel sleepy; but I am alert, or so I suppose.  At one point the dentist starts squeezing my lower lip against my teeth.  I reach up and pull my lip out of the way, to his surprise.

The job is done. They let me enjoy their nitrous oxide for a couple more minutes while they are making my temporary crown.

I keep on taking 10 second breaths all the way to the bus stop.

XC skiing on the Teanaway River, WA; February 2017

Lance led The Outing Club’s third Thursday trip to the eastern foothills of the Cascades to get as far away as possible from forecast rain.  Our road took us past sweet little farms on open, gently rolling land that looked perfect for skiing.  The area is noted for wild turkeys, but we didn’t see any this time.  One farm had some goats.

I was looking forward to trying my new ski poles, a sturdy set by Rossignol with length adjustment clamps like a tripod has, buckles on the straps and removable back-country snow baskets.  Quickly I felt my right pole going way too far into the snow.  I looked at it; the basket was gone!  I turned around and skied toward the trailhead, peering into ski-pole holes.  A voice said “Did you lose something?”  I looked up.  A woman who’d skied up to me offered me my basket.  I screwed it on as hard as I could while still respecting the plastic; stripped threads would be the end of that pole.  I checked my baskets occasionally during the day; they stayed tight.  I must have done a lousy job of setting up the poles at home.

I went looking for Stafford Creek (route 4).  There were lots of meadows to explore.  I made a right turn that I thought was Stafford Creek that led me up the side of a lovely meadow.  The way was steeper than Lance had described it, and I saw only two pairs of tracks, indicating only one person had gone up and then left.  But these were plusses as far as I was concerned.  Not far up the road, I saw that my predecessor had gone off-trail to mess around in the meadow before leaving.  Someone else after my own tastes; I wonder who?  I climbed on in immaculate snow.

The snow was heavy, with a shave-ice consistency.  Under trees it was icy, from melting snow dripping onto it, and covered with pine-needles and cones.  My tracks were pure white, proving the snow to be a slightly darker shade of white, if there is such a thing.  Maybe I was squeezing water out of it.  The sky cleared beautifully, contrary to the weather report, and I was soon roasting from climbing the snowy road in the sun.  I like to work up a sweat; it just needs to go somewhere.  I stripped down to my polypropylene long johns, and unzipped the side-zippers of my ski pants so they were just held up by the velcro at the top.  I saw little danger of getting pantsed by middle-schoolers up here.  Now my backpack was bulging with layers I didn’t need.  My zipper-pull thermometer read 44 F. (7 C.).  Spring skiing!

I reached the end of the road in about a mile.  It was much shorter than shown on my map.  Lance said he’d found a hiking trail at the end of the road and followed it for a ways.  So I crossed a furrow in the snow that marked a buried stream and followed a meadow alongside it further uphill.  A mound stood at the top of the meadow, probably a buried stump.  I put my foam pad on it for a rest and a snack.  I had no trouble with sinking into this heavy snow.  When it was time to leave, my skis clicked back on easily; I must have intimidated them yelling at them last time.

This was really too steep a meadow for me to ski down comfortably, and too narrow for me to traverse.  I side-stepped down it for a ways and thought it was getting gentler.  So I tried a run toward a more level-looking patch at the edge of the forest that didn’t look too difficult.  I picked up speed way too fast, and I couldn’t push my ski tails out against the heavy snow to slow down.  So I used my “emergency brake” and sat down.  I had to cross my poles to push myself up, so still pretty loose snow.  I shortened my poles and immediately fell in love with them.  All these years I’ve endured long poles optimized for resort skiing no matter what the conditions were.  Everybody should get adjustable poles!

Now the meadow was wide enough for me to ski back and forth with kick-turns at each extreme.  (I don’t know how to telemark; I just blunder along.) I crossed the buried creek and followed my tracks back to the main road to look for the real Stafford Creek.  It was easy to find; I just hadn’t gone far enough.  I looped down from the road to look at the creek.  It was full, undermining its snowy banks and best not approached too closely.

img_2661On the way back, I fell in with Krista, a very mature lady who was still scooting gamely along.  She gave me hope.  She told me that she had three pair of skis; two were touring skis, and she was using her track skis.  Why?  Because they were lighter.  They were probably a good choice for one staying on the main route.  The snow had been compressed by snowmobiles, but they’d been well-behaved; it wasn’t torn up or rutted, and in this heat not frozen either.  I could kick and glide on this stiff yet malleable surface with long strides at a wonderful rate.  It made me want to ski forever.

I hadn’t imagined I would be skiing so fast.  Despite more detours into the meadows, I got back to the bus long before it would leave.  So I headed back out on Rye Creek (route 5).  This route had also been “groomed” by snowmobiles.  It was hillier and had more annoying trees with their skirts of messy ice.  But still worth doing!  Coming back, I decided to avoid a sharp turn at the bottom of a hill and just ski straight ahead into the fresh snow to slow down.  Wham!  Did I slow down.  I lurched forward and almost did a face-plant.  But I saved that maneuver for when I was within sight of the bus for maximum humiliation.

The driver had set up our hot drinks and cookies on a banquet table on the road in front of the bus. A friendly bunch soon gathered around it.  I did some stretches against the side of the bus with one lady.  She told me that Norwegians call sitting down in the snow to stop a “Danish Stop,” implying that Danes don’t know how to ski in hills (maybe Denmark doesn’t have many?).

“What do the Danes call it?” I wondered.


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