This is one of my favorite blogs. The initial version was created as a contest entry for a travel writing workshop held in Marin County at Book Passage. I didn’t win first prize but I was a runner-up.
Here’s the rest of the story: For a year after Gunter and I completed our circumnavigation in 2008. our catamaran Pacific Bliss remained on the dock at the Catana factory in Canet—the south of France—where she had been built. Most of the western world was deep into recession and ocean-going yachts were not selling. But finally, the recession eased and we sold our beloved Pacific Bliss to a U.K. couple with two young children.
The new family sailed her across the Atlantic to the Caribbean, as we did during our Maiden Voyage. Anticipating adventures and enthused about new places to discover, they became familiar with Pacific Bliss. They learned to use her high-tech systems, evaluated her strength, and tested her resolve to keep them safe and secure, just as she did for us. They sailed her throughout the South Pacific, sometimes following our path.
As the years passed, we followed the progress of Pacific Bliss less and less. We had become enamored of our new love, Northern Bliss, a property in Northwest Wisconsin, purchased with the proceeds from the sale. We gutted, remodeled and added a bunk room to our new vacation and family reunion venue so it could sleep 16. Two years later, we purchased the two-bedroom 1946 cabin next door and combined the properties. Many of my blogs now focus on cruising, riverboating, or land touring—as well as the joys of landscaping and gardening. Despite sailing around the world, however, Gunter and I are still afflicted with wanderlust. If you’ve discovered a cure for that, let us know!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. You can purchase her books recounting their journey featuring images from 60 countries on Amazon.
Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act. –Truman Capote
Living on Borrowed Time. Living in a garden immerses us in the cycle of life. Gunter and I are now part of the rhythm of nature, so when winter arrives, I’m reminded that we are now living life’s third act.
In our 80s, we’ve passed the current life expectancy in the United States as of 2023, which is 79 years for women and 74 for men. The good news is that we realize that we are not going to die young! The bad news is accepting that we are living on borrowed time.
When you know you’re living on borrowed time, however, you learn to be patient and to tend your own garden. Whether that garden is tending to your health or your garden—or both—that’s up to you.
Aging and Memory. My friends tell me that the first thing to go when aging is memory. I wondered about that while observing the animal life at Northern Bliss. One day during early winter, with snow covering most of the lakeside patio, we watched one of our resident gray squirrels systematically burying acorns about one foot apart. That took him most of the morning.
“Come spring, do you think he will remember where he buried them?” I asked Gunter.
“I doubt it,” he said. “Because in the afternoon I saw him burying more acorns underneath the oaks. It’s a Mast Year, so he’ll get greedy and bury a lot of acorns. Why don’t you research how long squirrels remember?”
I was surprised to find that Chow’s study on squirrels, published November 17, 2018 in the journal Animal Cognition, proved that squirrels have impressive memory spans. They could successfully recall the solution to a difficult task (manipulating levers to open a hatch that releases a prized hazelnut) more than two years after they first learned it. No wonder keeping them away from the bird feeders is such a challenge!
So why do I enter a room to find I’ve forgotten what I went there for? Only when I return to the room that I came from will something jog my memory.Why can’t I find my car keys, my glasses, or my favorite purple pen? Again, I have to retrace my recent steps or actions to provide context. My phone was ringing as I stepped out of the garage to the house. Instead of hanging up the keys, I set them on the dryer in the entry while I answered that call. Bingo!
Loss of short-term memory becomes more common as we age. My friends tell me that my brain is filling up—I have over eighty years of memories stored in there. But I learned, through further research, that we get so frustrated because we have the wrong expectations. I thought that memory was an easily retrieved archive of the past like a file on a computer hard drive. But I was surprised to find that my computer analogy was wrong. Instead, memory is a prism through which we see ourselves, others and the world, writes Charan Ranganath, author of Why We Remember.
How Memory Works. Ranganath explains that your neurons—those specialized cells for carrying messages—are members of a democracy, each with a vote. He used simple metaphors to explain the mechanism of memory: A baby hears a sound. It’s either “bath” or “path,” and the neurons decide to take sides. Votes are tallied and the winner is “bath.” The successful neurons strengthen their connection to the word and its context, such as getting wet, and purge other candidates. Whole cell assemblies form—coalitions if you will—to support the child’s memory and uptake, until the baby never mistakes “bath” for “path” again.”
Have you ever had this happen to you? You describe an object in detail and even use hand gestures to demonstrate how that object is used, but you can’t think of the object’s name. “It’s on the tip of my tongue,” you say, embarrassed. You’re afraid your friends and children will think you’re a candidate for the old folks’ home. This phenomenon—in which the name of things, people, or places feel just out of reach—is called anomia. The term can also include words and numbers. In extreme cases, anomic aphasia or dysnomia are viewed as medical conditions.
But don’t worry. Our immediate, short-term memory only lasts 30 seconds so the brain is constantly choosing what to move into long-term storage and what to discard.
There are three different components of memory: immediate/sensory memory, short-term memory (including working memory—memory that consists of information held in the mind for a brief time for a specific purpose), or long-term memory. During this critical sensory stage, new information must undergo additional processing in order for it to become fixed in the brain’s short-term memory. That requirement takes our full attention. Once information is lodged in short-term memory, several things may happen: it can be maintained in short-term memory; it may be encoded in long-term declarative memory by linking this newly acquired information to existing knowledge; or it may leave short-term memory and the brain altogether because of disuse and lack of attention.
Remembering stories. Good story tellers bring their audience along by putting context into their stories. My siblings are great story tellers. For example, my four brothers know hints are germane to a good story so they draw the family into it. They might start a story by beginning like this: You remember back on the farm when Mom drove that ’48 Packard down the hill into the pond? Well, that was also the year that…
You won’t forget this story because you now have context and can visualize the scene. By the time we reach the third stage of life, we have so many, many stories inside us. They are all there. We just need context to pull them out.
There’s more going on here than a mere collection of facts; your brain is more complicated than that. Our brains are built with an “executive function,” which helps us sort out which priorities are important. You’re off the hook! And it has nothing to do with age. The mechanisms of memory were not cobbled together to help you remember the name of that PTA lady you met at your grandson’s school. Your neurons exist to help turn memory into knowledge.
And you have plenty of capacity. According to a Scientific American article, “the memory capacity of a human brain equals 2.5 petabytes. A “petabyte” means 1024 terabytes or a million gigabytes so that the average adult human brain can accumulate the equivalent of 2.5 million gigabytes of memory.”
Memories can be divided into two types: episodic and semantic. Episodic memories work like time travel. Recalling an event returns you to a specific place and time, and even to the emotions you felt or the sensations you experienced. Our family sits in rapt attention listening to my brothers’ stories because we see the old farm on the hill with the pond below, we sense the animal smells, hear the cows mooing, and might even associate happiness or sadness with that scene. Semantic memory is a form of lateral thinking that uses past episodes to make assumptions about future contexts. It allows us to travel back in time and to anticipate future events.
Brains and computers. Our brains are not storage facilities and humans were never meant to be memory machines. To the contrary, we are designed to forget! We don’t just collect facts; we create knowledge and thus, form our own unique identities.
Entering and adjusting to the third stage of life is not easy—whether you’re a plant, animal or human being. Just as seniors need their naps, flora need a dormant period to become vibrant again and fauna must slow down during the cold season.
Yes, squirrels are smart, but humans can outwit them. There’s a book for that too. Gunter received it from our brother-in-law John for his birthday: Outwitting Squirrels: 101 Cunning Stratagems. He needs it because, as the book blurb says: “These fast, greedy, incredibly crafty, fluffy-tailed rodents pillage birdfeeders before owners’ very eyes.”
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
Usually, my blogs describe the joy of the Great Outdoors, whether sailing, traveling, gardening or just enjoying nature. But sometimes a traveler falls in love with a destination, only to see it degenerate year after year. This story looks into the pain of seeing a UNESCO World Heritage city destroyed before our very eyes.
My heart bleeds for Yemen. For centuries, this country was reportedly the least known in Arabia. As I posted in another blog, Yemen—Al Qaeda, Qat Chewing, and So Much More, “King Solomon knew of this legendary land long before the Queen of Sheba visited his court with her gorgeous gifts. Yemen, along with Oman, is known for its rich resources of frankincense, spice, and myrrh. Great empires emerged there centuries before Christ. Here, the Biblical Noah launched his famous ark. Yemen was called The Pearl of the Peninsula.”
What happened? First, most of Yemen’s adult population chews an intoxicating leaf called Qat. Imagine a western country where most everyone smokes marijuana from noon until bedtime! Chewing qat is a way of life in Yemen. Growing qat requires an abundance of water, and when we sailed there in 2004 during our world circumnavigation, Yemen was already running out of water. Second, the economy was cratering. And third, three-fourths of the population was under 25 and jobs were scarce. The country was ripe for takeover.
Aden has a natural harbor that lies in the crater of a dormant volcano. (from page 265, The Long Way Back).
From Aden to Sana’a. Gunter and I saw signs of impending problems during our visit. We had sailed safely from Oman through Pirate Alley to the harbor in Aden, Yemen (yes, that place where Al Qaeda bombed the U.S.S Cole). We performed the usual maintenance of our catamaran Pacific Bliss and then decided to travel to the capital city, Sana’a, in the interior. Old Sana’a is a UNESCO heritage site, and at that time, was the best preserved in the whole of the Arab world.
The crews of Winpocke and Legend and another cruiser, Dietrich, along with our crew, Chris, piled into a dilapidated van. Our driver took us to a rundown building in Aden where we picked up tourist permits (ten copies each). Soon we passed through the outskirts of Aden and into a bleak countryside with struggling trees, gray boulders, and acres of brown sand. Grass huts appeared here and there. Within an hour, we were at our first of ten checkpoints. I asked the driver, “Why do they track us so carefully?”
“For your protection,” he answered. “Kidnappings. If one of you should disappear, the government would be able to track where you were from the last checkpoint.” (A week later, I read a story in the Yemen Times: A group of tourists brought to Marib, Yemen’s oldest city, by a Bedouin guide, was captured and held for ransom by Al Qaeda. Apparently, their guide had been paid to lead them to the Queen of Sheba Temple and the great Marib dam.)
We drove farther into the countryside. The flat land yielded to rolling hills. We bumped along the dusty road passing rocky outcrops, scrub, and an occasional mudbrick hovel. These people were poor, dirt poor, and I wondered how they could afford a vice like qat. We stopped for lunch in a small town. Curious children crowded around us as our driver parked the van. Our group entered the town’s sole restaurant housed in a decrepit two-story building made of unpainted wood and corrugated iron. The lunch special was chicken floating in a greasy sauce in a dented pan atop a rusty burner. I knew I wouldn’t order that!
We pulled up stools and scooted around a dirty, unpainted wooden table. Along with an obligatory, framed picture of then-President Saleh, a few torn posters of Saddam Hussein decorated the plasterboard walls. The proprietor pulled our driver aside. “There isn’t enough chicken for a group of nine.”
Just as well. Part of our group had already started to leave after taking a closer look around. We bought fruit that we could peel, such as bananas, and piled back into the van. As we continued to drive north, pink plastic bags blown from the market lined the hilly desert landscape for miles. They caught on dry shrubs and puffed in the wind like limp balloons.
“The National Flower of Yemen,” I joked. But as we drove on through one small town after another, the immense trash problem was no laughing matter. Piles of garbage were everywhere. Apparently, whenever anyone consumed a drink from a can or bottle, he or she simply dropped it.
Near Sana’a, rocky hills gave way to a fertile valley with terraced hills of luscious, green plants receding into the horizon.
“Qat plantations,” our driver stated. He pointed out the armed guards protecting well-maintained fields. The mud-brick houses nestled among the green were a remarkable improvement over the single-story hovels we passed along the way.
“There must be a lot of money in growing qat,” I said. He nodded vigorously.
Vendor in a marketplace stores qat in his cheek as he chews. (from page 270, The Long Way Back)
Sana’a, Yemen in 2004. On my first morning in Sana’a, I awakened to a cacophony of muezzins chanting from hundreds of minarets filling the Old City. The sounds melded together as if in deliberate harmony. Dawn’s light spread through the small stained-glass windows of our centuries-old hotel room, causing a rainbow of colors to dance on the soft white plaster of the of the ancient mud-brick walls. Quickly, I dashed in and out of the cool shower, applied my make-up in front of the lone mirror, and threw on a skirt (below my knees) a blouse (not too revealing) and a lightweight shawl that could double as a headscarf.
I groped my way down the dim spiral staircase to the small reception area and nodded to the proprietor. Walking along the sidewalk, I photographed golden shafts of light that wove through a row of sand-colored six-story buildings. Called tower homes, they’re the world’s first skyscrapers. Sana’a had 14,000 of them. Their architectural style precedes the seventh-century advent of Islam; the lower levels might date back as far as 1200 BC. Everything necessary for reconstruction when top levels tumble—mud, straw, clay and limestone—is found right outside the city gates. Construction methods haven’t changed in 4,000 years.
We stayed at the Taj Talha Hotel, a tower house in Old Sana’a. (from page 268, The Long Way Back)
According to the Yemenis, the city of Sana’a is one of the first sites of human settlements, founded by Noah’s son Shem. Until 962 AD the entire city nestled between the walls of the Old City. By the time we were there in 2004, however, the population of one million had expanded to new parts of the high plateau. As I walked along, I thought about how privileged I was to be there in a country that some travel sites listed as appropriate only for “dark tourism.” Little did I know then what would happen to Old Sana’a, a UNESCO World Heritage Site I had begun to love.
As I walked past hammams (bath houses) built during the occupation by Ottomans in the 1800s, I nodded to a trio of women clothed in black from head to toe. They furtively glanced downward, avoiding eye contact. The heavy black of their clothes against these ancient golden walls drew a dark contrast. The scene seemed lost in time. It was the first setting I’d found in which the dark Arabian abaya seemed to fit. I sensed that the women wouldn’t pose for me, but farther on, away from the shadows of the tower homes, I met Yemeni men wearing traditional dress topped with beautifully carved belts and daggers. They posed willingly, proud to have their pictures taken. As I returned to our hotel for breakfast, wide-eyed children followed me through the narrow streets, motioning that they too wanted me to take their pictures.Yemeni man in traditional dress (from page 268, The Long Way Back)
After siestas, when the sun is low on the horizon, the souks open. Our second day in Sana’a, Gunter was on a mission. He wanted to buy a traditional belt and dagger. I tagged along while he shopped, haggled, and shopped some more. Finally, he found a carved, beaded belt of fine leather with a matching dagger scabbard. “Does the dagger come with it?” he asked.
“Of course,” the black-bearded vendor said laconically, his right cheek bulging with qat. He took out the dagger and ran his finger carefully along the finely-honed edge. “Why would you want such a fine holster without a sharp dagger to match?”
I turned to Gunter and whispered, “Customs?” He heard me but bought the set anyway. That dagger is now displayed on a wall near the door to my office.Belt, holster and dagger from Sana’a, Yemen.
One evening, there was a party going on in Sana’a, with lively music and dancing in the streets near the souk. With my camera around my neck, I pushed through the crowd. A group of white-robed men opened a path for me toward a circle of men holding hands and dancing. One man pointed and motioned for me to take a photo.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
“Wedding celebration,” he answered.
Noticing that the entire group was composed of men, I asked, “Where’s the bride?”
“At home, celebrating with the women.”
I felt honored and surprised that these men would invite a woman into their circle, but after taking photos, I felt uncomfortable and returned to Gunter.
On our last day, we caught a cab to the new part of Sana’a that is home to the presidential palace, the parliament, the supreme court, and the country’s ministries. We passed an assortment of modern shopping centers and hotels. It was not as impressive as Old Sana’a. We told the driver about the men dancing in the souk before a wedding. “There are many weddings in March,” he said. “I can take you to a wonderful tower home where there’s a wedding today.” The taxi stopped at an incredible estate on high, rocky promontory outside of the city. Men were dancing outside on a shaded patio while the women remained inside. As I took the photo of the home carved into stone, I spied a lone woman in black. Intrigued, I included her in the photo below.
Men dance outside while women inside prepare for a wedding. (page 273, The Long Way Back)The wedding was held at this tower home carved into rock. (from page 274, The Long Way Back)
Yemen Today. Every time I hear more devastating news about Yemen I cringe and cry. In March, it will have been twenty years since we visited Yemen. The boys and girls we talked with are now in their late twenties and early thirties. Many of the boys are probably in the military, serving the Houthis who now run Sana’a. Many of the girls most likely have children of their own, some of them malnourished and ill. Others will be among the dead.
With about three-fourths of its population living in poverty, Yemen has long been the world’s poorest country; its humanitarian crisis has been called one of the worst in the world. Disease runs rampart; suspected cholera cases passed 200,000 in 2020. And that was before Covid swept through the country! Sadly, many countries cut critical aid during the pandemic, leading UN organizations to reduce food rations for some eight million Yemenis in 2022. Three out of four Yeminis now require humanitarian aid and protection; four million are internally displaced refugees.
President Ali Abduallah Saleh, whose portrait was hung in every business we visited, held power for 33 years, ruling from Sana’a from 1978-2012 when he formally handed over the reins to his deputy, Abdurabu Mansur Haidi. Back in 1993, Yemen became the first country in the Arabian Peninsula to hold multi-party elections under universal suffrage. Fifty women competed and two won seats. But as in Tunisia, Egypt, and Libya, the Arab Spring uprisings of 2011 lit a powder keg of longstanding dissatisfaction with dictators. Saleh was known by many as “Yemen’s godfather,” but by others as its authoritarian leader. After surviving an assassination attempt, he fled the country with immunity from prosecution. Unfortunately, the popular uprisings allowed room for competing factions to vie for power. Iran backed Shiite rebels in the Northwest and West and began a proxy war against Yemeni’s Sunni-majority government headed by Haidi. Saudi Arabia backed Yemini’s government, pushed to the south by the rebels when the Houthis took over Sana’a.
The situation changed after US President Obama sent a “planeload of cash” in various currencies (estimated at $400 million) to Iran as the first installment on a $1.7 billion settlement, part of the Iran nuclear deal signed July 14, 2015. Unfrozen assets have totaled $29-150 billion (depending on the source). Soon after, checkpoints that we cruisers went through heading north from Aden sported Death to Israel, Death to America signs. Tourism went out the window. The bloody conflict some call a “Civil War,” has continued to this day—except for a brief April 2022 ceasefire. The UN Development Program estimates that more than 370,000 people have died as a result of the war; lack of food, water, and health services represent almost 60 percent of those deaths.
Sana’a Today. Since the military campaign began in March 2015, several airstrikes have battered Old Sana’a. “Because the city’s houses are made from clay, the bombing has affected them very heavily. We have seen several UNESCO-listed houses among the damaged places,” says Mohammed al-Hakimi, an environment journalist and editor of Holm Akhdar website. “In June 2015, heavy bombing targeted Miqshamat al-Qasimi, a famous urban garden and one of the most beautiful areas in the city. In addition, airstrikes on the Ministry of Defense and National Security buildings have significantly damaged several areas given the buildings’ proximity to the old city.”
Poking through the ruins of Sana’a after a bombing.
Yet even before the current conflict began, successive governments turned a blind eye to the catastrophe right in front of them. According to locals, no building maintenance had been done since 2004, when Sana’a was announced as the Capital of Arabic Culture. Even then, restoration work was confined to the outward-facing parts of the city. When the Houthis took over Sana’a in September 2014, the situation only got worse—indifference turned into desecration. The Houthis began covering many of the ancient buildings with propaganda slogans and chants.
Houthi chants and slogans on historical buildings. Translation: Allah is greater, death to America, death to Israel, and victory to Islam. Photo Credit Ali AlsonidarHouthi Soldiers, armed by Iran, trained by Hezbollah, a Lebanese Shia group.
Additionally, the sprawl of modern-style construction invaded the old city. Homeowners sold these ancient homes to developers who turned them into commercial centers. Of course, a law prohibits people to build new structures in Old Sana’a, but reportedly, bribery is endemic. Exacerbating the problem are certain Houthi policies. For example, some owners of traditional cafes and motels inside the old city have had to shut their doors because the Houthis—from a religious standpoint—have prohibited the mixing of unrelated men and women in public spaces like cafes and restaurants.
Destroyed Sana’a tower homes.
Most of the country’s problems are man-made. Ongoing neglect threatens the historic city of Sana’a, and without that history, Yemen will lose its national identity. Fortifying Old Sana’a and restoring its unparalleled beauty—in a well-managed, coordinated manner—will require a responsible government in this war-torn country. When the conflict finally comes to an end, I fear that Yemen will have nothing left to offer its people and the world.
For more on Yemen’s history, the Houthi’s involvement in Israel/Gaza war, and their targeting of international vessels passing through Bab al-Mandab, a chokepoint for international trade, watch for Part II of Yemen Then and Now.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
This is a story intended for the WINTER section of a book I’m writing: Seasons of Joy at Northern Bliss. It took place in November, 2021.
Beneath the Snow: Sheltering in the Subnivean Zone.
The First Snow. The 2021 annual fundraiser for the Polk County Historical Society was held at the edge of winter, on November 23, at The Browtine Event Center. The theme was WWII: A Salute to the Greatest Generation. As Gunter and I entered the building, we saluted two uniformed servicemen—veterans in military gear. Huge snowflakes fell gently on their hats, gradually turning them white. While strolling past display booths filled with artifacts from the Polk County Museum, the potential consequences of that snow hit me. I turned toward Gunter. “Let’s check on the progress of this snowstorm during the intermission. After the dinner program.”
He nodded. “Should we be concerned?”
“Just a precaution. In case it’s starts snowing heavily.”
We took our assigned seats and enjoyed the program—the best fundraiser we’d attended. The committee is to be commended.
Before the Big Band took the stage, we donned our light coats and stepped outside to a rapidly changing world. Our Chevy Equinox was already covered with snow. Gunter searched for his driving gloves but found none. Mine were fortunately in my coat pocket. While he brushed aside the snow on the driver’s side with his arm and started the car, I scraped the windows with my dress gloves. We berated ourselves for failing to keep a scraper in the car, let alone a winter stash of warm clothes, boots, and mittens! Our flight back to San Diego was scheduled for November 30; preparing for snow hadn’t entered our minds. Obviously, there was no discussion of returning to the event. We were heading home ASAP!
We turned left out of the venue onto a two-lane road barely distinguishable from the surrounding countryside. No one had driven through yet; there were no tire tracks to follow.
“Can you see where the shoulders are?” Gunter asked.
I squinted. “Just stay to the middle. I’ll keep praying that we don’t meet anyone.”
Gunter inched the SUV along switching between bright lights, which blinded us with snow, to dim, which gave us less than 30 yards of visibility—just enough to make out a fawn standing in the middle of the road. We crawled along, hoping he’d move. He finally did, taking his time.
We continued at an agonizingly slow pace until we reached our first right turn onto another two-lane country road. It was difficult to make out the edges. I held my breath until we turned, holding toward the middle. After more squinting and crawling and praying, we reached County Road E. Finally, we could breathe again. Gunter drove a little faster until we saw the turn-off to Northern Bliss, along the lake road we knew by heart. Thank God, we never met one car!
Relieved to be home, we changed into our PJs, lit the fireplace, and sat there, sipping wine and commiserating. One would think we were winter neophytes! But we were not. Neither of us were strangers to snow. Gunter grew up in Munich and skied the Alps. I had braved the winters of Minnesota and Wisconsin for 49 years before moving to California.
This Sunday morning, I look out the windows of our sunroom to a world made new. The sky is cobalt blue and sunlight glints off the snow to burst into a thousand diamonds. Snow has drifted and mounded, covering our circle driveway. Our lake road, White Ash Lane, has become invisible. It’s clear will not be going anyplace, but we don’t need to. We will have our little Sunday praise service right here. Gunter turns on our Sunday morning playlist that begins with the soothing words of Christy Lane singing “Footprints.” We sing along but substitute the word “snow” for “sand.”
One set of footprints in the sand. Lord, you promised me you’d hold my hand. One set of footprints in the sand. Lord, you said that if I decided to follow you, You’d hold my hand right away… When you saw only one set of footprints, It was then that I was carrying you.
This is a special song for Gunter and me—one that never ceases to bring tears to our eyes. The first time that happened was when our yacht, Pacific Bliss, was anchored in Fanny Bay, Darwin Australia. We had sailed “over the top,” just the two of us, from the northernmost tip of Australia, over the vast, unforgiving Northern Territories, to Darwin. It was during that song that we released all the tension we’d been holding tight during that final, week-long harrowing passage. (Read that story in The Long Way Back, “Over the Top, where God Carried Us.”)
Our experience last night—driving rural backroads during a white-out—was minor in comparison to that adventure at sea; yet the strong emotions brought on by this song are the same.
After lunch, we decide to quit being lazy and dress warmly in our real winter clothes. It’s mysteriously quiet. The fresh snow absorbs and dampens sound waves, creating a serene silence. At the platform feeder, blue jays have had no problem picking through the mounded snow to find sunflower seeds. We follow deer and rabbit tracks. We do not see chipmunks or their tracks. Apparently, they are still sheltering in their burrows. But what of the all the smaller fauna?
I’ve read that this layer of snow we’re seeing affects more than just the way our world looks. The snow’s arrival changes the lives of creatures that live beneath the snow. Fauna such as moles, deer mice, and weasels survive at the mercy of conditions. Their success in any given year drives ecosystem health. Deer, fox, coyote, snow owl, and rabbit populations depend on these small creatures. I don’t know much about them, so I spend remainder of the quiet afternoon in front of the fireplace satisfying my curiosity.
Beneath the Snow: Dealing with Winter. Every animal must develop its own way of dealing with winter. Common strategies are to migrate (as we do!), hibernate, or insulate. For a few animals, survival depends on the snow itself. That happens in a place called the subnivean zone. “Sub” means beneath and “niv” translates into Latin as snow.
I’m familiar with one of the processes that creates such a zone. That’s the snow buildup near rocks, shrubs, or tall grasses. Snow falls, accumulates, partially melts, and then refreezes, creating a harder layer. Often, there’s a space beside the structure where the snow has frozen. This open area will be preserved under new snow. More snow may fall, which creates more layers, while leaving the open area intact. I’ve encountered this phenomenon when planting spring bulbs near a large rock in the fall. Tunneling rascals nearby would uproot the bulbs during the winter until I figured out that a dash of cayenne pepper on each bulb would solve the problem.
Another process for forming a subnivean zone is through sublimation. Near the earth, it’s a little warmer than the ambient temperature. When the snow falls and accumulates, a small cavity is created at the earth’s surface. Here, snow “sublimates,” that is, it goes directly from a solid to a gas without going through the melting stage. Cool! This gaseous water then rises and refreezes at the top of the cavity formed by the melted snow, making a hard roof on the inside—a perfect den for small fauna.
It takes only six inches of snow for mice, voles, and shrews to have a sturdy roof over their heads and roomy living quarters below. Add another two inches or more and the subnivean zone remains close to 32⁰ F., regardless of the temperature and weather conditions outside. In this magical space, the deeper the blanket of snow, the better the insulation. Deeper snow provides a better shelter and a moderated microclimate for all kinds of critters—from mice to martens, bacteria, fungi, spiders, hibernating insects, wood frogs, and more.
Photo Credit: AdobeStock_243663977. Least weasel (mustela nivalis)
Pop goes the weasel. The least weasels are the smallest weasels in Wisconsin, I learned. The males are a maximum of eight inches long, whereas the females are about 6.5 inches, and less than 40 grams. The subnivium is so important to Mustela Nivalis that its name means “weasel of the snow.” Imagine a creature whose entire body is designed to exploit this magical space where ground meets snow, with a blanket of crystals to capture the earth’s warmth! God gave him a narrow head, thin body, short legs and a flexible spine to maneuver into tight spaces. He doesn’t have much digging ability, but he doesn’t need it. He simply usurps the ready-made dens of mice, voles and chipmunks. The world’s smallest carnivore, a least weasel can kill a young rabbit 16 times its size with a brutal bite to the neck. It caches its prey and comes back to snack 8-10 times each day. It must eat half its weight each day, including birds, eggs, and insects. To avoid its own predators, the weasel’s fur transitions from summer-brown to winter-white.
After Gunter completed his round of PT following his total knee replacement, we enjoyed a fun family Thanksgiving. Then we packed for our flight San Diego—our own way of dealing with winter. When we return in early May, we fully expect daffodils and tulips to break through the melted subnivean layer to bring us the joy of spring.
Did you know that the In Search of Adventure and Moments of Bliss award-winning trilogy is printed within water resistant book covers?
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
Winter is an etching, spring a water color, summer an oil painting, and autumn a mosaic of them all.”
—Stanley Horowitz
From Fall to Winter. On October 29, I awoke to a thermometer still going down, down, down. By 8 a.m., its 22° and going up again. Gunter’s a bigger wimp than I am. He convinces me to go to the mailbox to pick up yesterday’s mail. Parka zipped all the way to my chin, I venture out. There’s little moisture in the air, so the patio that my son Jeff has emptied of furniture is not covered with frost. Still frozen, plants stand crisp, lifeless sentinels along the driveway. I walk past the trumpet vine, still covered with wine-colored blooms because I’d protected with bedsheets. I snipped off a few blooms to put into a bud vase, aware that soon their end will come. They are tropical, so they won’t return. For annuals, the first frost is a symbol of going from life to death. For perennials, it is time for dormancy. But, as Alan Armitage said, “Gardening simply does not allow one to be old, because so many hopes and dreams are yet to be realized.” That day, I set up a file labeled 2024 Garden.
Autumn on White Ash Lake
Changes have been slow and subtle this autumn of 2023 because of the mild November we’ve had. In fact, meteorologists had been forecasting the first November in Wisconsin without snow—breaking a 57-year record. That was especially surprising because the previous winter of 2022-2023 was the wettest on record in Wisconsin. The snowless streak ended, however, on November 25, the day after Thanksgiving.
The Gathering of the Flocks. On October 30, Jeff’s last day at Northern Bliss before heading back to Texas, was a cause for celebration. Not because he had finally finished the lengthy fall chores, but because there was commotion on the lake that didn’t end until he left for the MSP airport. Gunter and I insisted that it was a gathering of the flocks for the sole purpose of seeing him off.
I awoke to a large flock of migrant Canada geese honking as they congregated at the southern tip of White Ash Lake. As we breakfasted at the picture window overlooking the lake, we watched our trumpeter swans with their pair of gray-feathered, immature offspring appear near shore where the dock was. They allowed two other trumpeter swans to join them. (Perhaps they were related.) At the middle of the lake, a flock of eight mallard ducks turned and headed toward our shoreline. Before long, the lake filled with more geese and ducks—hundreds of them—all joining the congregation. The North Lake and Apple River must have emptied out! They stayed for a few hours, loosening the lake bottom with their webbed feet, some diving, tail feathers up, to devour assorted “salads” at the bottom. I’ve never seen so many headstands performed in unison. Gunter teased Jeff, “Are they showing off for you?”
Flocks of geeseFlocks dot the lakeMore GeeseSwans and Canada GeeseOur swans with their offspringOur swans
The camaraderie was disrupted by an argument between our trumpeter couple and another immigrant couple. The juveniles swam to the sidelines. “It’s definitely not a mating dance,” Jeff pronounced.
“No. But they are stretching their necks out straight toward the other,” I answer. “To show their superiority? The four adults swam toward an empty spot toward the middle of the lake. “They’re doing the neck dance now—shimmying. I’ve never seen that before!”
At the end of this show of displeasure, or whatever that was, the visiting couple flew off gradually—skimming the lake and then rising over the treetops—perhaps to locate a friendlier lake.
Jeff completed his packing and took off in his rental car. Remembering the incident, I plan to research fall/winter trumpeter swan behavior. (I’ve previously posted a blog about their behavior in the spring.) I know that these swans and geese will be forced to crowd closer together in the winter. We’ve observed this behavior on Fox Creek and the Apple River during a Winter Wonderland Christmas at Northern Bliss.
The Changing Face of White Ash Lake. One thing about living on a lake: it’s never boring. In addition to the wild geese howling, the colorful ducks quacking, and the trumpeter swans honking, I’ve been observing the changing face of the lake itself. An overnight frost left a frothy ring on the edges and ripples on the surface—as if all motion had suddenly been suspended. The next day, the lake froze solid, except for a small open spot where a few Canada geese landed and flew off again.
First Frost on the lakeHard frost and frozen froth
Then, the day after Thanksgiving, we awoke to a light coat of powder. Soft snow fell all day, gradually turning the lake into a pristine white world. A thin layer of powder covered everything—the rust-brown hydrangea globes we’d left in place for “winter interest,” the sprays of dormant mums, and the errant leaves left on the still-green grass. Expansive layers of white extended to the patio, sidewalk, and driveway and finally, to White Ash Lane itself, devoid of tire tracks. All was undisturbed, silent, peaceful. A picture postcard of serenity. Time stood still as I lingered on the porch and reflected on the wonderful family Thanksgiving that was. A moment of bliss.
Ice begins to formThe lake turns into a pristine white world
By Monday, the vista changed yet again. Some of the snow melted. For commuters, this meant returning to work through a world of gray slush. But here at the lake, I enjoyed a mosaic of white powder and gray snowmelt refrozen into intersecting drifts, creating an ikat pattern. Evidently a fierce wind had come up overnight. The thermometer registered 10° F, the coldest temperature we’d experienced so far. Autumn had indeed turned into winter. The large feathered flocks had flown south to more hospitable lakes or to open spots on the Apple River.
Intersecting snowdrifts top the icy lake
That night, a wondrous Full Beaver Moon rose from the southernmost section of South White Ash Lake. There it sat, suspended between the pine tree branches for a long time, it seemed, reflecting onto the shiny parts of the lake that the winds had swept clear. Images of this second-to-last full moon of 2023 were captured by photographers and moon enthusiasts across the globe.
November’s full “Beaver Moon” will occur on Nov. 27. (Image credit: Darwin Fan via Getty Images)
Beaver Moon
The Full Beaver Moon rises at the time of year when beavers are beginning to retreat to their dens for winter. It’s also the time of year when trappers hunted beavers for their thick winter pelt.
What a wonderful season to experience the holidays! We look forward to a white Christmas here with six of our Germany family flying to Northern Bliss. More is more. There’s no such thing as too much holiday joy.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from her website for a special holiday price through January 5, 2024.
You may have wondered why acorns in Northwest Wisconsin seem be everywhere this year—filling yards and woods and scattering over sidewalks, driveways and roads. 2023 is experiencing a “masting year,” an outsized crop of acorns. It’s not just one oak here and there, but nearly all the oaks in a region that produce an extraordinary number of acorns in the same year. Yes, we’ve had a drought this year, but that’s not the reason, and please, don’t attribute masting to climate change. This phenomenon has begged explanation for centuries! I call it one of nature’s miracles.
The Advantage of Masting. We do know that making acorns requires lots of energy, so during mast years, oaks grow very little. This can be verified, after the fact, by examining oak growth rings. In a typical year, an oak tree can produce more than 2,000 acorns. During a mast year, that number can jump to 10,000. Mast years do not occur two years in a row. They typically occur every 5-8 years. We now know that trees communicate via an underground network of fungi. I imagine them talking to one another last year about the advantage of masting:
Red Oak proposes a plan to a group of oaks attending the annual Polk County Oak Society (PCOS): “Let’s make 2023 a masting year. It’s time we outwit those squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, opossums, raccoons, mice and voles. And especially those white-tailed deer who feast on our acorns—accounting for 75% of their fall diet.”
“Don’t forget the black bears,” White Oak adds. “Their population is increasing in Wisconsin. In 2022, their census count was 24,000.”
“Well, you can’t blame these predators,” Red Oak counters. “Our acorns here are the best. They contain huge amounts of nutrients. If it hadn’t been for our acorns, many of those predators would have died when the Eastern Chestnut disappeared from the forests.”
“Listen, friends,” says Bur Oak. “If all of our offspring are sacrificed, we don’t reproduce. Even though it costs us some growth, we need to flood the market with acorns again. Just for one year. At least, some acorns will escape the predatory scramble and germinate. Then we’ll have a baby boom like you wouldn’t believe!”
The vote was unanimous. 2023 will be a mast year.
Acorns dropped at Northern Bliss, Balsam Lake, WI.
The Science of Masting. Acorns provide an amazing array of nutrients: protein, carbs, and fats—as well as calcium, phosphorous, potassium and niacin. During mast years, there is unlimited food for acorn predators. This removes one of the biggest factors for population growth so birds, squirrels, mice, deer, etc. make more babies. The following year, though, a smaller crop of acorn causes the death of many of those predators. This boom-and-bust cycle keeps acorn predators low.
Masting may also improve pollination. Oaks are wind-pollinated, and (not surprisingly), wind-pollinated plants are at the mercy of the wind. Statistics tell us that pollination success will increase if there is more pollen blowing around when the female oak flowers are mature and open. Synchronizing the release of pollen in some years would result in lots of pollen, and therefore, increased pollination.
Yet another hypothesis about oak masting has to do with energy allocation. In most years, there are not enough resources such as water, nutrients, and sunlight to provide sufficient energy to grow and to make a lot of acorns at the same time. Scientists speculate that oaks partition available energy; some years they allocate it to growth; other years they direct energy to reproduction.
The plentiful supply of acorns we’re seeing now has a lot to do with the weather we experienced last fall and spring.
“It probably had favorable [precipitation] last fall. Then we didn’t have a frost that affects the germination of the flowers that actually produce the acorn,” says Doug Sippl, Forest Silviculturist for the Chequamegon Nicolet National Forest.
“There are a lot of other factors that can go into it as well. Things like the amount of sunlight an oak tree gets, the age of the tree, or how healthy it is. That’s why some parts of the Northwoods may see a mast year for acorns while other parts don’t.”
If you have oaks near where you live, you can decide for yourself which explanation makes the most sense. Enjoy watching the wildlife activity around those oaks the next time they mast. I urge you to partake of Nature’s Miracle. You could meditate under an oak tree while acorns drop on your head and chipmunks stuff their cheeks. Or you could busy yourself making acorn flour!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
“Now that we’re into the shoulder season of September,” the TV meteorologist announces, “you could expect summer weather to linger, but bring a sweater, just in case.”
Where does that expression shoulder season come from? It’s certainly not a weather term. Nor is it a travel term, yet it’s used to advertise cruises and travel junkets in the fall and spring.
I decided to do some research. In the travel business, the definition of shoulder season varies by destination, but it typically means that period of time between a region’s peak season and offseason. This timespan can last months or just weeks. “For instance, if a place’s peak season is summer and its offseason is winter, then the shoulder season would be spring and fall.” —Nerd Wallet, Aug 17, 2023.
The travel industry claims that the term “shoulder season” originated from the concept of the “shoulder” on a bell curve, which represents the period between the peak and off-peak seasons. During the peak season, travel and tourism are at their highest, while during the off-peak season, they are at their lowest.
In the short-term house rental business, shoulder season months are often the best times to offer discounts and deals on vacation rental homes to encourage traveling during the months that many families stay home. For most regions, the shoulder months include March, April, September, October, and November.
Why Is It Called Shoulder Season?
There are two theories as to where the term originated. The first is that the spring and fall climates, usually labeled as shoulder seasons, are not warm enough to wear t-shirts but not cool enough to wear coats. A light shawl or scarf is wrapped around the shoulders during these seasons. The second theory is that because winter and summer are considered “head seasons,” fall and spring are the shoulders since they fall on each side of the head months, much like how literal shoulders are located on each side of a head.
When I was a schoolgirl in the Midwest during the fifties, spring shoulder season meant that you could bare your shoulders or wear a sleeveless blouse without being called a floozy. And after Easter, you could wear white shoes. But after Labor Day, another shoulder season, you had to pack those sleeveless tops and return to dark-colored shoes.
My research proved that the term did originate in the fashion industry. (In this case, my memory served me well.) A quick check shows that the term is still in vogue. An outdoor magazine called Outside says:
“It’s the season of cozy beanies, sweaters, classic flannels and wear-with-anything-jeans. Here we present the latest autumn styles to keep you outfitted through shoulder season, no matter how you spend your day.”
Now, the seasons serve as a global metronome for the worldwide fashion business, defining the speed and time for developing, marketing, and selling new collections.
Yet, even with all the changes, the old etiquette rule from the early 1900s about wearing white mostly between Memorial Day and Labor Day still persists. I found that the tried-and-true Farmers’ Almanac has weighed in on the wearing-white Labor Day debate! The Almanac reports that white linens and lighter fabrics were associated with the wealthy society’s summertime excursions to seaside locations. So, continuing to wear white after returning from vacation was considered rude or a way to “show off.” By the 1950s, this thinking had trickled down to the middle class, with help from women’s magazines. The only one who dared break the rule was Coco Chanel.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
“For he will order his angels to protect you wherever you go.” –Psalms 91:11
A giant clam at Makogai’s research station.
Makogai, Fiji, July 2003
Often during our world circumnavigation, we believe we were protected by angels on board. This story tells about one of those times.
We clean our yacht Pacific Bliss and provision for the passage back to Denarau. From there, we will depart Fiji for the islands of Vanuatu. We’re now more than halfway into our world circumnavigation. Anchored near the island, sheets of rain have pelted us for a miserable two days.
On the morning of the third day, we behold a rainbow that is solid and stout. We take it as a clear sign from God that this relentless driving rain is finally over. The rising sun sneaks between the clouds, casting her beam toward the stern of our 43-foot catamaran.
Gunter turns toward me as I clear the breakfast dishes from the cockpit table. “Quick! Let’s get outta here before this horrible weather system moves back in.”
I stack the dishes in the galley and rush to the bow to haul anchor. Gunter takes the helm. “The anchor line is wrapped around a coral head!” I yell back to Gunter. “Gun the engine forward. Maybe we can work it loose.”
We rock back and forth, round and round. It refuses to come loose.
“I don’t believe it,” Gunter groans. “This is…was…our last chance to get out of here, and now we’ve got an anchor problem. I’ll dive down.”
He’s already donning his snorkeling mask. I hand him his fins. He jumps off the stern ladder and swims toward the anchor. Fortunately, it’s not a serious problem and, experienced at this by now, he frees it within minutes.
Soon we are motoring through Dalice Bay toward the dangerous pass, the only safe exit through Makogai’s protective reef.
The pass is deep enough—20 feet. No problem. But, in places, it’s less than 32 feet wide. With her 24-foot beam square in the middle, Pacific Bliss will have less than four-foot leeway on either side. One mistake and it’s all over. We are the only yacht in this area. Occasional workers do arrive by boat to the fishery here that tends Makogai’s giant clams, but I doubt they would have the equipment to pull us off.
We are on our own.
To make matters worse, our computer died while we were waiting here for the weather to clear, the last of a long list of equipment malfunctions. I’m forced to navigate the old-fashioned way—by sight—without access to our incoming GPS track. If ever navigation demanded absolute concentration, this is the time. I use the back of my hand to swipe the sweat from my forehead. This hot air is suffocating!
We slow down to enter the passage, with the sun at our back. Perfect! I’m standing at the bow, calling directions to Gunter at the helm, as Pacific Bliss painstakingly winds her way through the reefs. I stare at them through the clear water; they are zigzagged and sharp—gigantic saws that could cut our hulls to smithereens.
We continue to inch forward. I bend over the bow, looking from one side and then the other as Gunter carefully guns both engines. My tongue is dry as sandpaper. My heart pounds like I’m running a 10k.
About halfway through, I straighten to direct Gunter the rest of the way.
Suddenly my stomach knots.
No-o! We have lost the sun. The clouds have closed in tight. I can no longer make out the reefs.
Too far to the left or right, and it’s curtain time.
“Stop!” I shout.
“I can’t!” Gunter shouts back. “I’m going as slow as I can. If I stop now, we might turn sideways. All 43 feet of us. We’re longer than the channel is wide.”
Things happen quickly at sea. Any lapse in judgement could cause our boat to break on the reefs. There is nothing to do now but pray. But I know that my answer from God must come quickly. There’s no time to kneel, no time to plead. Only time to ask and believe.
“God, please send your angels to move those clouds…over there, blocking your sun. Now!”
Incredibly, the answer is immediate. God parts the clouds as clearly as he parted the Red Sea back in Moses’ day. Yay God! I raise my hands to the sky in praise.
The sun is back over my shoulders again, almost overhead now, showing the way. I feel the delicate touch of an angel on my shoulder. I’m calming down now. Focus.
Through my polarized sunglasses, I can see that Pacific Bliss is still positioned exactly in the middle of the two reef walls—they are separated like an underground chasm. But jagged rocks and coral still threaten her on both sides.
Ever so slowly, while maintaining steerage, Gunter nudges Pacific Bliss forward, as I shout warnings and directions. “A little to port…straighten her…that’s it…coral at the starboard now…careful…careful…”
Every foot is treacherous and uncertain but, after what seems an eternity, we finally make our way through the remainder of the channel.
Back into safe seas again, there is no need for a lookout at the bow. I breathe a deep sigh of relief and walk toward the cockpit to stand next to Gunter. “It is a miracle…a real miracle…”
Gunter nods. His face relaxes, releasing its frown and furrows.
I look back to our wake. White froth over navy blue. Slowly I gaze at the sky, upwards towards the clouds. Those clouds have closed in again, as tightly as one of Makogai’s giant clams. A chill runs up my spine. The sun has disappeared!
“Thank you God,” I murmur. “Thank you for sending your angels to keep us safe.”
“Your angels are always on board,” He responds softly.
___________________________
We unfurl the jib and sail onward, content with our speed of five knots on a beam reach, too overcome with joy to bother with the main. The sky remains overcast but the wind dries the sticky dampness of my clothes and hair. Four hours later, we anchor near the sandy beach of Naigani, well beyond a patch of coral.
After our chores, we sit in the cockpit, sipping our wine and enjoying the Light Show, pinks and mauves deepening to reds and maroons. The sun slowly slips into the ocean like a squashed golden gourd.
Gunter turns toward me. “Do you think we’ll see the green flash?”
“Nah, the sun is pressed too flat. I’ve seen it only when the sun is full and round, with absolutely no clouds on the horizon.”
“Could happen. There’s no haze now. That might lead to a refraction of light because of the squashing.”
He is right, as usual. He’s a physicist, after all. For a fraction of a second, an iridescent green light surrounds the gold, right after the sun sinks into the sea.
“Thanks, God, for having your angels watch over us,” I toast to the glowing horizon. I’m truly grateful.
And yet, I’m beginning to have a few misgivings:
Were today’s events just another example of God sending his angels to watch over us, as we’d asked Him to do when we began this voyage around the world? Or were they warning signs to “cool it?” Perhaps God is telling us that sailing half-way around the world is enough, already.
Is it right to ask Him to protect us for yet another 18,000 miles?
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer are the perfect time to host family reunions. The hosts want their guests to revel in The Great Outdoors—where children, dogs, and partiers can do their thing—without being underfoot in the kitchen. That wish requires almost-perfect weather, no rain ruining tables of food, no wind prying tablecloth fasteners loose, and sufficient cloud cover to protect against the midsummer sun’s heat.
Forty-two guests attended the reunion kick-off day.Family Reunion Attendees Enjoyed The Great Outdoors.
Thankfully, the weather cooperated fully for the 42 partiers who attended Hofmann Family Reunion this July. The Texans escaped their 100-degree heat; Bavarians appreciated abundant outdoor seating areas to sit and chat; and the locals from Minnesota and Wisconsin loved playing Cornhole Bean Bag Throw for five days straight.
Planning your reunion: Planning for a meaningful, memorable and successful family reunion requires juggling a staggering amount of details. Gunter and I began planning a year in advance. In our case, the venue would be our lake property, Northern Bliss. Our first hurdle was to negotiate optimal dates for our four children, their children and their spouses. That took four months! We decided on five “scheduled event days” with the option of arriving three days before and/or staying up to one week after. The next step was to determine the maximum guest list by adding siblings and cousins. We e-mailed a SAVE THE DATE message promoting key activities, along with a graphic to gain attention. From that mailing, we hoped to obtain a rough count. We hoped that our property’s Big House and Cabin would fill quickly and we would need to reserve additional sleeping space at Forrest Inn in Amery. But how could we know with responses arriving at a tortoise pace?
A second mailing and a few phone calls helped. We provided an updated program that included activities for the key five days:
For the Kick-off, a Saturday, we hired a caterer for brunch and dinner and an accordion player for entertainment. That added a “this is for real” certainty to the event.
We promoted Sunday as a day to rest and relax at the lake, join us for an afternoon brunch-with-band at Dancing Dragonfly Winery, and/or take a an early-evening scenic Paddlewheel Riverboat Tour leaving from nearby Taylors Falls, MN.
The following Regional Days would be hosted by three groups: Bavarians, Texans, and Wisconsinites/Minnesotans. Each group would provide all meals and entertainment and clean-up. I appointed two co-hosts to manage each day. As their individual programs developed, co-hosts were responsible for selecting creative teams and promoting “their day” to the attendee list.
Gege, Celebration at the Gables.Frank Gust playing on accordion.Brunch-with-band at the winery.
Gunter and I did everything we could to ensure that the reunion would run smoothly. (Fortunately, my son Jeff surprised us by flying up from Texas a week early to help.) First, the three of us made space in our garage to accommodate an inclement weather back-up plan. Second, we set up separate shelves designated as Bavaria, Texas, and MN/WI so that co-hosts could send items ahead, such as table runners, flags, banners, paper plates, cups, prizes and booby prizes for games. Third, we organized a cabinet for plastic plates, cutlery, coffee cups, and tablecloths. Finally, we organized a game and watersport corner. The Amazon driver delivered orders almost every day that week!
Before the opening day, Jeff helped us rearrange refrigerators so that the smaller one in the garage held only beer and soft drinks. The other was used solely for reunion events, so that the kitchen fridge could be used for breakfasts and snacks for house guests. We rearranged and labeled our kitchen and pantry cupboards to allow others to work on their Special Days.
Gege, our caterer for the first day, delivered her supplies—table, tablecloth, and coffee urn—a few days in advance: A veteran of hundreds of weddings and other events, she provided a plethora of useful ideas for the days to come. One idea worked exceptionally well: “I know by now that I cannot provide coffee to please everyone, so please appoint the coffee snob in your group to handle purchasing and making the coffee for the entire reunion.” Immediately, I identified the perfect snob, Jeff, who promptly ordered Wisconsin-roasted coffee in bulk and set up his own coffee stand in front of the cabin where he was residing. Everyone loved his special brews!
Buy, borrow or rent? A few weeks before the event, I guessed at the maximum number of guests we would have for each day, and made an inventory of what we would need and then sourced it. For example, I determined we would need an additional 3×8 table and chairs for the kick-off brunch. We would need two foldable card tables with chairs to set up inside in case of rain for board games and puzzles. We would need a cantilever umbrella to protect against sun. I found that renting these products would cost more than purchasing them (including delivery and pickup in a rural area). We found most of what we needed at Wayfair online. Gunter and I already had a pontoon boat and a canoe. We borrowed two additional canoes from a generous neighbor and borrowed Cornhole, bocce ball, and lawn croquet games from relatives.
Implementing Your Reunion Plan: Because he helped us set up, I appointed Jeff as my go-to person to answer those Where-is-? questions. I hired my great-grandson Tristan and his friend, Liam, to help park cars, set up tables and chairs, buy ice, fill and replenish coolers, and help anyone who needed it, and empty trash. Gunter and I bought enough food and beverages for the first two days, then supplemented what the Region hosts provided for the next three days. For example, we provided a help-yourself-breakfast bar with yogurt, cottage cheese, muesli, granola, and nuts for house guests.
It was probably better that the Region Days were not overly organized. As the reunion gained steam, these “ethnic groups” transformed into competitive teams. They tried to outdo each other in their decorations, their games—and especially—their choice of menus.
So much for DYI breakfasts! The Bavarians laid out a magnificent spread of cold cuts, cheeses, and breads, with delicacies such as pickled herring and obatzda (Bavarian beer cheese dip). Koffeeklatsch was streuselkuchen made with my own freshly-picked black raspberries. Dinner was pork cutlets, brats-with-sauerkraut and German potato salad.
Traditional Bavarian brunch.
Texas Day began with biscuits-and-gravy with Texas burritos. No muesli or granola for them! You’d expect brisket-and-beans for dinner, but just when you thought you couldn’t eat another bite, they brought out banana pudding and the richest dark-chocolate brownie cakes I’ve ever tasted.
Texas Day Breakfast. Note window banner.
The Wisconsinites served a sandwich-and-salad bar for lunch. But dinner was a burger bar replete with all the usual trimmings. But then they added a pot-luck brought by their Minnesota relatives that blew my mind—sunny broccoli salad, calico beans, deviled eggs, frog-eyed salad, cheesecake, and pies.
Let the games begin! The games began on Kick-off Day and continued throughout the regional days. Cornhole was the most popular. Almost everyone—men and women, old and young—practiced and participated in the Wednesday playoffs. Prizes and booby prizes were provided by the hosts.
Playing Cornhole.Prize Winners.
Bavarians took the lead in regional games with the best spectator sport. We played Steinholding, a traditional Bavarian strength contest in which competitors hold a full one-liter beer stein (Masskrug/Mass) out in front of their bodies with a straight arm, parallel to the ground. The last person holding with good form is the winner. Both women and men played, and surprisingly, we found that the ones with the shortest arms tended to win.
Strength and endurance wins over good form.Spectators also had a good time.Arm wrestling.
A Texas 1000-piece puzzle was placed on one of the 3×8 tables on Texas Tuesday and stayed there throughout that day and the next. What a clever way to teach the others about the great state of Texas! Added to that was a Texas Facts presentation.
Touring. During Wisconsin/Minnesota Day, I brought one group to nearby Glenna Farms. We didn’t wear overalls, but boots would have come in handy when touring the barn of this modern dairy farm. Here, Holsteins listen to classical music or jazz while they visit their friends and graze the buffet whenever they choose—all to improve milk production. We enjoyed the tour of the 80-acre wonder that contains 1,000 sugar maple trees, 300 of them producing every season.
Holsteins enjoying their own buffet.
Reunion Dress Code and Decor. We had no specified dress code. But that didn’t stop the group from promoting their own local customs. On Bavarian Monday, most of their group wore traditional Bavarian dress while they quizzed us about Bavarian history and customs. Honoring their day, Jeff wore a Bavarian shirt and placed a collection of Bavarian miniature dolls (purchased from EBay) on their table. On Texas Tuesday, not to be outdone, John planted a state banner and hoisted a Texas flag. Their table was replete with a Texas centerpiece, banner, paper plates and cups. Jeff wore a Texas-themed shirt with Don’t Mess with Texas emblazoned on the sleeves. On Wednesday, the Minnesotans and Wisconsinites, who had worked the previous two days, arrived in their usual summer shorts and shirts, but brought both Wisconsin and Minnesota flags. To compete with the previous days’ Trivia Games, Ole and Lena took to the stage with Sven to tell Swedish and Norwegian jokes.
Evaluating Your Reunion: This was “not our first rodeo.” We’d hosted a wedding reception, memorial service, and many other reunions at Northern Bliss. But I do believe that it was our best, due to careful planning and a wonderful group of family and friends. Everyone from 8 to 88 had a rollicking good time! This outcome was just what we wanted when we purchased and renovated this one-acre property in rural Northwest Wisconsin.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
“You know those ducks in the lagoon? Do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over?”—J.D.Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
Where birds migrate. As a child growing up on a Wisconsin farm, I often wondered where those geese, ducks, and songbirds migrated during the frigid winters (when Gunter and I “migrate” to California). Now, we too follow the seasons and I’m addressing this question again.
Theories and fantasies about bird migration abound. Over the years, however, facts gradually replaced fantasies. A great leap forward occurred when an unhappy stork landed in Northern Germany with a giant African spear rammed through its neck! Now researchers have many tools at their disposal including powerful telescopes and recorded night calls. They glean data from radar readings, satellite telemetry, geolocation, and DNA extraction. By tracking genetically distinct bird populations, they can determine when and where birds are most at risk.
Before researching where “our” Northern Bliss birds go, I decided to list the birds I recognized on our property during our first two weeks here, from May 4 until May 18. First, I heard the screech of the blue jay. I counted six at the feeders. But they were not the primary gluttons for our sunflower seed mix; the Red-wing Blackbirds co-opted that prize. At dawn and dusk, they swooped down in flocks of a dozen or so. I suspect they will continue to raid our feeder until autumn, when wild rice is ready to be harvested at the Apple River, their nesting grounds. Other visitors to the big sunflower feeder were Mourning Doves, Northern Flickers, nuthatches, chickadees, sparrows, Red-breasted Grosbeaks and all species of woodpeckers: Downy, Red-bellied, Ladder, Hairy and Pileated—who dominated the scene as they arrived with their piping calls. I enjoyed watching the smaller goldfinches and warblers at the thistle feeder and my favorite orioles at the orange and grape jelly feeders. And of course, I enjoyed the American Robins who dig for worms in the garden near my lawn chair.
Pileated Woodpecker
I was elated to know that, to my knowledge, all of our beloved migratory birds had returned. But what happens to those that don’t come back? A few Sundays ago, I read a review in The Wall Street Journal introducing a book called Flight Paths, by Rebecca Heisman. And for Christmas, Gunter had received a book from my niece called A World on the Wing, by Scott Weidensaul. I decided to do some research.
I learned that avian losses have been staggering. North America alone has lost over three billion birds since 1970. Migratory songbirds—dozens of species of warblers, thrushes, vireos, flycatchers, tanagers, grosbeaks and more—migrate mostly at night. They take off just before dark, fly through the night, and land near dawn. If they’re over water, of course, they keep going. Take the Rose-breasted Grosbeak for example: They fly from their North American breeding grounds to Central and Northern South America; most of them fly over the Gulf of Mexico in a single night. No wonder some birds do not return from their treacherous journey!
How Birds Migrate. In the past two decades, our understanding of migration—the study of mechanics that allows a bird to find its way across the globe in the face of crosswinds, storms and exhaustion—has exploded. For example, we’ve known since the 1950s that birds have a “biological compass” that allows them to use the earth’s magnetic field to orient themselves. They had discovered magnetic iron crystals in the birds’ heads! Recently, however, we’ve learned that vision plays a larger role. If one exposes a bird to red wavelengths instead of natural white light, it loses the ability to orient magnetically, regardless of the amount of iron in its head.
Recently scientists found that a bird may visualize the earth’s magnetic field through a form of quantum entanglement. According to Weidensaul, “Quantum mechanics dictates that two particles, created at the same instant, are linked at the most profound level—that they are, in essence, one thing, and remain entangled with each other so that regardless of distance, what affects one instantly affects the other…Even Einstein was unsettled by the (quantum mechanics) implications …Theoretically, entanglement occurs across millions of light years of space, but what happens within the much smaller scale of a bird’s eye may produce that mysterious ability to use the planetary magnetic field.”
Bird migration encompasses even more mysteries. Did you know that in advance of flights, birds can bulk up with new muscle mass without exercising? Additionally, they double their weight in a few weeks so that they are biologically obese; their blood chemistry resembles that of diabetic and coronary patients. Yet they suffer no harm. They can fly nonstop for days, yet show no effects of sleep deprivation. They can shut down one hemisphere of their brains for a second or two, switching back and forth as they fly through the night. Migrating birds also take thousands of mini-naps. (I’m jealous.)
Across the globe, we know more and more about the life-and-death challenges birds face during their travels. That brings me back to my original question: what happens to those who don’t come back?
Would YOU eat a songbird? I skipped through the parts of both books which emphasized that to save the birds we need to save the forests. “Lose one part of the wintering range or one critical in between and you may lose an entire regional population,” Weidensaul reminds us.
I decided to focus on the sections where I had limited knowledge, such as the slaughtering of songbirds for food. A few weeks ago, if someone had asked me in which area of the world the most songbirds had been killed, I would have guessed parts of Africa or Asia in which people are starving. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Mediterranean countries are major culprits! And the small island of Cyprus takes the lead.
Until now, I didn’t know that Cyprus is the nexus of great migratory flyways connecting Central Europe to Africa and the Middle East. Every spring, some five billion birds arrive from Africa to breed in Eurasia. And every year, millions never leave, killed deliberately by humans. Here’s how it works:
A European robin trapped with glue on a stick, in France. Photograph: Courtesy LPO
At night, trappers unfurl mist nets in olive groves or stands of acacia trees that are irrigated and intended to provide a rest stop for weary, southbound migrants. A trapper flips a switch on a digital recorder and broadcasts through bullhorns into the night sky. Sounds of thrushes and blackcaps fill the air. Migratory birds drop to the trees in response to the calls, filling up the thickets. At dawn, trappers toss handfuls of pebbles into the trees, flushing the tired birds into the nets—where they are killed and thrown into buckets. Other birds, foraging through shrubs, find themselves stuck fast to gummy “lime sticks” coated with natural glue boiled down from honey and local fruit. Trappers rip them free, leaving skin and feathers behind. The next evening, the birds will be cooked in hot oil, dusted in salt, and served in homes and restaurants as a delicacy—usually whole, bare head attached. In Cyprus, this dish is known as ambelopoulia. For an island about two-thirds of the size of Connecticut, the toll is staggering: in 2016, Bird Life estimated that trappers were killing between 1-3 million birds annually—the worst place, per capita, for such slaughter in the entire Mediterranean.
Cyprus isn’t the only death trap for songbirds. Syrians illegally kill 3.9 million birds per year, Lebanon, 2.4 million, and Egypt 4.5 million. However, the most dangerous place for songbirds is Italy, where some 5.6 million passerines are killed each year. They are used in traditional dishes such as mumbuli (spiced and grilled songbirds) or polenta e osei (cornmeal mush topped with whole grilled birds).
Mumbuli con Polenta
The French kill another half a million birds. Thrushes are lured with clumps of red rowan berries and strangled by simple nooses of horsehair. Relished as the epitome of French gastronomy is the Ortolan Bunting—a six-inch long bird with a peach-colored breast, pale yellow throat, black mustache, and yellow eye-rings. En route to Africa, these songbirds are trapped, kept in the dark to scramble their natural rhythms, and overfed until they’re bulging with fat. Then they are plucked, drowned in brandy, and baked whole in a sizzling hot cassoulet. The diner—neck and shoulders draped in a large white napkin to soak up splatter—severs the head with a snap of the front teeth, then chews the rest of the bird, bones and all, in a “soaring cascade” of grease and juices. Anthony Bordain—who was an American celebrity, chef, author, and travel journalist—called Ortolan “the grand slam of rare and forbidden meals.”
Netting Ortolans is illegal in some countries and not in others, but their trade is prohibited by the European Union, and France has banned the dish. Even so, some connoisseurs who know the right people manage to find it.
Otolan Bunting
***
As I relax on my patio, the sweet and soulful songs of birds fill me with emotions. Can one respect a songbird? Or is what I feel more like admiration? It’s overwhelming to envision that such a seemingly fragile animal can link the tundra at the far north with humid rainforests in the tropics and all the lands in between. I revere them for taking on such a feat, despite every obstacle we humans have put in their paths. Through their worldwide flight logs, they knit the wild places of the world together with their songs, their endurance, and their determination to return to their breeding grounds year after year. I delight in sharing the joy these small birds provide to me every day.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.” –Martin Buber
What is a Bucket List? This term became popular because of a film with the same name starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. The two men, facing cancer diagnoses, set off to travel the world, clicking off their favorite travel destinations before they die. Of course, the travel industry grabbed this concept as a way to sell vacations. Pursuing a humbler to-do list, e.g., camping in your favorite park, canoeing the Boundary Waters for the sixth time, or repeating a trip to a city you’d fallen in love with, seemed less important.
Some say, however, that traveling with a bucket list is like wearing blinders. You see only what’s straight ahead of you. Why close yourself off from the road less traveled?
Lois updates her travel journal.
Our Bucket List. During our circumnavigation, our Bucket List was the world. Our mission was to go around its circumference by sailboat. Our destinations were composed of the ports we wanted to visit—for repairs, for relaxation, or to interact with a different culture. If the weather or wind direction changed our preferred destination, so be it. We would go with the flow.
Now that Gunter and I reside on land, I confess that we do have a Bucket List folder. But often that list is superseded by the necessities of family life such as reunions, weddings, illness, and funerals. Our memories of those trips had more to do with whom we met and what we did than where we were.
Is your bucket list holding you back? A recent Wall Street Journal article by Sebastian Modak posed the question: “Rather than yielding fulfilling experiences and a sense of contentment (and pride) could the bucket list be holding us back?” The term “bucket list,” he said, “entered our collective lexicon in 2007…When hype builds a place up in your mind to epic, life-defining levels, disappointment inevitably ensues.”
How often do you fall for headlines such as “Ten Sights to See in Greece,” or “Fifteen ways to Experience Paris?” These articles try to tell you exactly what to see and how to enjoy it. I believe that well-defined lists lead to false expectations. Travel is more than bragging rights. One traveler returning from a South African safari confided in me: “I didn’t see all the wildlife on my list. Lots of waiting around while everyone in the group used the facilities, bought postcards, and spent ages taking photos—after their time was up! The best part of the trip was the excellent service. I never had to touch my luggage—not even once.” Another expressed her disappointment: “I didn’t expect Paris to be so dirty. I had to walk around dog poop. I did want to walk through one of their beautiful parks, but we had so many museums left to see…”
Here’s how to kick the bucket: Tell yourself that’s okay to go back to a place you’ve already visited and loved. To avoid crowds, take advantage of the low season. You’ll have a better chance of interacting with the locals.
Vacations are precious; do what makes you happy. Then you’ll have an experience you’ll never forget or regret. Focus less on seeing, and more on doing; for example, if you enjoy cooking, you might skip Rome and sign up for hands-on cooking classes combined with a tour of Tuscany.
If you have an altruistic mindset, you might explore how you can help those less fortunate. During our circumnavigation, we visited El Salvador almost a year after the 2001 earthquake leveled mountain villages. Many homes had not been rebuilt. About 30 sailboats were moored in the Rio Lempa at Barillas Marina, waiting for the raging Papagayos to die down. Every day, a detachment of workers would leave their boats and head 4000 feet up to the extinct volcano to rebuild homes. A Cruiser Charity fund was put together to accept donations of time and money. Charity projects in El Salvador continue. As part of a youth missionary group, my grandson traveled to El Salvador during two college spring breaks to help build homes. Gunter’s eye specialist uses his vacations to fly to El Salvador as a medical volunteer.
Barillas Marina, El Salvador. Page 192, Maiden VoyageBaking roof shingles in El Salvador. Page 183, Maiden Voyage
We know that it is better to give than to receive but how often do we have an opportunity to practice that? In my blog Giving is Receiving in Hunga Lagoon, I describe how Gunter and I trekked up from our anchorage in Tonga to distribute gifts to villagers devastated by a cyclone. That’s an experience we’ll always treasure in our hearts.
We are seeing the birth pains of a new world emerging before our eyes…networks and connections are quietly being knitted together across the spine of Asia; or rather, they are being restored. The Silk Roads are rising again.
Uzbekistan has proven to be one of the most enlightening, culturally-significant countries I’ve traveled. Near the end of our trip, we stayed overnight at a remote yurt campground. Our most memorable moment was when Gunter suddenly decided to ride a camel. He suffered dire consequences.
Gunter on his camel.Gunter wearing an Uzbekistan cap.Street sweepers in Khiva, Uzbekistan with a billboard of the new Silk Road.
The road less traveled. During our circumnavigation, after we arrived in a port and our boat chores were done, we headed off to meet the locals. Sometimes we were invited to an island feast, a fish fry, or a sporting event such as a canoe race. In Port Vila, Vanuatu, we visited the tourist office to find out what was happening. “A new chief is being installed in Waterfall Bay,” the clerk responded. A group of yachties are sailing there.” We were off to the most unique experience of our lives!
Gunter and I embrace the concept of “slow travel.” Our preference for this method of land travel is probably a byproduct of our slow sail around the world (it took us eight years). We like to decide on a destination, dream, research and read about it, plan an itinerary with plenty of spare time built in, and then go. And when we’re there, we like to take our time, surround ourselves with the power of place, understand the culture, and break bread with the locals if we can. Walking a Village is part and parcel of this experience. On the way to Mt. Popa and Table Mountain in Myanmar (Burma), a popular tourist site southeast of Bagan, our guide parked his car and led us into a small village where we walked among thatched huts, met villagers, and visited a school. We also walked a village outside ofVaranasi, India. We asked our driver to stop outside a small village and let us walk through on our own so that we could stop at the shops to visit with the locals. Afterward, he picked us up on the other side.
Since we returned from our circumnavigation, I’ve explored other less-traveled destinations. I took my granddaughter Holly to Iceland. This was not on our bucket list, but I’d promised her I would take her there someday. Finally, in July of 2018, I made good on that promise. This land of “fire and ice” far surpassed my expectations. We drove away from the crowded-and-touristy Golden Circle to explore the hinterlands along Ring Road. I wrote four blogs about that surprising trip:
Holly photographs Vatnajökull Glacier.Whale Skeleton Island, Iceland
Gunter and I traveled by cruise ship as far south as we ever wanted to go—Ushuaia, Argentina.
As I strolled along its quiet streets, I fell in love with this southernmost town in the world. Yes, those back streets could seem desolate and moody when the sun disappeared behind charcoal clouds. Yet the town’s short main street—filled with a mix of ski lodges and steep-roofed colonials—proved charming and picturesque.
With our eyes wide open (no blinders) we’ll take the road less traveled any day.
Map of Ushuaia.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
Gunter and I hosted sailing friends Rolf and Daniela during the past two weeks. They entered the Port of San Diego after being stuck on a dock in Crescent City, CA—enduring nine “atmospheric river” storms before they could resume their passage. We four world sailors have a lot in common: They sail a 431 Catana catamaran, the same model as our yacht, Pacific Bliss. Ours has a blue-and-teal color scheme. Their yacht, aptly named YELO, sports a yellow-and-white scheme. We first met YELO in French Polynesia. Later, we buddy-boated with them from Port Vila, Vanuatu to Uriparapara in the Northern Banks Islands. We’ve kept in contact over the years; buddy-boaters tend to become best friends forever. Gunter and I completed our circumnavigation in 2008, but Rolf and Daniela have continued to sail the world for the past 22 years. The four of us had a wonderful time going out for dinner, buying boat parts at West Marine, a computer at Best Buy, and provisioning at Costco, and just hanging out—all the while, telling sailors’ tales.
A Pan-Pan Call in Los Roques
At our condo one afternoon, we traded tales about one country in particular: Venezuela.
“We didn’t sail to the mainland but the Venezuelan National Park of Los Roques was one of my favorite places,” Gunter began. “Gorgeous sandy, sun-bleached beaches. Great snorkeling. And an abundance of fish and lobster. But what I remember most was the day we had to make a Pan-Pan call. Not a Mayday. This wasn’t a life-or-death situation.”
Seated on our sofa, Rolf leaned forward. Gunter—in his usual chair by the window—had his attention. “That’s fortunate.”
Gunter continued. “We waded through Venezuela’s complex customs and immigration process, picked up a few provisions and headed for Pirate’s Cove. We planned to purchase lobster from fishermen there. We could taste them already! So, we hurriedly pulled anchor and motored across the bay, surprised to face a 20-knot wind right on the nose…”
I refreshed our drinks and sat next to Daniela while Gunter paused.
“Anchoring at the little cove was difficult and of course, there were reefs on either side. Lois dropped the hook and I reversed the engine, pulling back to set the anchor. It refused to hold. I revved up both Yamahas to gain control through the swells, and dragged the anchor back away from the island to deeper waters, all the while staying clear of the reefs.”
Rolf nodded. He’s probably been there, done that.
“Now the anchor line was hanging straight down. I cut the engines. Lois was up front at the windlass control, frantically pressing the control buttons up and down. But the windlass skipped every time. It could not lift the anchor! It felt like the anchor was hooked onto something. An underground cable? Lois said our chart didn’t show a cable, but as you know, much of Los Roques is not charted at all.”
“All of a sudden, Pacific Bliss started moving! We began to drift toward the main island of El Roque, with the anchor hanging straight down…”
“What then?” Rolf interrupted.
I jumped into the conversation. “Gunter said to forget the cable idea. He thought there must be a very heavy weight that attached itself to the anchor—or maybe a huge hunk of coral.”
“So I sorted through the options,” Gunter responded. “We could have cut the anchor chain and attach it to some kind of float…”
“But there was no time,” I said. “The wind was pushing us toward the reefs. So we decided to make a Pan-Pan call to the Coast Guard. They had seemed friendly enough when we checked in. I headed for the nav station and made that call. Within ten minutes, an inflatable arrived with a half-dozen young men in tight tees and short swim trunks.” Daniela and I giggled until the guys give us the look.
“A few of the men had diving gear. They dove in and swam to the anchor line. Three of them boarded Pacific Bliss and headed for the bow. After a whole lot of shaking (more giggles) the heavy object dislodged and sets the anchor free.” I paused for effect. “But there is more to come. The anchor was free, but still, I could not hoist it. So one of those gorgeous hunks dislodged the anchor chain from the windlass.”
Gunter turned toward Rolf to explain. “The anchor chain had dropped all the way to the bitter end, a section of rope that was still fortunately fastened to the windlass. All 280 feet of chain and rope! Now Pacific Bliss had solidly anchored herself in 120 feet of water and we could not free the anchor from the ocean floor.”
Rolf laughed. “That’s a long way to dive,” Gunter said. “Fortunately, our Venezuelan friends were real pros. One diver worked his way all the way down. He lifted that heavy chain, hand over hand, to his team in the dinghy, who in turn, brought it up to those on the bow.”
“Strenuous work,” I added. “But those young Venezuelans were young, strong, and fit.” I glanced at Daniela who was also laughing. “With the anchor and its chain all the way up, I wound the chain around the windlass using the control, until the last 25 feet arrived, which had to be done by hand. Then I asked for help again. As I recall, a few of the men rode back with us and the rest took the dinghy back to Puerto El Roque. After we anchored close to the Coast Guard station, we thanked them and gave them a well-deserved tip. Gunter asked their leader whether he could dinghy them back to shore. He declined. Then we watched as one after the other dove into the sea and swam toward the beach with powerful breast strokes, muscles rippling.
Daniela giggled again.
“Come on!” Gunter frowned and offered to top off our drinks. Now it was Rolf’s turn to tell a sailor’s tale.
Help from the Venezuelan Coast Guard
Los Roques Under Socialist Rule
“We also stopped in Los Roques in 2001 and found it to be a beautiful country and a nice cruising experience. But the Los Roques we found when we came around again in 2018 was totally different under socialist rule. This is the first time I had sailed into a bankrupt country. Daniela and I were shocked to find the shelves bare! Nothing could be sold in dollars because that was now the devil’s money. Generators broke down many times every day. Cellphones didn’t work most of the time. The stores suffered about 20,000% inflation per year. The bolivar was worthless. You’d see a price posted beneath a few items left on the shelves in the morning that were twice that amount by evening! Prices changed by the minute, but each hour, clerks would post the new number.”
We fell silent. What could we say?
Rolf continued. “Two fishing boats arrived with groceries and produce twice a week. A line formed at the store and wound around down to the beach. Only six customers were allowed into the store at a time. Daniela had to stand in line for hours. Hung on the wall at every office and business was a framed portrait of Nicolas Madero and Hugo Chavez. Men in uniform swarmed everywhere—army, navy, coast guard, military police—as well the National Park rangers we’d seen the first time around. Everybody looked around to make sure there were no uniforms around before they dared to complain.”
Rolf explained that corruption was rampant. For example, the governor of Los Roques commandeered a local home and declared that it was her home now. But eventually, she had enough of blackouts and lack of cell phone coverage. She boarded her private plane and left her post! But the locals were as nice as they were on their first visit. They would beg visitors: “Please take us with you.”
On Monday, our Presidents Day, we wished Rolf and Daniela Bon Voyage. They sailed south to Ensenada, Mexico and plan to spend some time relaxing in the Sea of Cortez before heading off to parts unknown. Who knows where their next adventure will be? Meanwhile, my head is still swimming with sailors’ tales!
Los Roques Today
In 2022, Human Rights Watch reported that Venezuela was facing a severe humanitarian emergency, with millions unable to access basic healthcare and adequate nutrition. Persistent concerns include brutal policing practices, abject prison conditions, impunity for human rights violations, and harassment of human rights defenders and independent media. The exodus of Venezuelans fleeing repression represent the largest migration crisis in recent Latin American history. In 2023, the U.S. State Department issued a Level 4 Do Not Travel advisory. Mainland Venezuela is not safe for travelers and cruisers. The safety of Los Roques, a National Park, can change quickly. The best advice for sailors is to rely on the network of cruisers who are there at any given time.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
Tame birds sing of freedom. Wild birds fly. –John Lennon
Last week, Gunter and I watched the series 1833, the prequel to the Yellowstone series, which is set in contemporary times. A group of pioneers had traveled from the Eastern U.S. to take advantage of free land at the end of the Oregon Trail. One of the wagons was called Prairie Schooner. The pioneers dreamt of freedom, of that first glimpse of the Pacific. The heroine, Elsa, wasn’t into mountains and destinations, though. For her, that feeling of freedom was the journey, riding her horse through new lands by day and sleeping under the big sky at night. Her freedom was moving on.
The film brought back memories of our own quest for freedom. We had already “gone west” to California, Gunter from Germany and I from Wisconsin. In San Diego, we had accomplished the American dream, founding and building a biotech company, taking it public, and becoming financially independent. But we weren’t free. During those years, we preserved our sanity by dreaming of our future. It would be a better life—one in which we would be truly independent and self-sufficient, answering to no one.
We would go to sea!
We would escape to another world—a world in which we could control our own destiny—as free as eagles soaring through the sky. We would sail with the wind and when that wasn’t blowing, we would use solar energy stored in our battery bank. We would be our own self-contained municipality, with a water maker to convert sea water to fresh, and high-tech communication and navigation systems. Best of all, we would have no Board of Directors, shareholders, or stakeholders telling us what to do.
We had a 43-foot Catana catamaran built for us in the south of France. When it was finished, we sailed the Med through the Strait of Gibraltar to the Canary Islands, on to Cape Verde and across the Atlantic to St. Lucia. There, we spent the 2000-2001 holidays. Afterwards, we sailed through the Caribbean to Los Roques, Venezuela and the ABC islands, on our way to Cartagena, Colombia.
During a Force 10 storm, the four of us on board feared for our lives. That shook us to the core. This is what I wrote about that feeling of freedom then:
“Some say the sea is cruel. I agree. I say it is without mercy. Freedom at sea? Independence, managing your own municipality? Ha! Leave the shore, and you leave behind a certain degree of freedom; you must live by Poseidon’s rules, pawns to the sea god’s whims. And you’re left with a burning question: Is the cruiser experience worth the loss of control over your life? Must it always be like this? Must I always live life on the edge? Rollers slap against the hulls of Pacific Bliss as she heaves onwards, while answers elude me like slippery eels.” ─Maiden Voyage, Chapter 8, page 125.
Despite the danger, Gunter and I decided to go on. We sailed for seven more years, until we “crossed the line” and became part of that rare breed called “World Circumnavigators.” Then we returned to Canet, France to the same dock where it all began.
Nowadays, living on our beloved acre of land in rural Northwest Wisconsin during its bucolic summers, I often go out to view the night sky. I contemplate the Big Dipper beaming over White Ash Lake while reminiscing about the freedom of those night watches at sea under the Southern Cross. We have a certain measure of freedom at our lake home, and even less during winters spent at our condo in San Diego.
What is freedom? Freedom can be an illusion. Freedom can be lost. Freedom can be addictive; once you have a taste, you will yearn for more. You can find freedom in many different ways: by going west, by going out to sea, or by taking a hike in the mountains, forest, or plains. Just know this: no matter how you define it, freedom is precious. If you’ve escaped boundaries—whether restrictions set by yourself or others—you can now roam free. You can say, “I am my own person, because this is who I choose to be.”
“Freedom is something that dies unless it’s used.” ─Hunter S. Thompson
Special Offer: To learn more about the first voyage of Lois and Gunter Hofmann, encompassing the first third of their sail around the world, purchase a digital copy of Maiden Voyage by clicking here.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
Florence is one of the world’s great art destinations—with famous museums, galleries, churches, palazzi and piazzas. This small city is easy to walk, with all of these destinations crowded into a compact centro storico. Fresh, seasonal, and local, Tuscan fare is a haven for foodies. I’d admired this historic city since childhood and dreamt of going there. But somehow, fate intervened and even though I’d sailed the world and visited over 100 countries—including three visits to Italy—Florence still remained on my Bucket List. Gunter, who was born in Munich only 660 kilometers away, had never been there either. We vowed to change that in September 2022, during our first international trip since the Pandemic.
We celebrated Gunter’s birthday with relatives in Munich on September 9th and took a short flight on Air Dolimiti to Florence the following week. Gunter’s sister Helga and daughter Simone, who organized the trip, accompanied us. It was a perfect day to fly, with deep blue skies and fluffy cumulous clouds. I used my iPhone to take pictures over Tuscany and Florence.
Flying over TuscanyGunter, Helga, Lois and Simone
We took a cab to our centrally-located Hotel Continentale, checked into our rooms, and met in the lobby to decide on a restaurant. Where to go first? It was a big decision. My guidebook, Fodor’s 25 Best Florence, explained the difference between Trattoria and Osteria: “Trattoria are usually family-run places and generally more basic than restaurants. Sometimes there is no written menu and the waiter will reel off the list of the day’s specials. The food and surroundings in a ristorante are usually more refined and prices will reflect this. Pizzerie specialize in pizzas, but often serve other dishes as well…Osterie can either be old-fashioned places specializing in home-cooked food or extremely elegant, long-established restaurants.” That puzzled us.
“Let’s just walk and see what we find close by,” Gunter said. “I’m starving.”
Right around the corner, we found Trattoria Ponte Vecchio, complete with square tables, red-and-white checked tablecloths, menus in English, and a friendly staff. Problem solved! Dimmed by travel fatigue and delicious red wine, none of us remember what we ate that first night, but each of our meals were deeply satisfying.
After dinner, we rested in our rooms for less than an hour, eager to go up to the rooftop bar to view the city at night. We were not disappointed. How fortunate we were to have that stunning view only an elevator ride away!
Florence at night, rooftop viewDuomo by nightEnjoying the rooftop bar
Day Two: Galleria degli Uffizi and Piazzas in The South Central
Simone had purchased tickets in advance for our gallery tour. It was fortunate she did, because throngs of visitors flock to the Uffizi to admire the greatest collection of Renaissance painting in the world. The gallery displays the paintings in chronological order and by school, starting way back in the 13th century when the first stirrings of the Renaissance began. The display ends with works by Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and Canaletto from the 17th and 18th centuries. We spent our morning there. Some of our favorites are shown in the photo gallery below, along with views from the museum.
Florence is all about art so we enjoyed watching artists who painted while selling their art. After walking for hours in the gallery, though, we needed a cappuccino stop before continuing.
Here’s to SimoneCappucino in a cup with a Florence scene, of course!Another artist we enjoyed watchingArtists gain inspiration from being near the Gallery
Caffeine provided a welcome boost of energy. We sauntered past shops and along a narrow walkway that opened up to the most magnificent city square in Florence, the Plaza della Signoria, the home of the towering Palazzo Vecchio. With its fortress-like castellations and commanding 311-foot bell tower, the building has been the city’s town hall since it was completed in 1302. When Florence was briefly the capital of Italy (1865-1870) the building housed the Parliament and Foreign Ministry. The palace-like structure conveyed a message of political power backed by military strength.
The town hall of Florence, Palazzo VecchioThe bell tower of Palazzo VecchioNarrow walkways open up to grand plazasThe plaza near Palazzo Vecchio has many restaurants
Full of sculptures bristling with political connotations, this plaza has been the hub of political life since the 14th century. I wished I’d had the time to stay another week or more to understand the history! That statue of a man triumphantly holding someone’s head up to the sky, for example, what is the backstory? “Perseus holding Medusa’s head, 1554” didn’t tell me enough. Originally, the statue of The David was placed outside the Palazzo Vecchio as a David-versus-Goliath symbol of the Republic’s defiance of the Medici. It was moved inside to protect it from the elements. Yet, erecting the sculpture The Neptune (1575) celebrated Medici maritime ambitions. Go figure.
Perseus holds up Medusa’s head, 1554
Day Three: Duomo, Churches, and Piazzas in the North Centro
On the third day, we walked toward the Galleria dell’ Accademia past the line that wound around the block, and right up to the front. We had tickets! No matter, that line was for visitors with tickets. There were no exceptions; we would have to go to the end of the line and stand in it for two hours or so.
“You saw the replica of The David yesterday in the plaza…” Simone began.
“And we can go back to photograph him again in more detail,” Helga added.
Gunter resolved our dilemma. “You can always buy postcards. Let’s go enjoy ourselves.”
Soon we were sipping cold drinks and cappuccinos in a delightful coffee shop. Determined to have a no-stress, easy-does-it vacation, we felt good about giving our tickets to a group of students. There was plenty to see in the North Centro. Wherever we walked, the huge bulk of the Duomo dominated the city skyline. The cupola is covered with terracotta tiles with white ribs for contrast. The Gothic cathedral is quite ornate, made of pink, white and green marble. Built at the end of the 13th century; its colossal dome was not added until the 15th century and the façade was finished in the 19th century.
Battistero and Duomo in North Central FlorenceWonderful architecture wherever you lookOne of many bridges over River Arno.
One edifice I didn’t want to miss was the beautiful octangular Battistero. Referred to by Dante as his “bel San Giovanni,” it is dedicated to the city’s patron saint, St. John the Baptist. For many centuries, it was the place where Florentines were baptized. The building is gorgeous, covered by green and white marble, added somewhere between the 11th and 12th centuries. I loved the doors made of bronze! The east doors, called the “gates of paradise” by Michelangelo, depict familiar Old Testament scenes.
The Battistero, dedicated to St. John the BaptistBronze door of the Battistero
Day Four: Shopping, Food and a Carriage Ride
Our last full day in Florence was a wrap-up day. We shopped for gifts, leather goods, and even those postcards Gunter wanted! We treated ourselves to that wonderful gelato we’d been resisting. We visited the Plaza della Signoria to view The David up close. And we visited one more church, the Chiesa di San Firenze. For a grand finale, we treated ourselves to a horse-and-carriage ride throughout the city.
Shopping in FlorenceWonderful outdoor cafesAny flavor of gelato can be found here!Chiesa di San Firenze
Towards evening, we walked to Osteria Vecchio Vicolo for our final dinner in Florence. This was our second meal there, so we knew the menu well. This time, we all ordered seafood. We lingered over our food and wine, reminiscing about “the good life” we’d experienced. This is a city you don’t want to leave. There’s always so much more to do and see.
Gunter eagerly awaits his meal.
Day Five: The Ponte Vecchio and Departure
We were fortunate to book a hotel so close to Ponte Vecchio. We crossed that bridge many times, appreciating a different view each time. Shops have existed on the Ponte Vecchio since the 13th century. There have been all types of vendors, but butchers, fishmongers, and tanners added a rank stench to the bridge and dropped their waste into the river. That had to change. So in 1593 Medici Duke Ferdinand I decreed that only goldsmiths and jewelers were allowed on the bridge.
After breakfast, we finished packing, and checked out. Our friendly hotel staff would to store our luggage until our departure for the airport. We strolled along the historic bridge and then along the Arno. I’ve never seen so much gold and jewelry in one place! After a while though, it all looked the same. We ducked past a shop and into an alley that led to a secluded café near the river. All alone, we took in the splendid view of where we’d been just minutes before. Ponte Vecchio (the old bridge) was to the side while we faced the Arno. What a memorable setting!
A boat passes under the archesOur final cafe stopPostcard from Florence, Italy
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
Are those steamy, sultry “dog days of summer” for real? Where does the term “dog days” originate? After googling my questions, I found that historically, these days are the period following the heliacal rising of the star system Sirius, which in Hellenistic astrology is connected to heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck. This year, the Farmer’s Almanac says that dog days occurred from July 3 through August 11, soon after the summer solstice. No wonder August came heavy this month. It’s all in the stars!
I languished as I lugged four hoses around our acre of land and repositioned each of them four times. I was tired of watering, tired of deadheading, and tired of wishing for rain. At Northern Bliss, those sudden thunderstorms described by the Greeks arrived with threatening clouds and a fury of wind. But despite all that commotion, they typically dropped a meager centimeter or two of rain and then slinked off, leaving a green smear of algae on our shoreline.
About mid-August the heaviness lifted. Northern Bliss received about one inch of rain and another inch the following week—not enough to break the drought or green the lawn, but sufficient to give us some relief. The cooler, fresher air lifted my mood, and I became myself again. My energy returned, and I looked forward to receiving visitors.
This brings me to the big news at Northern Bliss. In this, our tenth summer here, we decided to install an irrigation system using water from the lake. The installation was completed last week—with six watering zones and 43 sprinkler heads. This frees up to three hours per day, which will allow me to pursue my creative projects while sparing my neck and back.
This morning as we sipped our coffee, read the newspaper, and planned our day, Gunter and I realized that our joie de vivre had returned. Consumed by To Do lists, we’d let that precious enjoyment of life slip away. We recounted all the experiences that had brought us joy in the past two weeks and realized that they were the little things. It was the lifting of our spirits that had made the difference.
I’d had a medical procedure performed that required two days of rest afterwards. For the first time all summer, Gunter and I spent hours on the patio reclining in our Zero Gravity chairs, laughing at the antics of the squirrels and chipmunks and listening to birdsongs. Toward the end of that week, my two adult granddaughters came over for a day to work on our custom recipe books. We searched the internet and printed out new recipes, deciding which ones would fit the criteria of “healthy” and “yummy” (not always the same).
Two young families—each with two girls ages one and three—visited Northern Bliss during the last two weekends. What a delight small children bring to a home! They have a sense of wonder, intensity, spontaneity, and joie de vivre than we tend to lose as we age.During each visit, I taught the oldest girls how to pop a balloon flower. That kept them busy for at least 30 minutes before they wanted to go onto the next new thing. Riding the painted concrete turtle which sits on an old tree stump was another activity they loved. Every time they skipped down the flagstone path to the edge of the gardens, they stopped for a turtle ride. Climbing the boulders near the rain garden provided more excitement. And of course, both families enjoyed the pontoon ride on White Ash Lake.
Designing a fairy garden was their favorite project. They helped me unpack the figures stored in a box in the garage. One by one, we placed houses, stones, roads, animals, and all kinds of fairies into the red wagon and pulled it over to the old, leaking birdbath. Then we added a layer of moss and went to work. It didn’t take long for the girls to catch on. Soon they were rearranging homes and roads and adding blue stones for lakes and ponds.
In Wisconsin the last two weeks of August, followed by September’s Labor Day weekend, herald the end of summer. Lakes take on a greenish hue. Hostas turn brown at the edges and succumb to worms and bugs. Lilies lose their crowns of glory and stand naked and brown as vitality returns to their bulbs. The pastel colors of spring—pale yellows, lavenders, pinks, and whites—had changed into the bright, jewel colors of summer—red, blue, orange, and wine. Now all those splashes of color have begun to fade. My garden looks rather drab.
But wait! Tiger and “ditch” lilies are still hanging in there. Zinnias—outrageously colored in bold patterns of red, and orange and yellow—continue to blaze away. Gold and purple garden mums are blossoming. Goldenrods, their heads clustered in lacy yellow panicles, line the roadsides. Hydrangeas are coming into their own—showing off varying shades of green, pink, burgundy, and white vanilla. My rain garden is coming alive with black-eyed Susans, deep-red cardinal flowers, wine-red swamp milkweed, and seven-foot tall stands of lavender Joe Pye weed. Bumblebees and monarch butterflies work the garden as if there’s no time to waste.
Next to spring, autumn is my favorite season. So my personal joie de vivre is the anticipation of fall. I realize that the dog days of summer are a necessary transition from tending the earth to harvesting what it has produced. Now, luscious red cherry tomatoes fill bowls on our kitchen counter while green, beefeater tomatoes ripen on the vines. The broccoli plants have produced little balls of green. In the orchard, our apple trees bow with partly-ripened fruit. And in the Veg-Trug, most of the herbs have bolted. Appreciating the cooler nights, I planted a new batch, looking forward to adding them to autumn soups and stews.
I know in my head that August is the end of the growing season. But my heart wanted to experience that thrill of growing one more time. So after I took one last trip to my favorite nursery to buy the herbs, I searched for some tasseling burgundy grasses. They would look nice in that imitation log planter I didn’t use last spring. I took them home, along with a couple of gold-and-brown “Susans” to plant on either side. Today, while writing this story, I look out the window to view that arrangement sitting on the patio wall. Autumn is coming and it’s okay.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
In 2022, Northern Bliss adopted a fauna relocation program. We love animals, but our love is not without boundaries. We cannot accept so many fauna on our one acre that it threatens our bliss.
During the first summer at our northern paradise, we relished all that nature had to offer. At dusk, we loved to sit side-by-side on the wrought-iron glider-bench at the top tier of our flower garden, observing the woods across South White Ash Lane. We looked forward to spotting deer in the thick underbrush. How cool was that?
The previous owner had planted a row of variegated hostas to edge the garden. I liked the effect. But as spring grew into summer, the hostas became increasingly ragged, mere husks of their former selves. Ugly bites had been taken out of the bands of white outlining their shape. “Deer,” Dale, our gardener, said. “You need to buy Liquid Fence from Menards. That’s the big box home-and-garden supply store on Highway 8. Spraying the solution around the perimeter of your property will act as a barrier-to-entry to keep the deer away from your hostas…and the rest of your garden.”
Yep. That solution worked─for a week or two. Then the deer were back. Ret, my sister from Texas, was visiting at the time. We drove back to Menards where we were greeted by a gaunt, gnarled man with a ragged horseshoe mustache and the longest white beard I’d seen since Santa. “How can I help you girls?” he grinned despite missing eyeteeth.
“The deer are eating our hostas,” Ret blurted.
We followed him as he shuffled along for about five rows; he stopped abruptly in front of Sports and Ammo and pointed. “Then you’d be needing some 22 shells.”
I threw my arms up in protest. “We don’t want to kill them!”
“O-oh,” he feigned surprise, his eyes twinkling. He led us to the deer repellent section where we selected an alternative.
Repelling Deer. Throughout the years, as our gardens expanded into a tempting salad buffet, we tried many products. Milorganite, an organic human waste fertilizer sold by the Milwaukee sewer department, worked for a time. But our deer became accustomed to the scent of humans. Fawns were the most curious. They sampled each new plant I brought back from the nursery. One day Gunter and I were relaxing on our pontoon at the dock enjoying a stunning peach-and-violet sunset. “There’s a fawn on the lake bank approaching your hostas,” Gunter warned.
She was merely eating grass, but inching toward the hosta lining the hillside near our house. How brazen! I decided to teach her a lesson. I moved silently to the bench on the dock. She kept on eating. I crept slowly up the bank. She looked up, stared at me, and kept on nibbling—this time on my prized lime-colored hosta. I inched closer while she watched. “Scat!” I yelled. She ran for a few yards and then turned to stare at me. “Scat!” I yelled again, louder this time and running after her. She finally retreated across the road and into the woods. This one is not going to learn.
Gunter laughed when I returned to the pontoon, red-faced and sweaty. “You need to share some of your bounty.”
“Okay. I’ll tithe. Ten percent. That’s it.”
Every other year, we spend the Christmas holidays at Northern Bliss. Our grandchildren loved to see wildlife up close, so Mike brought a bag of corn and spread it on the snow outside the sunroom’s sliding glass door. After three days, the group of does returned with a big buck. He would have his fill first, and then the does stayed on for a while afterwards. A few days later, Mike sprinkled a trail of corn leading to the sunroom door. Before long, we were watching the antics of six does for our evening’s entertainment. The big buck would have no part of that. He continued to leave early.
“Now they will know just where to come back this spring,” I warned. Obviously, no one else was concerned.
By now, our tenth summer here, I’ve reached an uneasy truce with “our” deer. After every rain, I sprinkle Shake Away (coyote urine granules) on all the plants they like. Continued application does keep my “tithe” at an acceptable 10-15%. I’ve also added so-called “deer resistant” plants. Deer tend to avoid the onion family, which includes chives and allium. They don’t like yarrows, lilies, zinnias, geraniums, dusty miller, ferns and daylilies (except for the buds). The problem: deer don’t necessarily follow the rules set out in the gardening magazines. And some fawns haven’t been taught properly and go off on their own—exploring and experimenting. One year a curious fawn sampled almost everything—including the buds of an entire season of tiger lilies!
I try to follow a design rule for container planting using the thriller, filler, and spiller technique; for example, for our pillar pots, I use a spike for the center thriller and three geraniums for the filler. But the typical spillers—dicondria, vinca vine, and sweet potato vine—are attacked by most fauna and disappear by midsummer.
Rabbit on my garden step.
Relocating Rabbits. The bane of my existence this year is the exploding rabbit population in Polk County. All up and down White Ash Lane, property owners are complaining. Since May, we’ve seen three generations of rabbits, the youngest, about seven inches long. Even though rabbits in the wild have a short lifespan, they can raise six litters each year! They can conceive when they’re three months old, and conceive again within 24 hours of giving birth. Gestation is one month. This is where the phrase “multiply like rabbits” comes from.
I make the rounds of our property morning and evening, clapping my hands and yelling “Scat!” They disappear into the woods or to the adjoining properties. I know they’ll be back. During my rounds, I check out the damage: fresh sprouts of hosta eaten from underneath their huge canopies, lily leaves torn from the lower stems to the highest they can reach, pansies and cosmos demolished. I’ve tried Liquid Fence, Shake Away, Deer & Rabbit Repellent to no avail. Fine Gardening contains ads for Plant Skydd and it’s recommended by my nursery. “Safe for people, plants, and pets” the label says. It features a picture of a bunny sniffing a red bloom. I should have known. That’s a clue that they are doing more than “smelling the roses;” they love this stuff! My last purchase was I Must Garden repellant. It stinks of rotten egg yolks, which rodents dislike. They do stay away, but it takes constant application. Do not apply before company arrives.
Relocating groundhogs and raccoons. Groundhogs, (aka whistle pigs, ground pigs, woodchucks, thickwood badger, Canada marmot, monax, weenusk, and land beaver) have also entered Northern Bliss territory. With their thick claws, they dig two burrows 2-5 feet deep, each with backdoors. One burrow is where they hibernate; the other is where they stay during the summer. These furry creatures are known for their special greeting called an Eskimo Kiss. One groundhog will walk up to another and touch its nose to another groundhog’s nose.
But that’s not how I was greeted when I first encountered one last summer! I was in the middle of a garden tour for my friend Judy. We were walking two abreast down the narrow sidewalk between the astilbe and the garage. Suddenly Mr. Groundhog scurried toward us down the same sidewalk as if he owned it. He hissed like a steam engine and bared his teeth before he sulked away. This year, we’ve seen Mr. and Mrs. Groundhog taking their dawn and dusk foraging walks on the lake path, enjoying their salads at my expense. My grandson tracked them to their dugout underneath the neighbor’s porch.
“All these pesky rodents have gotta go,” I vowed.
The final straw occurred when I opened the sliding glass door to see a second-gen rabbit on the porch step leisurely nibbling a sweet potato vine trailing from a pot. A third-gen baby scurried away. I interrupted Gunter’s morning reading of The Wall St. Journal. “This is it! Our territory is being invaded. We have to do something,”
He looked up from his paper. “So what do you plan to do?” (In our household, squirrels-at-the- bird-feeder are his problem; pests-in-the-garden are mine.)
“Well, I can’t poison them, because that would harm other animals. But here’s what the Wisconsin DNR says:
Trapping and hunting for Eastern cottontail and snowshoe hare is legal year-round on your own property. However, many municipalities in Wisconsin have specific regulations regarding the discharge of firearms. Please check with your local government to ensure adherence to local ordinances. Jackrabbits are a protected species.
“So we could trap and deport.”
“To where?” he asked.
“Far enough that they can’t find their way back. I’m thinking across the Apple River and east to the Fox or those swamps near there. What kind of traps do you think I should use?”
Gunter’s nose was back in his paper. “Call Mike.” (That’s his standard answer for everything he doesn’t know how to do.)
“I’ve got a big trap that would work for the groundhogs,” Mike answered. “I’ll bring it over next time.”
“Meanwhile, I’ll buy a smaller rabbit trap at Menards,” I replied.
I interrupted Gunter again. “I feel better now that we have a solution. I’m calling it the Northern Bliss Fauna Relocation Assistance Program. NB FRAP for short.”
“Really?” He raised one eyebrow to make me laugh. “You’re crazy.”
I experimented with loading the cages. First, I placed the small cage on my potting table and placed a layer of lettuce scraps at the back. I added left-over mini-carrots (the kind that every hostess puts on the buffet table but no one ever eats) dipped into a jar of Rabbit Magic I’d purchased on the internet. Then I put the cage in the rhubarb patch, underneath the spreading leaves. To entice them into the cage, I placed a sacrificial carrot dipped in Rabbit Magic at the entrance.
Prepping the trap.Mrs. Groundhog in small trap.
Voilà! My system worked! But instead of a rabbit, I’d caught the smaller rodent I’d dubbed Mrs. Groundhog. She was packed in there so tight she couldn’t move a muscle.
Second rabbit.Rocky the racoon.Mr. Groundhog
“Aha!” Gunter grinned as he loaded the cage with the docile rodent into the back of our Equinox SUV. “I think I’ll teach this one to swim. We’ll dump her on the banks of that swamp.”
I’d read that groundhogs can climb trees and that they also know how to swim. But this one scrambled right up the bank. She wanted no part of that water!
Teaching a rabbit to swim.Groundhog on the bank of the swamp.
And so our relocation program began. So far, we’ve trapped and relocated five rabbits, two groundhogs, and a raccoon. Most were docile in their cages. We covered them with a tarp until relocation time, and they didn’t bother to move until we let them loose. Rocky was an exception. This raccoon hated being in prison. He fought so hard, he bent (but failed to break) Mike’s large-animal cage. We asked our lawnmower crew (who, fortunately happened to be there at the time) to take him away in their truck, and return the trap.
I expect that the Northern Bliss Fauna Relocation Program will continue all summer. A neighbor’s rabbit just birthed a new litter by their tree stump. She hops through the spruce to her home on “the other side” as soon as I clap my hands. But this one thing I know: she’ll be back.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
The Role of the Mississippi in the U.S. Civil War. Our Lower Mississippi cruise began in Memphis, Tennessee, where Gunter and I met my sister Ret Ekdahl and her husband John Ekdahl. Founded in 1819 by Andrew Jackson, James Winchester, and John Overton, Memphis was named after the ancient capital of Egypt located on the Nile River. “Birthplace to the Blues” is the city’s modern claim to fame.
The four of us arrived at the Graceland Guest Hotel, part of our Cruise Package, the evening before our departure for Vicksburg. We were surprised to find that Graceland Hotel was not located at Graceland, Elvis’s iconic mansion. But no matter. We enjoyed a wonderful creole stew—a foretaste of the sumptuous Southern cuisine to come. And we didn’t miss Elvis; his songs were streaming continuously on the hotel TV—one channel each for the fifties, sixties and seventies—and his portraits filled the hallway walls.
After breakfast, we were called by groups to a hotel room set aside for Covid tests. Following that, we boarded buses to our cruise ship, American Melody. Our reserved staterooms on Deck 1 had been upgraded to Deck 2, so a set of passengers with disabilities could be closer to the dining room. We loved our larger suites with sliding doors to private balconies. On the wall behind the king-size bed hung three drawings, encompassing the entire Mississippi and its tributaries. How cool! We had only begun to check out the view of the Mighty Mississippi and the shining Memphis Bridge when we were called to muster on the lower deck for safety drills. Finally we were underway to Vicksburg. The river was much wider than the Upper Mississippi. We met the longest lines of barges I’d ever seen—two wide—pushed upriver by a lone towboat.
The view of the Memphis Bridge from our balcony Artwork above the headboard depicts the Mississippi and its tributaries
Towboat pushes a line of barges that seems to go on forever–upriver.
We docked on Levee Street at 1:30 pm the next day, eager to explore this historic city high on a bluff on the east bank of the Mississippi. Built by French colonists in 1719, Vicksburg survived an attack by local Natchez Indians ten years later. The city was incorporated in 1825. By1860, Vicksburg, at 4591 souls, was the second largest city in the state. (Natchez was the first.) The current population is more than 26,000.
Gunter views the levee and Vicksburg above.
Gaining sole control of the Mississippi River was vital to winning the Civil War. The river not only brought strategic military advantages but also allowed for easier transport of supplies and soldiers to the Western Front. When the war began in 1861, the Confederacy controlled the entire Mississippi below Cairo. We knew, of course, how the Civil War ended. But we didn’t fully understand the role that Vicksburg had played.
We would be docked in Vicksburg for two days. The four of us were unanimous: the National Military Park would be our first tour. After that, we’d explore the town. For the second day, we signed up for a tour called the “Antebellum Vicksburg Experience.”
Vicksburg was Vital to Victory. Although the nation was divided, both sides agreed that Vicksburg was the key to winning the war. For Jefferson Davis, this town overlooking a river bend was “the nail head that holds the South’s two halves together.” Confederates fortified strategic river points such as Vicksburg with artillery batteries and a ring of forts whose 172 guns guarded all land approaches, including swamps and bayous. The river was the South’s lifeline for supplies and troops.
But Vicksburg could be the North’s lifeline. The Federals could pass supplies to the South by river, road, or rail. By cutting off Confederate supplies and recruits, they could isolate Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana. Union navy and ground forces gained more control of the river as the war progressed, fighting north from the Gulf and south from Illinois—closing in on Vicksburg.
President Abraham Lincoln understood the value of Vicksburg. “The war can never be brought to a close until that key is in our pocket.”
The Federals captured post after post. Then they set their sights on Vicksburg. That battlefield is what we were about to see. Our tour bus driver took a 16-mile route that put the campaign and the siege of Vicksburg into perspective. At various stops, we left the bus to follow a park ranger past cannons, grave markers and memorials, and on to various to lookouts. Amazingly, the ranger made the battles come alive as he demonstrated the placement of Union and Confederate troops. I highly recommend this tour.
Each state that participated in the war contributed a monument to be erected at Vicksburg National Military Park. This is the Wisconsin statue.Confederate General John C. Pemberton
Another stop was the USS Cairo Gunboat and Museum where we boarded a restored gunboat that had been sunk in the Mississippi River. I was amazed to see a huge wooden boat clad with sheets of iron! Named after towns along the upper Mississippi and Ohio rivers, seven formidable-but-shallow gunboats prowled the Mississippi River and tributaries. They preyed upon Confederate supply lines and shore batteries.
Restored USS Cairo showing armor and cannon.
Among the most important legacies of the Civil War was the addition of three Amendments to the Constitution, promising freedom and full rights of citizenship to African Americans. Racism, however, delayed the full implementation of the amendments. Mississippi was readmitted to the union in 1870, but a century passed before the federal Civil Rights Act of 1964 finally outlawed racial discrimination. Even so, struggles for civil rights continue until this day.
These tours taught us that the viewpoints of those legacies differ from north to south and vary from person to person. Even in our small group, opinions differ. I was raised in the Midwest; my education echoed the Union position; I was fascinated to hear the other side. Ret and John also grew up in the Midwest, but moved to Texas in the 1970s, as adults. They’ve picked up the Southern dialect and use y’all in their emails, but retain Midwest culture and values. Gunter was raised in Germany, but immigrated to the U.S. in the late ‘60s. His perspective is not that of a Northerner or Southerner, but of a European/Californian.
Back on board American Melody, our differing opinions made for interesting conversation as we four relaxed and enjoyed the cruising life with cocktails, dinner and an evening performance. It felt wonderful to be waited on!
Lois and Gunter on American Melody.Ret and John with American Melody.Ret and Lois on American Melody.
Antebellum Vicksburg Experience: Touring the Duff Green Mansion. The following day, we took a walking tour through Vicksburg, including a visit to the Christ Episcopal Church. The rector pointed out the two Tiffany windows and compared the current church to that of Vicksburg during the 1800s and 1900s. From there, we walked to The Duff Green Mansion, now a Bed & Breakfast. Built in 1856 by a local cotton broker for his bride, the mansion was designed for entertaining in the grand antebellum lifestyle. When war reached Vicksburg in 1863, that lifestyle was cut short. Duff Green is credited with saving his neighborhood, including the nearby Christ Episcopal Church, by designating his home as a hospital for both Union and Confederate soldiers. Most of the town’s homes were demolished by Union cannons, but from Reconstruction to the Great Depression, this former Soldiers Rest Home was again used as a Grand Home. During the next fifty years, the mansion fell into disrepair while being used as a boy’s orphanage and later, a Salvation Army Headquarters. The mansion was meticulously renovated by Mr. and Mrs. Harry Sharp in the mid-1980s to the Grand Home we visited.
The presentation by our docent, a descendant of the original owners, was among the best I’ve ever heard. Delightful, entertaining, and knowledgeable, she held us spellbound! The mansion, accurately restored to pre-Civil War elegance, was filled with period pieces that evoke the spirit of the Antebellum South. I especially loved the pastoral paintings and the elaborate vases.
We all listened with rapt attention to the docent’s emotional story. She described how the families of Vicksburg survived the final 47-day siege of Vicksburg. While their young men were off fighting the Union troops in hills and valleys of what’s now the Military Park, women, children, and elderly men lived in caves. These were natural caverns in the Mississippi’s bluffs or manmade structures. Over 500 caves (which the Union soldiers called Prairie Dog Village) were dug into the hillsides. During the day, women would go back into the town to scavenge for what food they could find. During the evenings—with cannons exploding—they cooked and slept in the caves, while caring for their children. The presentation reminded me of stories Gunter and his siblings have told about surviving the bombing of Munich during World War II. It also reminded me of Ukrainians currently escaping bombing by living in the basements of homes, schools, and railway depots.
The 47-day siege of Vicksburg eventually gave control of the Mississippi River to the Union. It was part of the Union’s Anaconda Plan—a naval blockade, a thrust down the Mississippi, and the strangulation of the South by Union and naval forces. The plan worked. On May 16, 1863 Ulysses S. Grant defeated a force under General John C. Pemberton at Champion Hill, twenty miles east of Vicksburg. Pemberton retreated, and Grant sealed the city by the end of May. In three weeks, Grant’s men marched 180 miles, won five battles and captured some 6,000 prisoners. The town of Vicksburg would not celebrate the Fourth of July for 81 years.
Scott’s great snake. Geography and Map Division, Library of CongressThe Siege of Vicksburg
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
How my dream of cruising the Mississippi began. I grew up near the St. Croix River, a tributary of the Mississippi. I didn’t know much about that river until elementary school. There, we learned to spell M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i and some of us even learned to spell it backwards: I-p-p-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-m. Settlers learned the word from Indian tribes living along the river banks, who gave the river various names such as Mis-ipi, Michi-sipi, Kitchi-Zibi, and my favorite, Mee-zee-see-bee.
When I was seven years old, my parents took my brothers and me to Lake Itasca, the source of the Mississippi in the headwaters area of central Minnesota. This small glacial lake is 1.8 square miles, 1,475 feet above sea level. It is located in Itasca State Park, established in 1891 and Minnesota’s oldest state park. In this 32,000-acre sanctuary, the Mighty Mississippi begins its 2,552-mile journey to the Gulf of Mexico. “Just walk across on these steppingstones,” my dad said as he held my hand. “Remember this. You are walking across the very beginning of the Mighty Mississippi!”
My next exposure to the river that’s woven through the fabric of America was reading Mark Twain’s books. I especially liked The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, in which Huck and Jim bravely raft down the great river. “I will do that someday—when I grow up,” I vowed.
Life, children, and jobs interfered but I did manage to boat down that river when I was way grown up—in my forties. Divorced and proud owner of a 20-foot powerboat made by Cruisers, Inc., I spent most summer weekends on the pristine St. Croix River, upstream from the muddy Mississippi. As a tribute to my fascination with Greek mythology, I named my boat Thetis, after the sea goddess who married Peleus and became the mother of Achilles. That didn’t work. My friends called me the “River Queen,” and before long they were calling my boat River Queen as well.
The St. Croix River, a Perfect Place to Camp
Often, I camped along the banks alone, sorting through my life. Later though, I invited a few of my girl friends who loved being on the water as much as I did. During my second summer on the St. Croix, my friends and I talked about taking River Queen further down the Mississippi. Did we dare? Finally, we drummed up the courage to plan a women-only cruise from Prescott—where the boat was berthed—down the Mississippi to LaCrosse, Wisconsin. We spent an adventurous weekend there. On Monday, we motored upriver back to Prescott, at the confluence of the Mississippi and the St. Croix.
The Confluence of the Mighty Mississippi with the St. Croix River Credit, Pete Howard 2010
There was a reason for returning on a Monday. A major obstacle to cruising the upper Mississippi is the lock and dam system. Boaters cruising down the Mississippi were often stuck in the river’s locks for two-to-three hours per lock. From Prescott to La Crosse, we would go through two such systems—Lock &Dam #3 near Red Wing and Lock & Dam #4 in Alma. Commercial barges transiting the locks sometimes took precedence. That policy changed after boaters reported being stuck for up to four hours in the system, forced to return upriver in the dark on a Sunday. (Some boaters used that as an excuse to miss work on Monday!) The state of Minnesota eventually succumbed to pressure. Barges were no longer allowed to run on Sundays.
Lock and Dam 4, Alma, Minn. Upper Mississippi River mile 752.8
The lock and dam system is a marvel of engineering that travelers along the Great River Road enjoy without the hassle of navigating that system. Built along the upper Mississippi River from St. Paul to St. Louis are 29 lock-and-dam structures, creating a “stairway of water” filled with pleasure boats, tour boats, and commercial barges. The change in elevation is significant: for example, the route from St. Anthony Falls, Minneapolis, to Granite City, Illinois represents a 420-foot drop. You won’t find locks and dams on the lower sections of the Mississippi though. Why? Farther south, the Missouri, Illinois, Arkansas, and Ohio rivers flow into the Mississippi, making the river naturally wider and deeper. The barges I detested need a lot of river to operate. A “full tow” is made up of 15 barges, arranged three wide and five deep, pushed by a single towboat. Together, these connected barges stretch as long as 1200 feet!
Lock and Dam system, Upper Mississippi
Undeterred by barge traffic, I again vowed to go down the Mississippi to New Orleans, not by raft, but in my own powerboat. I ordered a complete set of maps of the Mississippi, including all 29 locks and dams.
But before I could realize that dream, life again interfered. By the end of the ‘80s, I had sold my house and boat in Minneapolis and moved to San Diego for work. I had graduated from motor boats and learned to sail. Sailing became my new passion. The following year, I met Gunter and the rest is history. He had a dream of sailing around the world and that suited me just fine. After we retired from the business we’d taken public, we commissioned a Catana 431 ocean-going catamaran in the south of France. We sailed directly from the factory dock around the world and returned to that same dock eight years later. Boating down the Mississippi was a distant dream, long forgotten.
When we completed our circumnavigation and purchased a second home in Wisconsin, however, that dream was revived. We were less than 30 miles from the St. Croix River, not far from my birthplace. We added a Mississippi Cruise to our bucket list.
The American Cruise Lines Lower Mississippi Cruise. Gunter and I received brochures from American Cruise Lines every year. We always had bigger, better travel plans, it seemed. But during the Pandemic, our interest in traveling the U.S. increased. With international travel closed, why not see some of the United States? As soon as river travel opened, we decided to make the leap. We chose an April “shoulder” cruise downriver from Memphis to New Orleans. A longer (22-day) river trip would begin in St. Paul, Minnesota and that wouldn’t be offered until June. By then, we’d be settled into planting and enjoying our gardens at Northern Bliss.
On April 7, 2022 we flew from San Diego to Memphis, Tennessee to begin our Lower Mississippi Cruise on American Melody. Ports of call would be Vicksburg, Natchez, St. Franksville, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans. Over Easter weekend, we’d enjoy the sights and sounds of NOLA from our hotel in the French Quarter. Mississippi—here we come!
Part II:The Role of the Mississippi in the U.S. Civil Waris next.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
Our emotional response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is related to our life experiences with previous wars. We also watch the unfolding war through the lens of age. Those still living from the “greatest generation,” and their children, from the “silent generation” (born 1928-1945) lived through WWII, the Cold War, the Korean War, and Vietnam. Younger generations never experienced a war in which the global order appeared to be threatened, while older generations did. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, as awful as they were, did not threaten this order. Older generations are less surprised than younger ones by the invasion; they have long viewed Russia as a historic aggressor. But everyone, young or old, can relate to the images of cities being crumbled, innocent civilians wrenched from their homes, and mothers with babies fleeing for their lives.
Gunter as toddler in Munich
I’m here in my home with my husband, Günter Hofmann, and his sister from Munich, Germany, Helga Marx. Helga arrived in San Diego February 25, just as Russia’s invasion of Ukraine began and has been with us the past three weeks as the bombing and horror of war has continued. This invasion is barely four weeks old, yet it has already brought trauma and death to children across Ukraine. Even if stopped tomorrow, an entire generation would bear scars from the destruction and terror of seeing their world torn apart.
Helga and Günter: Both of you were children during World War II. Do you think you’ve bourn scars from the war? Do you relate to what’s happening now and think about what happened to you then?
Günter: Yes. I couldn’t sleep the first night after watching the invasion on the news. I had flashbacks to the bombing of Munich. The difference from what’s happening in Ukraine is that we had bombing but no occupying force trying to kill us.
In Ukraine, children have been killed by cluster bombs, munitions that have been banned by international law. Do you remember what kinds of bombs were dropped on Munich?
Günter: Five-hundred-pound bombs. But also incendiary bombs, which started fires.
Was the bombing of Munich selective, that is, aimed at military installations, or were bombs purposely dropped on civilians?
Günter: They called it “carpet bombing.” They just dropped hundreds of bombs every night, falling wherever—not targeted.
Helga: I had no flashbacks, but I was only three-years-old then. I have no memory of this.
Günter, you’re three years older than Helga, so you would have been a boy of six. What are your recollections?
Günter: My father was away fighting the war, first in France, then in Russia. He was assigned to the Motor Pool. We three children—Helga, her twin Helmut, and I—lived on the second floor of a four-story apartment building in Munich. When the sirens went off, my mother took us down with our bedding to the basement where wooden bunkbeds were set up. We stayed there all night with the other families and listened to the bombs falling all around us. The entire building was shaking. We went back to our own quarters when the all-clear siren sounded.
You have said that you suffered a lot of problems during this time. Can you describe one of them?
Günter: “Yah, I was starting to wet the bed.”
What did you do during the daytime?
In the mornings, all the boys my age went out into the streets. We figured out which building had been bombed the night before and looked for fragments of bombs that we could exchange like souvenirs.
Like American boys exchanged baseball cards?
Günter: Something like that.
What is your earliest childhood memory?
We lived in Munich in a second-floor apartment with kitchen, living room, and bedrooms. I remember back to when my father still living there before he went to war. I had to take afternoon naps on the couch in the living room, which had a very intricate pattern. I looked at that pattern and put my fantasies into it, whatever they might have been. There was a beer tavern next to the building. My father would give me 50 pfenning to go get him a mug of beer with foam to the top. I had to carry it back carefully, so it didn’t spill. But sometimes, I licked the foam.
Gunter, parents, and siblings.
Did your parents provide you with any type of schooling during this time?
I went to a Protestant kindergarten a couple of blocks away, which was very nice. There was a spinster Sister there who was very sweet. And in the afternoon, we all had to lay down on the floor on a big mattress. I remember that.
When was your father conscripted into the military?
It was 1942. The German armies conquered France first. I think he had a good time there. He went to cabarets. He went to Moulin Rouge, and he had a Pathe movie camera. He brought back souvenirs. He took movies of the topless dancers and showed them to us. That was the first time I saw a woman’s breast!
What part of the military was he in and what were his duties?
He was an engineer, so he oversaw maintenance of tanks and resolved mechanical issues. Then in 1943, the Barbarossa started, and Germany invaded Russia. And I didn’t see him for two years. After that, he would come home—just for a short time—on leave.
How did your mother make the decision to evacuate?
Günter: Several nearby houses had been bombed or destroyed. So, she knew it was only a matter of time before a bomb would hit our building and we could be killed.
Who did she know in the countryside?
Günter: During this time, when a girl reached 18 or so, she would spend one year with a family with children. We had such a girl, Lotte. She was very sweet, and she helped my mother a lot—especially with my twin brother and sister. She had relatives in this village of 1000 or so. She helped us get into two rooms in a farmhouse.
Helga: This is when my first memories of the war began. I was five-years-old and we siblings were evacuated to a very small village near Munich called Paunzhausen. There was no bombing, and the only noises were the mooing of cows and the clucking of chickens. No tractors or cars. Very quiet. I had a nice and beautiful childhood there. But our family had to live in one room—five children—including two cousins—and my mother. Later, we got another room.
Günter, what are your memories of the country and the home you lived in?
Günter: I think my mother took us out there in 1943. Yah. It was strange because the two rooms were one big room, actually, with a stove and an oven and two couches for the women. Five children slept in the bedroom. There was no toilet, no running water. There was one toilet downstairs, but we had to go into the barn where the cows were. There was a little compartment there. We moved a pump handle back and forth to get water and bring buckets up to our second floor. And we had to dispose of the water after we used it. We also had a chamber pot which I had to empty each morning—being careful not to slosh it around! I was only seven or eight years old.
Did you have a wood-burning stove?
Günter: Yes, and of course, we had to bring the wood upstairs each day.
Helga: My mother had to take care of five children, and that was really hard work. And there was no washing machine. There was a small room off the farmer’s kitchen. My mother had to heat water in a very big pot and bring it to this little room to hand-wash the clothes. In the summer, she could dry clothes outside and during the winter months, she brought them to the unfinished third floor attic to dry.
The farmer had two sons in the war and another son, Heir Michael, who was disabled. He could barely talk intelligently but we always played with him and never teased him. At this time, children like him would have been killed, had the authorities found out. In this little village, nobody told, and he was safe. Michael was very quiet, but he liked to sing. We had a record player and he loved listening to that.
While on the farm, did you get enough to eat?
Helga: Well, we always had enough milk. We put it into a big wooden drum to turn to make butter. Next to the farm was a baker. He made very good bread, and once in a while, he’d give us a roll. So, we always had enough to eat. The farm lady had a little garden and sold some of her vegetables.
Günter: My mother hitchhiked 40 miles to Munich and had a very good trade going. She brought butter, milk and eggs to Munich and, in exchange, brought back lamps, light bulbs, shoes, and clothes for the people of the village. She did way more than her part!
Günter, you told me about the time when the farmer butchered a pig, which was illegal. I think my readers would be interested in that process.
Günter: Yes, the government owned all the cattle and produce of Germany. But my uncle was a butcher. One weekend, he came out to the farm, and we all blackened the windows with newspapers. It was a Sunday and so, while the church bells were ringing, he stabbed the pig. For the rest of the day, the adults made boiled pork in a big pot and made sausages. It was a long, busy day! The children, too young to help, were shooed out of the way.
I can imagine. How did your parents explain the war to you…what they had to do?
Günter: My father was away in Russia. My mother didn’t explain much, so we didn’t know much about the war. And there was no information from the outside. We were not allowed to listen to BBC or any other station. We had a radio, so we got the Nazi propaganda.
Helga: But Lois, the adults had no newspapers. The radio news came on only in the evening. Our days were pretty calm. We had no idea what was happening in the world.
Did you have your own thoughts about what they must have called “the enemy?”
Günter: What was there to think about—just the enemy.
What kind of clothes did you wear? You had no stores open, no way to buy things, right? How did you get new shoes when you outgrew them?
Helga: We had only old clothes handed down from my two cousins. Luise was four years older than I and Gitta, two years older. If clothes were torn, you had to patch it. And you couldn’t buy new clothes.
Günter: We had a tailor in the village. He could mend clothes and also make new ones from blankets and stuff. I had no one to pass clothes to me, so I got pants made by my grandmother from material she obtained somehow. She also knitted sweaters and high socks for me.
Helga: In Ponzhausen, old ladies spun wool from sheep, and Mutti made warm pullovers from this.
And shoes?
Helga: We wore no shoes from April until October. Except for church, we were barefoot all the time. Helmut and I had to go out into the pasture to tend to the cows, and when it was cold, we put our feet into fresh cowpies to warm them! (Laughter) For winter, we had shoes with wooden soles and a leather strap.
Günter: I remember, we pulled up beets, hollowed them out, and filled them with milk from the cows to drink. A nice treat for us out there.
When I was eleven, I had to attend school in Munich, so I lived with my stern grandmother. I came back on the weekends. On Saturday afternoons, I took a train all by myself to Reichertshausen, the closest station. Then I walked about an hour through the forest to Paunzhausen. It was very scary.
Panzhausen and surrounds.
What was it like when the Allied Forces came through the town at the end of the war? You were about ten then?
Günter: Yes. My first experience: I saw the remaining men in Paunzhausen make a tank barrier at the entrance to the village. Which was a joke because the tanks just drove around it. There was a group of young SS soldiers, kids really, 18 or 19 years old, stationed on top, next to the barriers, supposedly to hold off the tanks. I saw some tanks shooting, hurting, and killing some of these young soldiers. I saw one with his head half blown away. I’ll never forget that. Anyway, those tanks went around the barrier, came down the main street, past our house.
My mother put out a white flag. They stopped and went into our yard. I remember there were black American GIs on top of the tank who threw down chocolate and oranges. They were so friendly!
Had you ever seen a black person before?
Helga and Günter in unison: No, never!
You weren’t afraid because they were friendly?
Günter: At first, of course we were afraid. We didn’t know what they would do. But later, not.
Was this the first chocolate you’d ever tasted?
Günter: Yes. It tasted wonderful! I loved this new taste, the way it melted in my mouth.
Helga: And so sweet! They also gave us chewing gum.
So, your impression of Americans turned from negative to positive based on this experience?
Günter: Yah.
And did it stay that way?
Günter: All the way to right now.
You’ve told me that you were very impressed by the Americans that came through Bavaria. Why?
Günter: Well, they were not as vengeful as the French and British occupiers who oversaw other quadrants of Germany. Those countries had endured hardship and wanted to punish the German people for that. For instance, our relatives in Mainz—controlled by the French—didn’t have much to eat. So, Mutti sent them packages with bread and ham.
Helga: They were always hungry. It was sad. They had wine, because they had a big vineyard and wine restaurant, but they had nothing to eat. So, they sent us bottles of wine in return for food.
Günter: Also, the farmer’s sons, Bert and Lenz, were in a prisoners-of-war camp, and didn’t have much to eat, so she sent them packages of food as well. They never forgot that.
I thank you very much for your comments as children of World War II. Now, I’d like to close by going back to Ukraine. Helga, as a European, are you surprised that Russia invaded Ukraine?
Helga: No.
Günter: I’m not surprised either. Putin rejected Ukraine’s legitimacy as an independent nation and surrounded the country with troops and weapons. Of course, he planned to attack.
You said Putin would not be content with “a minor infringement.” Do you think this invasion by Putin is in character?
Günter: He wants to restore the Soviet empire. Russia was very brutal under Stalin. He took all the wheat from Ukraine and brought it to Russia, starving four million Ukrainians to death. Putin is in that mold. After World War II, Russian soldiers were encouraged to rape German women who lived in the Russian sector. They were vicious overseers. Putin won’t stop until he’s forced to.
Helga, Günter has lived in the U.S. for the past 55 years and is accustomed to U.S. news and viewpoints. But you’re visiting here from Germany. What do the Germans think about the Russians now? They apparently embraced wandel durch handel, “change through trade.” Are you surprised that hasn’t deterred Putin?
Helga: I’m not surprised.I think that this Russian leader, Putin, will never stop. He will not only take Eastern Ukraine. He likes to get the whole Ukraine. That’s my view.
Helga and Günter, I thank you very much for giving me this interview.
Children in Ukraine
As of March 25, 2022, more than 3.2 million refugees have fled the violence in Ukraine, the majority of whom are women and children. Children on the move are at risk of hunger, illness, trafficking and abuse. Another 7.5 million Ukrainian children under 18 years of age are under grave danger of physical harm, severe emotional distress, and displacement following escalation of this war. According to Save the Children: “Ukraine’s children are caught in the crossfire of this adult war. It should never have come to this…the risk to their mental health and potential for long-term trauma cannot be underestimated.” Save the Children has been operating in Ukraine since 2014, the Russian invasion of Crimea, delivering essential humanitarian aid to children and their families. You can donate to the Ukrainian Children’s Emergency Fund by going here or to UNICEF here.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
Thank you, readers, for your interest in Tonga. International humanitarian aid continues to arrive by air and sea from Australia, China, France, Japan, and New Zealand.
Initial Damages Assessment (IDA) data has been completed and being is collected and analyzed by Tonga’s National Emergency Management Office (NEMO).
“28,900 people have received water, sanitation and hygiene assistance throughout the country.” (“TONGA: Volcanic Eruption”)
“Some 1,000 people (204 households) have received shelter assistance.” (“Tonga: Volcanic Eruption Situation Report No. 3 (As of 3 …”)
The Secretariat of the Pacific Community (SPC) has supplied about 1.5 tons of maize and a variety of vegetable seeds to the Ministry of Agriculture, Food, and Forests.
Donors and international organizations have committed some US$ 27 million in financial assistance plus a considerable amount of in-kind support to the relief effort in Tonga. (“Tonga: Volcanic Eruption Situation Report No. 3 (As of 3 …”)
This Polynesian country of over 170 islands has intrigued me ever since I viewed a TV broadcast of Tongans on the beach greeting the new millennium on January 1, 2000. Their feverish dancing was contagious. Later that year, I was captivated by the news that the 440-pound King Taufa’ahau Tupou IV had gone on a diet-fitness program and lost one hundred pounds! Gunter and I vowed to include this charming island in our circumnavigation plans.
Now, my heart continues to go out to the people of Tonga as I reflect on the few months that Gunter and I spent there during our travels. We sailed our catamaran Pacific Bliss to Tonga from Palmerston Island and arrived at Port of Refuge, Neiafu on August 28, 2002. I wrote this in my journal:
“The Kingdom of Tonga. The name evokes mystery, a sense of the exotic, perhaps because I have never been here before. Or perhaps because it is one of the few remaining absolute monarchies in the world. Tonga has a fierce reputation: It is the only island in the Pacific that was never colonized.”
Pacific Bliss Sails to TongaLoaf Island, Tonga
Friendship, Tongan style. Captain Cook called Tonga the Friendly Islands because the inhabitants welcomed him warmly and graciously provided him with the supplies he needed. We cruisers enjoyed the warmth of the locals as well. One Tongan who became my friend was Lucy, the owner of the Unisex Hair Salon. Her salon was the best because it was the only one in town! A mother of seven, she didn’t sit around—even though she’d had a stroke three years earlier. “Do what you love,” a wise Tongan doctor told her. “You will gradually improve.”
A hairdresser to the Royal Family, Lucy talked about them unceasingly while she did my hair. “We love our princess,” she gushed. “She is a princess of the people. She is beautiful, like Diana.” Lucy continued to let water run through my hair. “And she comes to all our functions. She likes us.”
I told her that we can’t let the water run that long on our yacht. “We make our water from the sea, so we have to use it sparingly.”
“You can come here and use my shower any time you want,” she said. That’s the way they are on those islands!
Dedications in Tongaare a big deal. The first one I experienced was shortly after we arrived in Tonga when I attended the dedication of an elementary school. Gunter and I arrived at the stated time, but these events run on island time. And island time means take your time. Being early, we had the privilege of watching the preparations. Teachers decorated the speaker’s podium with Tongan mats, then they fastened them in the back with rolls of duct tape. King Tupou IV was in attendance, but a pole holding up the canopy hid him from view! We changed our seats so we could see him clearly.
The King of Tonga (left) and President of French Polynesia (right) speak at the dedication of a new school in Vavau.
A few weeks later, I attended the dedication of the new Arts and Handicrafts Center. The princess Lucy had praised took her seat on the stage and with a desultory stare, fanned herself during the monotonous dedication speech and long-winded prayer that followed. Halfway through the speeches, an intermission allowed us to walk around the hall and study the handicrafts for sale. The governor and princess dutifully rounded the tables. I watched them walk up to each display and talk with the artist. The ceremony continued. The princess spoke in Tongan and then English. “We have so many guests visiting us in Vavau. Welcome! May you enjoy your stay here.” Her warmth was contagious. I was impressed. After the princess spoke, groups of dancers performed, facing the princess—with their backs to the audience!
Boys pose after they dance for the Princess.
At the end of the performances, we all rose as the princess and royals stepped down from the dais and walked along the aisles toward the rear of the hall, shaking hands. I was seated on the aisle. The princess reached out and grasped my hand with a firm, confident handshake as she looked me right in the eye. Her smile was genuine, warm, and inviting. I began to understand why the only Polynesian monarchy continues to exist.
The death of King Tupou IV in 2006. The King died on September 11, 2006. Gunter and I were on a passage from Bali to Singapore and didn’t know about it until we read the Singapore Times at Raffles Marina. We realized that was the first King either of us had met. We were sad but weren’t surprised; he was 88.He had been the King of Tonga since the death of his mother, Queen Sālote Tupou III, in 1965. His son was sworn in immediately as King Tupou V, but the coronation would be held in 2007 after an official six-month mourning period. That made sense to us. What blew our minds were the Tonga Riots of November 2006. By then, we were in Yacht Haven Marina in Phuket, Thailand, pre-occupied with preparing Pacific Bliss for our January Indian Ocean crossing. As we worked, we wondered: Why would the peaceful, law-abiding Tongans storm their capital, Nuku’alofa?
The Tongan Riots. Tongans expected democratic reforms under the new monarch; after all, the government had formed a committee to do so following a 2005 strike by government workers. They demanded that a vote on at least some of these reforms take place before Parliament adjourned for the year. That didn’t happen. So on November 16, 2006, a pro-democracy rally of several thousand marched to parliament in Nuku’alofa. After the peaceful march ended outside parliament, an irate crowd of 2,000-3,000 took to the streets. The rioters spanned all ages, from children to the elderly; however, most were young men. As they rampaged through town, they tipped over cars, attacked government buildings, smashed windows, looted businesses and then set them on fire. For many Tongans, it was like a Christmas give-away bonanza that had come early. By the night’s end, the mob had burnt down a remarkable 80% of the Central Business District of Nuku’alofa. Six people were dead, and damage totaled millions of Pa’anga (the currency of Tonga).
Building burns in Tonga during 2006 riots.
The Tongan government, fearing that it was facing a revolution, quickly requested armed assistance from Australia and New Zealand to quell its unruly subjects. About 150 Australian and New Zealand troops and police officers arrived. After a few weeks, over 570 people were arrested, most of whom were beaten by soldiers and police.
Tonga’s Transition to a Constitutional Democracy. The ceremonial accession of King Tupou V was deferred to 2008 due to his decision to focus on the reconstruction of the damaged capital.
Two ceremonies marked Tupou’s coronation. The first was a Taumafa Kava(Royal Kava Ring Ceremony). The king sat on a pile of handwoven pandanus mats facing the sea while 200 Tongan nobles and chiefs wearing woven skirts and seashells marched around him. He wore a garland of flowers and the traditional Tongan ta’ovala (woven mat skirt). Hundreds of baskets of food and seventy cooked pigs were presented to the King and his assembly of chiefs and nobles. Later that night, schoolchildren carrying 30,000 torches lit the sky to proclaim the coronation.
A second, European-style coronation ceremony took place on August 2, 2008 in the Nuku’alofa Centennial Chapel, attended by royalty and nobility from around the world. Archbishop Bryce presented Tongan regalia: the ring, scepter and sword; then he placed the Tongan Crown on the monarch’s head.
As a Crown Prince, King George had been in favor of a gradual transition to democracy. He said that the Constitution of Tonga protected free speech. After his coronation, he announced that he would relinquish most of his power and follow the recommendations of his Prime Minister, who would manage day-to-day affairs. The King also sold off lucrative business interests and announced parliamentary reform and elections in 2010. The royal palace spokesperson announced, “The Sovereign of the only Polynesian kingdom … is voluntarily surrendering his powers to meet the democratic aspirations of many of his people … [The people] favour a more representative, elected Parliament. The king agrees with them.”
In July 2010, the government published a new electoral roll and called on Tonga’s 101,900 citizens to add their names to the document so that they could take part in the historic vote on November 25. King George would lose his executive powers, including the ability to appoint the prime minister and ministers, but he would remain head of state. Unfortunately, a year later, Tupou V died from cancer. Friends and political leaders from around the world sent condolences. “He believed that the monarchy was an instrument of change and can be seen as the architect of evolving democracy in Tonga,” said New Zealand Prime Minister John Key. “This will be his enduring legacy.”
The politics of Tonga currently takes place within the framework of a constitutional monarchy. The King is the head of state and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. The Prime Minister is appointed by the King from among members of Parliament, after having won majority support of its members. Executive power is vested in the Cabinet of Ministers. Legislative power is vested in the King through the Parliament, and judicial power, in the Supreme Court.
The “Kingdom of Tonga” we experienced during our circumnavigation is no more. Tupou VI, the younger brother of the late King George Tupou, is now the King of Tonga. The current prime minister is Siaosi Sovaleni, elected on December 15, 2021.
King Tupou VI
“If a boat ends up on a reef you don’t blame the reef; you don’t blame the boat; you don’t blame the wind; you don’t blame the waves; you blame the captain.”
— Tongan Saying
(Tongan riots, 2006 – libcom.org)
The Tongan monarchy eventually got it right. The country may have floundered on a reef temporarily, but now it is solidly on course.
In case you missed them, click to read my Tsunami in TongaPart I and Part II.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
Images from Tonga’s shoreline to structures and trees following the tsunami.
News about Tonga. “The volcanic eruption in Tonga that triggered a tsunami was hundreds of times more powerful than the atomic bomb the US dropped on Hiroshima during World War Two,” NASA says.
From the BBC: “The eruption “obliterated” a volcanic island north of the Tongan capital Nuku’alofa. Tonga says more than four-fifths of the population has been affected by the tsunami and falling ash. Three people were confirmed killed.”
Before the eruption, the Hunga Tonga-Hunga Ha’apai volcanic island was two separate islands joined by new land formed in 2015. NASA says the eruption was so powerful all the new land is gone, along with “large chunks” of the two older islands.
The widespread emission of volcanic ash, gases and particles from the eruption has proven to be a massive challenge for Tongan officials. Early on, there were fears that water sources had been polluted by the thick blanket of ash, increasing the risk of diseases like cholera and diarrhea. However, testing in recent days had cleared ground water and rainwater as safe to drink.
Fine volcanic ash and emissions, however, continue to pose a public health risk. Exposure could potentially cause breathing difficulties, affect the cardiovascular system, and irritate the lungs, eyes and skin.
New Zealand naval vessels have conducted contactless delivery of vaccines.
An additional complication is that Tonga has been Covid-free. Now the island nation is fearing that the virus will tag along with the aid that’s being delivered. An Australian warship on its way to this South Pacific island nation has recorded about two dozen positive cases onboard, and will now continue in a “Covid-safe manner.” Aid agencies are providing coordination assistance remotely, but local authorities and community groups run the response on the ground. New Zealand delivered vaccines to Pacific Island nations by naval ship, then on helicopters or inflatable boats, before handing them over to teams on land. The international aid community is familiar with non-contact measures during the pandemic. For example, contactless methods were also used to distribute relief supplies to Vanuatu, in the aftermath of Cyclone Harold, in April 2020.
Photos from Tonga are still hard to come by. The country is only now re-establishing some connections through satellite telephone links. Tonga’s only underseas communication cable is still ruptured. The country’s internet is still down, although a repair vessel is underway.
Here’s another photo from the Tonga Consulate:
The island of Tongatapu has been coated in a layer of volcanic ash.
In Part I of this blog series, I wrote about the volcanic eruption in Tonga and the tsunami that followed. I ended the blog with the story about the New Year’s Eve cyclone that hit the Vavua Islands of 2000, and how Gunter and I decided to give back. This is Part II of that story, excerpted from the second book in my “In Search of Adventure and Moments of Bliss” trilogy, “Sailing the South Pacific:”
Giving Is Receiving, Part II
Hunga Lagoon, Ika Lahi Resort, Vava’u, Tonga, August 2002.
I consider how to go about giving back. In the past we have had unfortunate experiences with giving to village chiefs and matriarchs. We would find out later that our gifts were not distributed to the needy families and children. Many times our donations were resold for profit. So after breakfast at the Lodge, I seek the advice of the friendly New Zealand proprietress.
“I’ve had bad experiences with giving as well,” she says, tossing her long red hair. “One of my vacationers, a doctor from New Zealand, gave a box of medical supplies to the clinic in the village up over the hill. Hundreds of dollars worth. That should have lasted the little village an entire year or more! Yet a few days later a villager came asking at the resort for a tube of antiseptic cream. He had a badly skinned knee. ‘Have you been to your nurse?’ I asked him. ‘He should have some.’ It turned out that the nurse at the clinic had sent the entire box to his family in Nukualofa, where they sold them all!”
“Would it be better if I walk house to house and distribute gifts where they’re needed?” I ask.
“Hmm,” she answers. “You could, if you had someone to point out the needy families… I know! I’ll ask Moule to accompany you after her shift. She is done working at the Lodge by noon. She herself comes from a family of nine, and they could use some help.”
I return to our table where Günter is picking up the tab. I tell him what I’ve discovered. Then I suggest that we start with our unopened box of 96 servings of Idaho potato flakes. “Moule’sfamily would be perfect for that.”
Before we leave the Lodge, the owner introduces me to Moule. She is a teenager with a wide but shy smile and an unusually slight frame for a Tongan. She agrees to lead us to her village at noon. When she calls on the VHF, we find that she has enlisted the help of two Tongan girlfriends who live in the village high on the hill.
Gunter poses with the local girls who selected the families in need.
The girls accompany us to Pacific Bliss. There we gather tins of food, clothing, shampoo, bars of soap, and cosmetics. Then, back on land, we trudge up a narrow footpath for what seems like forever, carrying everything in bags and backpacks. Finally we reach the crest of the hill. Cyclone Waka has destroyed everything! Not a tree stands. There is no longer a jungle, not even a path to lead to the village clearing. Such devastation is shocking. All I see is a pitiful assortment of run-down, hastily built bamboo huts. What misery and poverty! I feel like crying.
Moule leads us to the first hut, where her own family lives. I give the introductory speech I have prepared. Moule translates for her family. “We travel and live on a boat called Pacific Bliss. We are moored by the Lodge in your very beautiful Hunga Lagoon. You are blessed with such wonderful Nature here. Because your lagoon has given us so much pleasure, we want to give back to your village. We understand that your village suffered a horrible cyclone and that it will take a long time to recover. So we want to help by giving you some small gifts and food.”
I explain how to use the Idaho mashed potatoes by heating water and then stirring it in. Then we let each of the family members choose a T-shirt from our bag. Afterward, I distribute cosmetics and soaps to the women.
Günter holds up a petite princess-waist dress that we had purchased in a used-clothing store. “Who can fit into this?” he jokes.
“Not any of us!” Everyone laughs.
Moule appears to be the only lean one of the family, but the dress is too small even for her.
Our second stop is a bent-over widow with scraggly gray hair whose children had left Vavau for Tongatapu, the main island of Tonga. She seldom hears from them. She lives alone in a tiny dilapidated one-room shack. We leave her a supply of tinned food and a bag filled with soaps and shampoos.
“I’ll begin to eat this today,” she says haltingly, holding up a can of chicken breast.
Next we visit a man whose leg has been crushed in an accident. He sleeps on the floor, on a woven mat. There is no other furniture in the hut. We leave him cans of stew and trust that someone will come in to make it for him.
After this a wizened grandmother, who looks to be over a hundred years old, breaks into a wide, toothless grin as she sees the food we carry. We can’t imagine her being able to chew! So Günter hands her a stack of canned soups.
We go from home to home on bare ground that is broken only by thin tufts of grass. No landscaping or flowers grace these homes.
This is the poorest, most downtrodden village I have ever seen in my life!
One of the families to whom we donated food.
Later, Günter turns to Moule, “You chose the eight needy families well.” He tries to lighten the mood. “But I’m still worried about finding a Tongan girl to fit into this small dress.”
“I know a lady who has a small daughter,” Moule laughs.
We head toward their house. The daughter is quite small. The dress will fit. After my standard speech about our enjoying the bounty of the lagoon, the mother says, “But I don’t have anything to give you in return.”
Moule assures her that it is okay; we expect nothing in return.
Our trip has been well-planned. Our bags are empty—except for some nail polish and costume jewelry. We give these to the girls who have helped us so cheerfully. They are amazed and flattered. As they walk us down the hill and back to our dinghy, we again emphasize how much we appreciate the beauty of Vavau and the wonderful friendliness of the Tongan people. I do not know whether they understand what I mean, but I do know that Günter and I will treasure this special day in our hearts for the rest of our lives.
A special thanks to each of you who contributed clothing, glasses and gifts during our Bon Voyage Party in San Diego. Some of those items were used in Tonga.
Click here to read Part I of this series. For Part III, click here.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
I first heard about the volcanic eruption in Tonga when I received an emergency alert on my iPhone. Back in San Diego for the winter, I was surprised to see a tsunami alert for the entire California coastline. (We live in a condo overlooking Sail Bay; on a clear day, we have a view of the vast Pacific.) All we experienced was a high surf, but I was glued to the news about Tonga. Gunter and I had sailed into the port of Neiafu, in Tonga’s Vavau Island Group, during our world circumnavigation and have a special fondness for the area and its people.
Out of 181 countries in the World Risk Index, Tonga ranks only behind Vanuatu and the Solomon Islands for its vulnerability to natural disasters. The recent explosion of the Hunga-Tonga-Hunga Ha’apai volcano, located about 43 miles north of Tonga’s main island, shot ash and gas nearly 20 miles into the air. Much of that ash fell on Tonga’s islands, including airport runways and wharves, complicating initial efforts to reach and evacuate villages or bring them emergency supplies. Stored rainwater sources were also contaminated with ash. The majority of houses on some islands were destroyed. Not long after the explosion, Tonga’s primary internet and telecommunications cable was severed, and the country lost connection with the world.
The confirmed death toll so far, is three. Tongan officials said the Pacific nation’s practice of running tsunami drills had played a part in saving lives. The first airplanes since the Saturday, January 15 explosion finally arrived on the cleared runway on the following Thursday, carrying emergency supplies and water.
Image of volcanic eruption in Tonga taken from the Himawari-8 satellite on Jan. 15, 2022, at 5:50 p.m. Tonga Local Time. This volcanic eruption produced a 3.9 foot (1.2 meter) tsunami which struck Nukuʻalofa, the capital of Tonga. Also visible in this image is the remnants of Tropical Cyclone Cody to the southwest. (NASA/public domain)
Tsunami waves may have been as high as 50 feet closest to the volcano. The sound of the final eruption that triggered the tsunami was reportedly like a bomb exploding. “Our ears were ringing,” locals said. “We couldn’t even hear each other.”
Photo credit, Consulate of the Kingdom of TongaPhoto credit, Consulate of the Kingdom of Tonga
Tongans are no strangers to natural disasters. Cyclone Waka was one of the worst. Her category 4, 115 mph winds devastated the South Pacific in the waning days of 2001. We arrived in our catamaran Pacific Bliss a full nine months after the storm had wrought her damage, yet we came upon people in remote areas who were still suffering. For them, there was no government safety net, no FEMA disaster supplies, and no officials to help the stranded. We anchored in Hunga Lagoon and brought what supplies we had on board to the villagers on top of the hill. This is our story, excerpted from the second book in my “In Search of Adventure and Moments of Bliss” trilogy, “Sailing the South Pacific:”
Giving Is Receiving
Hunga Lagoon, Ika Lahi Resort, Vava’u, Tonga, August 2002.
Branches flailed against corrugated iron roofs. The wind rose like an approaching freight train, moaning through the shuttered windows and doors of the little village on the hill above Hunga Lagoon. Fierce gusts found their way deep into the homes of the huddled occupants, causing the flames of their kerosene lanterns to flicker and tremble. Entire groves of frangipani trees toppled like lines of dominoes. The angry wind had already ripped away their leaves and flowers. The delicate flowers of the hibiscus trees had disappeared; then the branches began to break.
But that was only the beginning of Cyclone Waka’s fury this past New Year’s Eve.
What a sadistic irony! Exactly two years after they appeared on television channels around the world––the first to celebrate the New Millennium––the joyous dancers of Tonga entered this New Year frightened and full of despair.
In Vavau, Tonga’s most beautiful and treasured island group, the sea slammed against the shorelines, devouring anything in its path. Waka destroyed docks, overturned boats, and ground churches, schoolhouses, and hospitals to rubble. Even in the relatively protected harbor of Neiafu, a catamaran broke loose of its moorings and flew right into Ana’s Waterfront Café, where for some weeks afterward, the owners continued to carry on business around it.
Most of the waterfront docks and structures had to be rebuilt. The governments of other South Pacific countries such as French Polynesia contributed workers and materials to rebuild schools and hospitals. Missions and charities rebuilt churches and handed out food necessary for survival. But for the inhabitants of Vavau, there was no such thing as government aid to rebuild.
Nine months later, these poor people are still recovering.
In Hunga, the village near where our yacht, Pacific Bliss, is anchored, the villagers staggered drunkenly in the wind as their homes fell around them, sand stinging their faces like icy sleet.
They ran for cover to whatever dwelling was still standing, carrying a few meager possessions with them. Coconuts thudded on roofs and cisterns with the force of exploding cannonballs. Shade trees were uprooted and torn apart until none were left standing in the little village. Every gust of wind hurled more branches and debris against any structures left standing until the landscape was finally flat.
Then came the rains.
Water rushed and swirled until horrid, twisting ravines replaced pleasant, tree-lined paths. When it was all over, the villagers struggled to rebuild their simple homes out of the muddy mess.
But then came the sun.
The rays shone mercilessly upon their barren and ugly world. They had no protecting shade. They labored under the sun’s cruel glare for weeks on end.
Afa, the storm, was over in a few days. But the devastation it wrought would seemingly last forever. During this time of misery, the villagers found it hard to believe that beauty would ever again come to Vavau.
But it has! Lush vegetation has returned to Tonga’s beloved Vava’u. Nevertheless, there’s no escaping the lasting after-effects of Cyclone Waka. Overturned boats and canoes still line the shores and reefs of the anchorages and lagoons. And the luxuriant new growth cannot hide Vavua’s uprooted trees, sawed-off tree trunks, and stacks of old wood. For the 80 percent of the population that lives off the land, recovery is painfully slow. It can take ten years for a coconut tree to bear fruit. Replanting right after the storm meant using nuts that the farmers could have used immediately for food. Newly-planted banana plants will not bear fruit until the following year. The most immediate crop is the papalangi (European) vegetables—such as tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, string beans, and cabbage—the produce that we have been enjoying here. These vegetables could be produced quickly and sold at the markets in Neiafu in return for nails and building materials. Fish from the sea, of course, was another source of income.
Path from village to the people we helped in Hunga Lagoon.
Günter and I have enjoyed all the bounty that Vava’u has to offer for over a month now. We have purchased fresh produce at the market every time we return from gorgeous anchorages to the port in Neiafu. We have feasted our eyes on the lush landscapes, pearly beaches, and multihued rock formations of the islands. We have frolicked and snorkeled in the emerald green waters of the lagoons. By the time we anchor off the Ika Lahi Gamefishing Lodge in Hunga Lagoon, Günter and I have decided that we want to give back.
I consider how to go about it. In the past we have had unfortunate experiences with giving to village chiefs and matriarchs. We would find out later that our gifts were not distributed to the needy families and children. Many times, our donations were resold for profit.
How we decided to give back to the locals in Hunga Lagoon is told in Part II of this story.
Click here to read Part II of this series. For Part III, click here.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
One cannot circumnavigate the world without sailing to dangerous places. One of those places was Sri Lanka in 2007. We hadn’t planned to stop at this island nation, southeast of India; we’d flown there a few years before and had taken the country tour then. Our planned circumnavigation route would have taken us across the Indian Ocean from Thailand to the Maldives. But the weather gods were not cooperating. The three of us on Pacific Bliss—my husband Gunter, our crew, Chris, and I—had endured a miserable crossing of the Bay of Bengal, six days of one rainstorm after another. We welcomed any refuge from lumpy seas, even though we knew that Sri Lanka was at war with the Tamil Tigers in the north of this island shaped like a tear-drop.
While underway, I had a pleasant SSB radio conversation with a commercial ship captain with a clipped British-Indian accent:
“Where are you from?”
“America. California.”
“Oh, such a nice place. I’m Sri Lankan. My name is Colombo. Welcome to my country.”
“Thank you. I look forward to being there.”
“Are you coming to Galle?”
“Yes.”
“It is very safe there. But do not be afraid of the depth charges they set off at night. It is to ward off the Tamil Tigers. Tamil divers could swim into the harbor to plant a bomb onto one of our navy ships. The charges will sound like a bomb, and you will feel it with your little ship.”
“Thank you for letting me know”
“It is safe to travel in my country. You must go to Kandy, in the highlands, and to Colombo. Not to the north-northeast though. That is where the fighting is going on.”
An Unplanned Stop in Sri Lanka 06º 01’N, 80º13’E Galle, Sri Lanka February 9, 2007
Despite the miseries that we’ve endured this past week, part of the joy of traveling is encountering the unexpected…Serendipity brought us to Sri Lanka. And I’m fascinated that the country’s original name was Serendip, an Arab traders’ word applied to the land long before the Portuguese came on the scene. It reflected the lucky circumstance of their discovery and contact. Today, in its native Sinhala tongue, Sri Lanka means Land of the Blessed. For us, being here is indeed blessed and serendipitous.
Günter and I intend to understand its people and culture better—and, yes, even its continuing civil war. This war caused us to strike Sri Lanka from our original circumnavigation plan. Now, though, we cannot avoid its ongoing cruelty. We arrive at dawn’s light, crossing the shipping channels at 90 degrees and deviating course twice to sail behind giant freighters.
“You never want to cross in front of a freighter,” Günter tells Chris, “because it can take one of those monsters up to four miles to stop.”
As instructed via VHF, we prepare the ship for anchoring outside the harbor. It doesn’t take long to see the guns. We’ve never experienced an entrance like this! Two small runabouts, with mounted machine guns, race toward our boat while men wave and point to where they want us to drop the hook. Next, we spot a huge navy vessel—tons of sleek steel glinting in the morning sun—coming around the breakwater. Three Immigration Officers from the navy vessel board Pacific Bliss, while the two speedboats keep circling us.
The officers conduct a thorough inspection of Pacific Bliss and give us forms to fill out. These are immigration forms, and each asks the same questions over and over. The process lasts half an hour. Then, after stamping the paperwork, one officer asks for “smokes.” Wisely, we had purchased a few cartons just for this purpose. Chris distributes a pack to each officer.
We’ll have a two-hour wait before being shown inside the harbor, but we don’t mind; we’re happy to have our first onboard breakfast in a week in calm water. After breakfast, via VHF, we hire a local agent, G.A.C. Shipping, to handle the rest of the voluminous paperwork that will allow Pacific Bliss to berth here.
Later, a navy officer boards our ship to direct Günter to a berth inside the harbor. As we enter, we note that it’s entirely roped off, except for one small lane for fishing boats and yachts. The officer presents us with three choices: to tie up to a black buoy in the center, where we’d have to use our dinghy to get to shore; to Med-moor to a floating dock, consisting of wobbly plastic sections with no handholds; or to raft to one of the monohulls along the sea wall. We choose the third option and raft to a small monohull flying an Italian flag. Now we can walk across the monohull and from there, onto dry land.
“Well, we’re finally safe,” Günter declares with a sigh. “But we’re not going to do any serious touring until we graduate to a berth directly on the sea wall. Tomorrow, we’ll just walk around Galle and mingle with the locals.”
That first night, cradled by Pacific Bliss and swaying with the current, I fall asleep feeling like we are still at sea. KA-BOOM! I jerk awake. I hear and feel the thunderous boom right through the water and the hull. Oh my God! What have we gotten ourselves into?
Günter pulls me over to him and hugs me tight. “It’s the depth charges, remember? They told us this would happen.”
Talk about encountering the unexpected!
“It feels like we’re in a war zone!”
“We are. It’s the price we pay for taking refuge from the storm.”
***
Touring Sri Lanka. After exploring Galle our first day ashore, we were invited to our shipping agent’s home for dinner. Later we hired a car and driver and took a South Coast tour, including a one-day safari. Then we drove to Kandy and rode a train through the highlands. A few days later, we explored Sri Pada (Adam’s Peak) a pilgrimage site. Chris rose at daylight to climb the peak; I went there later and made it halfway before turning back.
A fisherman in southwestern Sri Lanka Photo credit: The Long Way Back, page 227Our crew, Chris, at one of the many waterfalls in Sri Lanka’s interior Photo credit: The Long Way Back, page 228An elephant bathing near Kandy, Sri Lanka comes right up to us on shore! Photo credit: The Long Way Back, page 231
After a week, we three were well-rested, invigorated, and ready to leave Sri Lanka. Chris provided a creative surprise: he brought local monks over to bless our catamaran! They tied a string around the entire perimeter, came on board, and gave their blessing to everything inside, including us! Now we could safely leave this magical land of Serendip.
Monks bless Pacific Bliss before we sail off to the Maldives
Photo credit: The Long Way Back, page 229
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”
Last night was a turning point for the seasons here in Northwestern Wisconsin. We went to bed in the summer. We awoke in autumn.
Yesterday, a summer wind from the south blew strong, rustling leaves and causing whitecaps on White Ash Lake. At bedtime, I thought I heard rain. I stepped out onto the patio. In the darkness, wind brushing against branches sounded like rain, but the patio was dry underneath my bare feet. By 3 a.m. though, wind blew through my open bedroom window, followed by streaks of lightning and claps of thunder. In that moment, summer passed into autumn.
Coral Bells in Autumn.
The morning dawned cool and fresh. The gardens looked bedraggled and drowned, but I knew they would recover. Our wind-chime lay shattered on the porch steps. The plastic watering cans were beaten up, but they’re easy to replace. The top-heavy canna lily suffered the worst: left lying, root-bound among pottery shards. I ambled around Northern Bliss, picking up a dead oak branch here and there, marveling at the sudden change. How had autumn crept up so fast? Then I realized that the subtle signs had been there all along: hostas and lilies yellowing, hydrangeas turning burgundy red, trees changing half-green and half-red, grasses swept red and gold by cooler breezes. Black-eyed Susans and lavender asters fill the roadsides ditches now.
Gunter and I purchased the properties that became Northern Bliss ten years ago this fall and since then, we’ve been “snowbirds,” flying back to San Diego at the first sign of frost. But this year will be different: Gunter is scheduled for a complete knee replacement this week, and he intends to do his physical therapy here. Equipment is being delivered almost every day: stand-up chair, walker, raised toilet seat, special shower seat, recumbent exercise bike—all intended for his recovery. We’ll most likely return after Thanksgiving—our first at Northern Bliss.
Although I don’t look forward to the first frost, or the second, or the final “killing frost,” I do relish the thought of pumpkins on the doorsteps and mums on the patio. My basement storage shelves contain décor for spring, summer and winter; I have no section for autumn. Yay! That means it’s time to shop. Recently I purchased a pair of pilgrim statues for the fireplace mantle. Rest assured, there will be more to come!
Trees change from green to gold.
This year, instead of packing up to leave, I’ll be celebrating the change of seasons—all the while trusting God to keep Gunter safe while the surgeon changes out his knee. We can all look at fall, with its colorful, dancing leaves, as a second spring. The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let useless things go.
May you enjoy the changes in your view and in your life, wherever you live. Bring it on!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
I have wild and nursery-grown Joe Pye Weed blooming in the naturalized section of Northern Bliss gardens this month. Despite the recent drought in the Midwest, these plants are taller than ever. The only differences between the wild Joe Pye—which has grown in the same spot for years—is that the nursery variety has a more intense color that doesn’t fade as fast.
One stem of Joe Pye Weed at Northern Bliss Gardens.
Joe Pye weeds (Eupatorium) are native essentials for any pollinator garden. These plants are attractive because of their hardiness as well as their popularity with butterflies, bees, and hummingbirds. There are several species; all have tall leafy stems with flat or rounded heads of small-but-bountiful, showy flowers. Because they can rise to 6-8 feet tall, I keep them confined to our lot border near the Rain Garden, and also behind a couple of tall boulders. Joe Pye is a tough perennial that loves moist conditions but can withstand high summer temperatures. The flowers bloom bright purple-pink in August when most perennials are fading.
Nursery-grown Joe Pye Weed (eupatorium purpureum).
Wild Joe Pye forms a backdrop to Black-eyed Susan, Swamp Milkweed, and Cardinal Flower.
What’s in a name? When my friends and family tour Northern Bliss Gardens, they ask,” Why is this called Joe Pye? Who was he?” The story begins with an Eastern Algonquian Indian medicine man named Zhopai and is set in the area around Stockbridge, New York (east of Syracuse). His name was anglicized to Joe Pye. When a typhoid epidemic struck the area, Joe successfully treated Indians using two plants of the genus Eupatorium, “Joe Pye” and Boneset. Legend has it that a white man from a neighboring town had befriended the local Indians while repairing their plows and harnesses. He begged their medicine man, Zhopai, to cure his two young sons who were dying of the fever. “You can see that I’m an older man, I probably will have no more children,” he said. “Save their lives and I will give you everything I have—including my farm.” Because the white man had done a lot for his people in the past, Joe turned down the offer but agreed to help the man’s sons. He treated them with Boneset and “Joe Pye.” Miraculously, they lived!
Later, the Stockbridge Indians were forcibly removed to Wisconsin to make more room for European settlers. They were taken to Wisconsin in the dead of winter and deposited on land belonging to the Menominee people, who pitied them and even gave them part of their land. This band is still in Wisconsin, where it is called the Stockbridge Munsee.
Zhopai stayed behind with whites in New York State, but as his family left, he gave each of his grandchildren a bag filled with Joe Pye seeds. “Scatter them on your journey, whenever you pass a wet or swampy area,” he said. “When I’m well enough to follow you, I will know you passed this way.” The old man never made the trip; however, Joe Pye Weed, his legacy, is indeed scattered all the way from the eastern U.S. to Wisconsin. Source: Plants Have So Much to Give Us, All We Have to Do Is Ask, by Mary Siisip Geniusz.
A second legend: Another version of the Joe Pye legend was told to me by a nursery worker: In this story, the medicine man, Zhopai, used a brew made from this plant to cure the blacksmith’s two sons of typhoid. Because of this, the father’s lifelong dream was to spread Joe Pye from east to west. His sons heeded the call, “Go west, young man!” and prepared to take off to settle the new land. Their father was too ill and old to make the trip, but asked his two sons to spread the seeds along ponds and marshes as far west as they could go. They stopped in Wisconsin, and that’s why Joe Pye Weed is sold as a “native wildflower” here.
The facts as we know them: My curiosity drove me to dig deep into research, where I unearthed archives of The Great Lakes Botanist,Vol 56. The year Joe Pye Weed entered the English language was 1818, according to Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. It gives the origin of the name as “unknown.” Popular literature on native plants associate Zhopai with the colonial days of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, specifically to English settlers from 1628-1691. Some records attribute spectacular success to Zhopai’s treatment of typhus using the plants that now bear his name, even to the extent of the saving an entire colony of early settlers. Other stories (with no sources cited) portray Zhopai as a traveling salesman with a horse and wagon! Another claimed that he traveled around the Northeast peddling medicines around the time of the American Revolution. Some insisted that he came from the Carolinas. As recently as 2011, Joe was considered to be a Caucasian “snake-oil salesman.” There are also discrepancies about whether Zhopai used the leaves and stems of the plants or the roots.
Legendary expansion, as it is called, is a phenomenon quite familiar to folklorists and historians. The Botanist found no evidence to support the statements that Zhopai was Caucasian or that he was a peddler or showman of any kind. I prefer to believe the first legend and that’s the one I plan to tell. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the exuberance of Joe Pye Weed blowing in the wind at Northern Bliss.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
Icelanders are at odds with each other, and they are split 50/50. This battle has nothing to do with politics; it has everything to do with aesthetics, conservation, and the color purple.
Lois with lupines
The Alaskan lupine (Lupinus nootkatensis) is under attack. Warriors head for their battlefield in Eastern Iceland, armed with long knives and weed whackers. Their enemy? Purple lupines, stretching high into the mountains above—alien invaders that carpet gorges, sprawl over lava fields and climb the very mountains trekkers used to climb—without pushing through meter-high plants. These Icelandic warriors found that if they slash lupines during their peak blooming season in June, when all their effort goes into the blooms, they have a better chance at killing the enemy. Under the cover of twilight, Lupine Defenders, their pockets full of lupine seeds, visit the scene of devastation to spread them among the fallen, hoping they will rise again.
Defenders have a point. Tourists and half of Icelanders think the lupine fields are breathtakingly gorgeous. Plus, Lupine Defenders say lupine beauty goes well beyond skin deep. They point to conditions before lupines were introduced by the Icelandic Forest Service. Up to 40% of Iceland was covered by forest before the settlers arrived. Today, there are very few trees, and those that remain are small and twisted. A common joke among Icelanders goes like this: “What do you do if you’re lost in an Icelandic forest? Stand up.”
After 1,100 years of settlement, much of the island was ecologically exhausted from overgrazing and slash-and-burn agriculture. Less than 25% of the island’s green cover remained and strong winds were blowing the remaining soil into the sea. In 1945, Hakon Bjarnson was sent to Alaska by the Forest Service to find plants suitable to revegetate his country. He returned with Alaskan lupine in his luggage, along with a clever plan. Besides reducing erosion, lupines would improve the soil at almost no cost. That’s because—as part of the pea family—they are “nitrogen-fixers.” The plants host bacteria that gather nitrogen from the air, transferring the gas to its root nodules and providing nourishments for other plants.
Those plants grew quietly around Reykjavik for 31 years until 1976 when an initiative was made to spread the seeds throughout the country. The objective: to improve the soil so trees could grow. When tall, their shade would dominate the three-foot lupines.
Field of lupines near Reykjavik.
The plan worked well—too well, detractors say. Scoops of lupine seeds to spread were made available at gas stations! Lupines are tall and dense, so they can starve small plants and moss of crucial sunlight. When I visited Iceland with my granddaughter in late July, 2018, we missed most of the early summer lupine season. When we drove the Ring Road, Route 1, we saw lupines growing alongside a stream, in a few fields, and at the botanical garden in Borganes (Skallagrimsgardur). Along the way, we talked to many friendly locals and the divisive subject of lupines never came up. We were amazed, however, at the 600-plus species of moss! These lichens draw their nutrients from the environment and are easily contaminated. They grow slowly—about one centimeter in length each year. I’d hate to see any precious moss fields overtaken!
There are over 600 species of moss in Iceland.
Lupine Creep. “Exponential growth is the nature of an invasive species,” says Pawel Wasowicz, a botanist and lupine expert at the Institute of Natural History. The growth curve, he estimates, will peak in the next two decades. Eastern Icelanders have experienced lupine creep in real time. Over the past 17 years, the plant has spread up to 35-fold in areas of East Iceland.
“We are at the point of no return,” says Arni Bragason, director of Soil Conservation Service of Iceland. “The best thing we can do is reach a consensus about where the plant should be. That has been hard too.” In the spring of 2018, his agency, the one that introduced lupine decades ago, called for its eradication. After 42 years of providing seeds to the entire country, the agency terminated its lupine project. Grabbing a free scoop of seeds at gas stations is no more! Most of the culling of plants, however, is carried out by volunteers. Cities and towns have been hesitant to allocate money, given the controversy that would entail.
Meanwhile lupine slaughtering parties, followed by determined lupine seeders, continue to roam the landscape.
A stand of lupine alongside a stream.
Do lupines destroy the view? The question is also a point of friction among Icelanders. Old-timers don’t care all that much about revegetation and reforestation. They care about image—and memories. They show visitors an iconic picture of Neil Armstrong salmon fishing in Iceland in 1967, two years before he made history with one small step on the moon. They’re proud to tell you that nine of the twelve astronauts who walked on the moon came to Iceland first. “They were there because in the middle of Iceland’s highlands, NASA had found a landscape that paralleled the lunar: no vegetation, no life, no colors, no landmarks. The entire area was essentially a natural gravel field,” wrote Egill Bjarnason, in his recently-published book, “How Iceland Changed the World.”
“The term ‘lunar landscape’ is a phrase often used to describe the boundless Icelandic deserts shaped by volcanic eruptions and covered in different shades of lava…their very barrenness is an asset,” Egill continues.
Magnificent Desolation is the phrase Buzz Aldrin once used to describe the moon. Some Iceland homeowners love that view and regret that their magnificent desolation has been replaced by the color purple. Farmers, on the other hand, appreciate the lupine cover. They recall roads blocked by sandstorms many times every year.
Magnificent Desolation.
And so the debate continues. If you were an Icelander, which side would you take?
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
Pain in Paradise. The first half of June has passed in a whirlwind of activity. Due to a drought enveloping Wisconsin and Minnesota this spring, the unexpected happened: I had to water—not only the new plantings, but everything—trees, bushes, perennials, annuals, and yes, even parts of the lawn! As I trudged around our entire one-acre property called Northern Bliss, dragging a hose during sweltering, record-setting 90-plus-degree heat, I wondered “Where is the bliss?” Other summers, I’ve divided my time between gardening in the morning pursuing creative projects during the hotter afternoon. This June, I’ve spent the mornings watering and the afternoons recovering. For two weeks, muscles aching, I didn’t have a creative bone in my body.
The local evening news was filled with stories of the unusual Upper Midwestern drought. After the first nine days of temperatures over 90, the talking heads exclaimed: “Our record in here for all summer is 13 days over 90! So far, we’ve had nine days and counting.”
Gunter and I chuckled at first. It never rains in Southern California, where we spend our winters. And here, the locals complain of the heat when the temps climb over 80! After 5 more days, we quit laughing. The temperature kept breaking records, the nearby St. Croix River descended to record lows, and even the Great Mississippi shrank under the bridges crossing from Wisconsin to Minnesota. Here at White Ash Lake, one could walk on the shore alongside the riprap that prevents dashing waves from destroying shoreline.
The local electric company chose the middle of a drought to rake and sow grass to repair the parts of the lawn damaged by burying electric cables last October. We appreciate the good job they did, but their timing was way off. “Just make sure to water those two sections and you’ll be fine,” a worker told me as he climbed into their truck and it rumbled off. Those sections are at the far corners of the property. Reluctantly, I joined hose lengths together to reach them. More watering! I ordered more sprinklers from Amazon (the local Menards—similar to Lowes or Home Depot—was 100% sold out). With sprinklers spread like octopus legs from the house and cabin, the two well pumps ran all day. The next morning, still in my PJs, I moved and reset them before the sun rose high. But after 30 minutes, the 1946-era cabin pump had enough. It blew its fuse.
“Better call Mike,” we said simultaneously. (He’s our son-in-law and “fixer.”) He found that the pump had burned out—probably because the sand point well was depleted due to receding groundwater.
“Better call a well driller,” Mike said. Well drillers here are busy, as are plumbers, builders, electricians, and handymen in this part of rural Wisconsin. They are “backed up” until late fall or early spring. Fortunately, we have no visitors booked for the cabin this summer and we do have water in our main house, so we’re okay. Besides, drilling a new well at the cabin would mess up my perennial garden. As for the grass, watering was no longer an option. We would just have to wait for the elusive rain.
Day Tripping. “Let’s blow this pop stand,” I said last Saturday morning. “The forecast is for rain on Sunday—Father’s Day. God knows the farmers need rain more than any other gift they could receive. I think it will happen.” We threw a bag with snacks and water bottles into our Equinox and we were off to Crex Meadows, a wildlife area north of Grantsburg, less than 40 miles away
Crex Meadows is known known as a staging area for Sandhill cranes, but they would have already migrated; however, there’s always something to see. The Meadows encompass 30,000 acres, with wetlands, brush prairies, and forests scattered across a gently rolling landscape. It’s part of the Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens. These “Barrens” extend from northern Polk County (where we live) to southern Bayfield County (where we visited last fall); it covers 1500 square miles. This huge, sandy plain was left when a glacier retreated about 13,000 years ago. The southern part of the Barrens where Crex is located contains huge marshes, part of ancient Glacial Lake.
The 30,000 acres of Crex Meadows State Wildlife Area is managed by the Wisconsin DNR, Bureau of Wildlife Management. This habitat is now home to over 280 bird species, 720 plant species, 96 butterfly species, and a wide variety of reptiles, amphibians, and insects. Amazingly, every species of mammal found in Wisconsin has been on the Crex property at some point; even moose and mountain lions wander through occasionally. You can download a map here.
The Visitor Center wasn’t open when we drove through, but we picked up a map and bird checklist outside in a box to the right of the entry door. In addition to a number of small birds, we saw hundreds of trumpeter swans. Even though we have a resident pair on White Ash Lake, seeing flocks of them was exhilarating! Some swans were close to the overlooks and dike roads, so hiking wasn’t necessary to take these photos:
The Burnett Dairy Cooperative. This co-op has piqued my curiosity ever since I read an article in the local press about how they helped the farming community. It was the last week in March, 2020. Covid-19 had shut the country down. Within a few weeks of the U.S. lockdown, Gunter and I escaped San Diego to wait it out in the country. With Wisconsin schools shut down, farmers here had lost a valuable distribution outlet. Milk and cheese were a vital part of state school nutrition programs. Restaurants also closed, causing the cheese market to dry up. And shifting butter production from tiny packets for restaurants to large blocks for grocery stores couldn’t happen overnight.
With distribution channels decimated, local farmers were forced to dump most of their milk. “Milk is being disposed of because of a massive and sudden loss of markets — more than half the nation’s restaurants are closed, sales of cheese are down 70 percent and some 44 percent of the nation’s cheese is sold through food service channels,” Dairy Farmers of Wisconsin announced. Burnett Dairy, a vertically integrated cooperative, came to the rescue: “The Burnett Dairy Cooperative and our member farmers recognized an opportunity to make a difference during an extremely challenging time for our country and the dairy industry,” said Dan Dowling, CEO and president. “Farmers have always been the backbone of the national food supply, so we felt a responsibility to marshal our resources — and a little ingenuity — to fight hunger in our communities….” Cooperating farmers donated milk, Burnett Dairy made it into cheese, and Chell Trucking of Siren, Wisconsin donated refrigerated trucks to distribute cheese to food pantries and other nonprofit organizations supplying free meals—including the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul metro area.
Burnett Dairy was on our way back to Northern Bliss—that is, if we took the Hwy 70 route from Grantsburg. From the highway, we couldn’t miss the humongous dairy with its sign supporting Wisconsin farmers. As we entered the retail section, we couldn’t believe our eyes! The store is designed with an array of tempting eye-candy islands. It has separate sections for cheese, deli meats, souvenirs, and snacks. In one corner, customers were lined up for scoops of every flavor of ice cream imaginable. Grouped around the perimeter were coolers full of milk, cream, cheese, sausage and pizzas topped with mozzarella, Gouda or cheddar gruyere. The store was packed with families—a destination in its own right. The goodies are also available online. Go to the SHOP NOW section on their website to have cheeses, snacks, puddings and gifts delivered right to your doorstep. We tried the potato pork sausage: excellent!
Upon returning home, I had the urge to water, but I refused to give in. It WILL rain, I told myself. Sunday, I woke to the sound of a light, gentle rain—perfect for settling all that dry dirt. And later, the rain came down in torrents—a real soaker. Yay! A multitude of prayers were answered. The cold front brought a windy Monday but as I write this, the weather is perfect. The drought isn’t over, but this is a great first step!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
In the United States, a big vaccine-fueled domestic travel surge is already underway. This summer season will be crowded, and ticket prices are already closing in on the expensive summer of 2019. Internationally, though, the recovery hasn’t taken off yet.
U.S. Travel—Planes. Airport screenings are up 715% from the first half of 2020, which isn’t surprising, due to Covid-19. But they are only 35% down from the 2019 rate. Traffic is rapidly recovering, especially to destinations in the South, the Rocky Mountain States, and Hawaii. One year ago, 56% of the planes at the four largest carriers—American, United, Delta and Southwest—were in storage. As of mid-May, only 21% of those planes were in storage. Some areas are already increasing airline seats: Key West, Florida will have a 141% increase above 2019 levels in June, Sarasota, Florida will be up 136%, Bozeman, Montana, 78%, and Fort Meyers, Florida, up 62%. The Salt Lake City and Orlando hubs are scheduling more seats. Guess which U.S. city will have the biggest loss in seats in June: down 51%? San Francisco. Apparently, this city is no longer a popular tourist destination!
Photo Credit: Bibhash Banerjee from Pexels
U.S. Travel—Hotels. Occupancy rates remain below 2020 levels and way below 2019. During the week of May 2-8, only 56.7% of rooms were occupied. More hotels are reopening anyway; for example, 284,000 additional rooms were available in the first week of May.
International Travel: The European Union took a big step to reopen their borders for fully- vaccinated travelers on May 19. Ambassadors from the 27 EU members agreed to these conditions: Final shots must be taken two weeks before travel from providers approved by WHO or the EU’s medicines regulator. Vaccines from Pfizer, Moderna, and J&J are all allowed. (The U.S., they say, will soon be added to the “safe” list.) The U.K. standards are different: it has the world divided into red, amber, and green countries. The U.S. is on the amber list: Visitors must test negatively for Covid-19 no more than 72 hours before departing and twice, on the second and eight days after arrival to the U.K. A ten-day quarantine is still required, though after five days you can take an additional Covid test to get out early.
It’s complicated. European countries not part of the EU─such as Switzerland, Norway and Liechtenstein─are all expected to follow the EU commission’s recommendations. Iceland already opened to vaccinated tourists in March. If you’re interested in going there this summer, refer to my blogs about my visit there in 2018: Iceland, a Country Rich in Culture and Legend,Iceland’s Ring Road, and Discovering Iceland’s Southeast Coast.
Sculpture in morning light at Borgarnes, Iceland.
Some countries may still be under curfew. Italy, for example, recently reduced a longstanding nationwide curfew to begin at 11p.m. instead of an hour earlier. By June 7, that curfew will be extended until midnight and then erased entirely by June 21. France has a nationwide curfew that begins at 9 p.m. Some areas of Germany, Spain, and Greece still have curfews as of this date. Shops, museums, and restaurants in most countries are open, but some restrictions still apply. For European travelers coming to the U.S., it’s also complicated. In mid-June, my sister-in-law is flying to MPS from Munich, Germany via Iceland Air. She’s fully vaccinated, but will need a Covid-19 test 3 days before leaving. The U.S. required a letter from Gunter, her brother, explaining why she needed to come, as well as a copy of his passport!
Family Reunions. The overwhelming cause of travel booked so far this summer is for family visits or reunions. These represent 32% of group travel plans. Weddings represented another 15%. Some top group vacation destinations are seeing a doubling of reservations for June, July and August compared to 2019. If families had been seeing each other every other month, as in other years, their trip wouldn’t be considered a “reunion.” Now, families are making up for lost time.
Cruises. Cruise enthusiasts have endured a year of suspended cruises in North America and much of the world. Since the “no sail” order was lifted, cruise lines are following the CDC guidelines for conditional sailing and implementing the changes required. Cruise lines have been releasing their new itineraries. There are strong bookings for Alaska and Europe, in addition to Caribbean cruises, which are always popular. You may want to book now for the next year or two—especially if you have a future cruise credit. Balcony cabins are more popular than ever. Note that cruise fares can usually be adjusted right up until the final payment date and cruise lines are offering flexible cancellation policies.
Photo Credit: Pixabay
Traveling with Disabilities. Whether you have a temporary disability, such as recovering from a recent surgery, or a permanent disability, there are travel options for you. Wheel the World has more than 40 travel destinations and tour packages in North America, Mexico, Central and South America, Europe, Africa and Asia. Travegali.com is an online platform that specializes in accessible tourism. See The Travel Channel for tips for traveling with disabilities.
My husband and I attended my brother’s 70th Birthday Event at Lake Conroe, TX while he was recovering from knee surgery. I was also using a cane because of a femur fracture that was still healing. We planned on using the courtesy carts to manage the long distances to the gate. But “due to Covid” the volunteer services were no longer active. The airport offered wheelchair service instead. We also used complimentary wheelchair services on our return trip and again, during our trip to our summer home in Wisconsin, where we are now. Don’t let disabilities get you down!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
Taking photos of people while traveling is not as difficult as you might think. If just the thought of walking up to strangers and taking their pictures causes you to break out into a cold sweat, this blog is for you. I encourage you to focus on the reward. How better to demonstrate to friends and family the charm of far-flung places than to show them the faces of the people who live there? Too many scenics without the faces of people (and animals) will bore your audience after a while.
Which of these photos below will leave a lasting impression of Yemen?
Row of Tower Houses in Sana’a, Yemen
Sana’a vendor chewing qat, yes it IS spelled with a Q and no U.
Sana’a resident in full traditional dress, page 278 The Long Way Back.
Which of these photos of Indonesia will intrigue the viewer the most?
Rinca Island, Indonesia
Two-masted Indonesian sailboats called pinisi. page 90 The Long Way Back.
“Petal Girl,” Riung, Indonesia, page 98 The Long Way Back.
Here’s how to find interesting faces and characters. To convey a sense of place, you want to give the vicarious experience of being there. Now that you’ve moved from scenics to people, how do you achieve that? First, you need to go where locals congregate, such as the market, a dance or theater performance, or any park or museum that’s open to the public.
Chinese exercise in a Beijing Park.
Performers on Yangtze River Cruise, China
Tongan dancer who preformed at the dedication of a new school in Tonga, page 136, Sailing the South Pacific.
Next, you need to break the People Barrier.To get over your fear and that of your subject, adopt a positive, cheery attitude. Relax! Approach your subject with a smile and make him or her comfortable with small talk before you ask permission to take a photo. Set the scene by taking photos of your subject in the wider setting to convey a sense of place. Then when your ready for the close-ups you want, either come in close or use a telephoto lens. I shot the photos below at a 100mm telephoto range with a Canon EOS digital camera. Some iPhones have an excellent Portrait setting, but that requires you to come in close. Eventually, you’ll develop a sixth sense about how much Up Close and Personal a subject can tolerate.
Stilt Fisherman, Sri Lanka, page 227 The Long Way Back.
Guide in her ’80s, Adams Peak, Sri Lanka, page 249, The Long Way Back.
Mohammed, our go-to man in Eritrea, page 292, The Long Way Back
Keep your eyes wide open to find opportunities. While taking a river walk in a Chinese village, I stumbled upon a father taking birthday photos of his daughter. I stood my distance and photographed him taking the photos. Since I didn’t speak Mandarin, I signaled that I wanted to come closer by waving, smiling, and motioning with my camera. He smiled and waved me in—apparently flattered that I wanted to take a photo of his pretty daughter!
Birthday Girl poses for me.
Another pose by the Chinese girl.
Avoid “wooden” group portraits. Antonio,an entrepreneurial fisherman, sold us fish for lunch while our yacht Pacific Bliss was anchored near the island of Mamitupu, San Blas Islands. Later, he came back to display the molas his wife had made, and we purchased a few. He then invited us to a Coming of Age Ceremony for his niece. When he saw me taking photos of the event, he asked whether I would take a photo of his family. “Of course,” I agreed, and added, “I’ll print them overnight and give you a set.” After the Ceremony he led me to his hut. The family posed, serious and still as statues. But they loosened up when I joked around with them. Eventually, I obtained one of my best portraits ever—of his daughter, granddaughter, and puppy:
Fisherman Antonio’s Family
Mother, child and puppy, Mamitupu, San Blas. “Wooden” family portrait vs. proud mother with baby and puppy. Maiden Voyage, pages 126 and 130.
If you’re photographing a group of children, don’t line them up in rows. Just let them enjoy themselves; keep snapping while they do their thing. If props are nearby, like a picnic table or grassy knoll, group them around, some sitting and others standing.
Boys, San Blas Archipelago.
Marquesan Cutie, Tahuata, page 41, Sailing the South Pacific.
Palmerston Boys.
Animals have faces too. When taking animal photos, do include the human element whenever you can.During an elephant show in Phuket, Thailand, my sister Loretta bravely volunteered to be “tickled” by an elephant. That became one of her favorite vacation photos. During a trip sponsored by Peregrine Adventures, I visited an animal orphanage in the interior of Thailand run by monks. They rescued baby tigers whose mothers had been killed. I asked our guide to allow me to have my photo taken with one of them. Often, such shows will allow tourists to take photos that include the trainers. That adds interest.
Tickled by an elephant, page 204, The Long Way Back.
Posing with a tiger, page 438, The Long Way Back
Independent Travel and Walking a Village are the best ways to obtain photographs of locals. It was easy to take photos of locals during our sailing circumnavigation because Gunter and I could easily mix with the locals. That’s more difficult when you’re traveling with a group, and nearly impossible when traveling via cruise ship. We chose the independent travel option for many of our trips. You can customize your trip by looking at the agency’s standard itinerary, then skip some destinations and stay an extra day at others. That allows you time to assimilate to the culture of each stop, go off on your own on the “free days,” and write or type up your notes before moving on. Independent travel agencies usually offer a car-with-driver or a car-driver-guide combination. Often, when approaching a small village, we ask the driver to stop and let us off so that we can walk the village on our own, then join the car at the other end. I’ve written about this approach in my photo blogs: Walking a Village…Uzbekistan, Walking a Village in Myanmar and Walking a Village in India.
How to make your own FACES slide show. When you’re traveling, you’ll find yourself gravitating toward landscapes and close-ups. Go ahead, but don’t forget to take photos of people for an additional sense of place. When you’re home and you’ve downloaded your photos, select the ones with people and decide which ones can be assembled into a slide show. When entering each new country during our circumnavigation, Gunter and I went to music stores to find CDs—preferably by local artists—to use as a soundtrack for our slide shows.
Here’s a link to a slide show I named FACES OF CHINA. It’s more than a selection of portraits. I’ve alternated close-ups and posed group photos with action and movement to (hopefully) keep the viewer interested. I’ve also interposed a few sculptures, and even pandas, ending with portraits of Chairman Mao at Heavenly Palace in Beijing.
I wish you the best of luck, taking your own photos from around the world. Feel free to ask me any questions. I’d love to help you if I can!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
Do memories of a place you’ve visited come back to you with a yearning, an ache, that pulls you back? You just may decide you’d love to re-visit that location that tugged at your heartstrings.
Why? At first, landscapes come to mind. You have visions of sweeping vistas, gurgling brooks, snow-capped peaks. But then your mind focuses in and you realize that it is the friendliness of the locals that make you want to return.
During our world circumnavigation, Gunter and I came across powerful places and friendly people who pulled us in and caused us to fall in love.
Two local women walk along the shores of Waterfall Bay collecting shellfish. Sailing the South Pacific, page 254.
The Propeller Thank You Party in Vanuatu. One place that stole our hearts was Vanuatu (formerly New Hebrides), an archipelago of 80 Melanesian islands. Gunter and I had recently attended week-long festivities honoring the installation of a new chief at Waterfall Bay, in Vanua Lava, one of the Northern Banks islands. We left fond memories those villagers behind and anchored in Vureas Bay on our way back to Luganville. As soon as we were settled, rowers came to welcome us. We recognized the men from the festival and remembered that they had to leave early because of a faulty prop. Gunter had looked at it there and tried to fix it, as had other cruisers.
“How is the prop?” Gunter asked.
“Still broken. We cannot trust it to go out to fish,” our friend Graham replied.
We’re concerned. A setback like this could be disastrous for the village.
Gunter offered them our dinghy’s spare prop. The villagers were surprised to see that it was shiny, black, and brand new.
“Such a good prop, just for us?”
“We will not need it. Soon we will leave from Luganville, sail past New Caledonia and on to Australia. We will leave our yacht there during the cyclone season,” Gunter explained.
Grateful for the prop, the locals invited us to a thank you party.
From Sailing the South Pacific:
When we arrive, we’re amazed at the setting. A fish line has been strung between two lines and a post. Draped over that line is an abundance of tropical flowers and long plant leaves. Inside this boundary lies a western-style, rooster-print tablecloth covered with many mats and containers, all bursting with food: manioc with nuts, yam laplap-and-coconut, baked papaya, chicken with vegetable greens, and prawns.
“Sit,” an auntie commands us. She is a large, plump woman, wearing a flowered muumuu housedress. We settle onto the grass. About a dozen villagers gather around, but they all remain standing. I motion for them to sit on the grass, too. They shake their heads no.None of the locals—including the children—will take their own food until we begin to eat.
I say grace and then they pass the food to Gunter and me. We receive glass dishes and spoons. “Sorry, we don’t have forks,” our host apologizes. The village nurse, another guest, is offered food next, followed by a couple of men. Our host and hostess and the ladies who prepared the food all stand to the side, smiling. They say they will eat later. After we’ve eaten, the men tell us how much they appreciate the new prop. The nurse makes a speech telling us how much she and the village appreciated the bag of prescription glasses and sunglasses we had given them during the festival.Then she hands us a huge hand-woven basket filled with six eggs, one coconut, two pumpkins, and a huge green cabbage. “For your return voyage. Thank you from all of us.”
I’ll never forget this precious moment!
Tomorrow we’ll face the elements and whatever else is in store for us. But tonight, I glow in the happiness and joy that flows from this wonderful group of islanders.
We talk with them about our goal of sailing around the world. Graham asks, “Why would you want to do this?”
“To see how different people live around the world. And to experience happy moments like this one you are giving to us today.” Gunter says.
They smile and nod in understanding.”
I may never return to the Northern Banks Islands of Vanuatu. These islands are accessible only by boat. But the locals we met there will always hold a special place in my heart.
Gunter enters a hut in Vanuatu.
Welcome Week in Bundaberg, Australia. Another one of these powerful places was Bundaberg, a small town on Australia’s northeast coast. We had entered the Port2Port Rally from Vanuatu to Australia. Greg and Pat Whitbourne, Aussies we had met in Vanuatu, shepherded us into their country.
From Sailing the South Pacific:
The next day, when I come on watch at 0300, I can see the lights of Bundaberg glimmering on the horizon, as if the town is expecting us.
Australia, the long-awaited Land of Oz!
I make a pot of coffee. Then I sit at the helm taking it all in. A shooting star streaks across the sky. Surprisingly, a white tern appears from nowhere; it circles the bows and then lands on the pulpit seat for the ride on in. I view both events as a sign of good luck. Ahead—to our starboard—the running lights of Rascal Too bounce through the waves. Our new Aussie friends, Greg and Pat, are magnanimously leading us into their country.
Never before have I felt such a sense of elation and destiny upon arriving at a foreign port!”
Lois and Pat wearing their hats for the contest.
Pacific Bliss won the Best Dressed Yacht contest.
Lois on board Pacific Bliss.
That elation continued as the town put on a Welcome Week celebration for the arriving cruisers.
Pat and I entered the Melbourne Cup Hat Day contest, scrounging for items from our respective yachts. The four of us entered the Brain Strain, Passage Story, and lethal Bundy Rum Drink contests. Finally, Gunter and I entered our catamaran, Pacific Bliss, into the Best Dressed Yacht competition, with the theme: We Love You, Aussies! We won.
Why wouldn’t we want to revisit such a friendly town?
La Dolce Vita at Vibo Marina, Italy. Our sojourn in Italy did not get off to a good start. While approaching the Strait of Messina, Pacific Bliss was caught up in drift nets, due to illegal bluefin tuna fishing—a modern-day La Mattanza.Reggio Calabria, a port of entry, was jammed, with no room for yachts-in-transit. We were relegated to a commercial quay to wait while authorities took their time checking us in. Meanwhile, we found that all nearby Italian marinas were fully booked in July, disregarding the 10% international rule for yachts-in-transit. We felt like the Flying Dutchman, destined to travel the seas forever! Finally, we finagled a berth at Tropea for “one night only.” From there, we hired a taxi to drive us down the coast to search for marinas. The Stella Del Sud Marina, owned by an Italian-Canadian couple, was our best bet. The next afternoon, we arrived amid flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder. We approached the breakwater as two men in a dinghy motored toward us. We knew where we’d be berthed so Gunter inched forward. One of the men yelled, “Stop!We didn’t expect a catamaran. You’re too big!”
I visualized the Flying Dutchman scenario again. We’d be sailing another 40 miles to the next harbor in a thunderstorm. And who knows what we’d find there?
Gunter stands behind Angela and her husband, owners of the Stella del Sud Marina. The Long Way Back, page 410.
Angela, the Canadian, came to our rescue. Soon her husband was standing at the end of the dock, gesturing and directing three dock boys, who pushed and pulled on a mess of mooring lines. Eventually, Pacific Bliss was cleverly tied to the end of the pontoon dock with two mooring lines holding the bow in place and two crisscrossed to hold our stern still.There she stayed, straddling the end of the dock. The passerelle was set up for us to exit from the starboard swim steps. We never saw anything like that, but it worked! We had settled into a sleepy, laid-back Calabrian town. What a relief!
In my third book, The Long Way Back, I wrote about how we fell in love with this place and its people:
We are settling into the sweet life, la dolce vita, in Italy. This little town is growing on us. Vibo Marina is somewhat of a utilitarian place: the buildings aren’t grand—they’re simply old. The streets aren’t paved with ancient cobblestones—they’re simply narrow. The town is stuck in time, situated between two touristy locations: Tropea to the south and Pizzo to the north. And it’s just what we need!
After a week here, we know where to find the best gelaterias (on the beach front road), the best supermarket (Sisas, under the overpass—they even deliver), take-out pizza (a few blocks inland) and high-grade engine oil in four-liter jugs. We’re gaining some familiarity with Italian customs and the language—because we both speak some Spanish, and Italian is similar. But it’s the people who make life here a delight. Angela is becoming a valued friend; her family is gracious and helpful. And the rest of the marina staff treats us wonderfully.”
I hope you’ve fallen in love with some special places as well. I’d love to see your comments.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.” —Charles W. Eliot
We need the therapeutic benefits of reading now more than ever. Books expand our world while calming our brains. They provide an escape even as they bring novelty, excitement, and surprise. They soothe our souls. Yet many readers and writers tell me that they’ve had trouble “getting into” a good book this year.
It’s impossible to focus on a book when your brain is constantly scanning your environment for threats. I understand. That’s what has happened to most of us since last March. Our flight-or-fight response has been activated and it’s difficult to turn it off. And that flood of stress hormones makes it harder to concentrate.
We need that distraction that books bring us! Books broaden our perspective and allow us to emphasize with others. We know that when we get with the flow of reading and become fully immersed, we will feel better.
Here’s what you can do to get into that flow:
Meditate. Meditation helps to clear your mind. If your mind won’t stop wandering, you can download short meditations on your cellphone such as:
Begin with short stories. Not ready for a full-length book? Start small. I download stories to my Kindle or iPad so I can read while waiting in the doctor’s or dentist’s office. If you want to tickle your funny bone, I recommend Shaky CharactersandOdd Bodies by Suad Campbell. After you read short stories for a while, you’ll be in the mood to tackle that book you’ve always wanted to read.
Re-read a classic or something familiar. What were your favorites over the years? If you’ve given those books away, no worries. Just download them again or order them to be delivered direct to your home.
Read whatever gives you peace or piques your interest. Decide on a genre: history, biography, poetry, nonfiction, memoir, or fiction. Then search your area of interest on the website of your favorite on-line bookstore. And, by all means, set aside that book you’re not getting into. Pick another one. You’ll know when you’re in the flow!
Read about a sense of place. Because I’m a travel writer, I prefer a book with a sense of place. If you’re getting antsy to travel and can’t wait for it to resume, reading about different places helps to scratch that itch. My bookshelves are full of travelogues and guidebooks that allow me to travel without moving my feet. Recently though, I’ve selected novels that allow me to burrow into places I could never go:
The Appalachian Mountains of Kentucky and the Rust Belt town of Middleton, Ohio: Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance
The mountain forests of Colorado: The Fox Walker novels, Tracker, PursuitandDuplicity by Indy Quillen
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Remember, books can be your therapy during stressful times. “Books and stories are medicine, plaster casts for broken lives and hearts, slings for weakened spirits.” —Anne Lamott
My series,In Search of Adventure and Moments of Bliss, provides settings for the 62 ports we visited during our circumnavigation. In addition to stories about what happened at each place, Did You Know sidebars provide information about each country. I’d love to take you around the world and show you—through hundreds of full-color photos and maps—where we traveled, what we saw, and hopefully bring you some book therapy as well.
That’s what I used to think when I was living and working in the Midwest. Then, winter meant donning layers upon layers of outer clothing, shoveling snow, starting and warming a cold car, and driving to work in heavy traffic, fearing for my life on icy roads—all work and no play. Even after Gunter and I retired and purchased Northern Bliss, our lake home in Wisconsin, I never dreamed of going there in the winters. It was our daughter-in-law Sabine who missed Christmas snow and suggested that we spend every other Christmas there. We consented because family trumps frigid weather.
Holidays in the Snow
This past holiday season was our third, and best, Holidays-in-the-Snow event. Three of our four children and their families attended. We planned to spend as much time as possible outdoors.
Amazingly, the weather cooperated. It was just cold enough to snow, but warm enough for winter fun, such as sliding, making snowmen, ice fishing, taking walks on the lake, and photographing the geese and trumpeter swans swimming on the open waters of the Apple River.
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Winter fun in Northwest Wisconsin.
Mike, our son-in-law, brought corn to lure deer from the nearby woods over to our yard. At first, they were shy, but as we spread the corn closer to our home, they followed, and by the end of our three-week stay, came right up to our patio where we could watch through the sliding glass door!
Feeding Deer
One deer peers through the window of our house.
For Christmas, I presented Gunter with an edible birdhouse. We placed it on the birdbath near a pine tree. Eventually, winter birds found it and began to eat its sunflower roof and birdseed walls. Our pair of pileated woodpeckers appreciated the suet we hung at the feeder on the lake bank. They weren’t as skittish as they had been last summer.
Curious deer at edible birdhouse.
Pileated woodpecker at lake feeder.
With plenty of helping hands, even work was enjoyable. The men shoveled snow and kept the outdoor furnace stoked. Inside, the women baked cinnamon rolls and candy-cane coffee cakes and prepared scrumptious, steaming-hot meals.
Grandson Brett shovels the driveway.
My son Jeff loads wood into the outdoor furnace that will heat the entire two-story home.
Rime Ice and Hoarfrost.
As if to refute my derogatory comments about past winters, nature put on a spectacular show that frosted our holiday cake! It’s not that often that this happens—fog and snow and hoarfrost all at once. During this special season, however, we were blessed with many days of this winter miracle.
Hoary is an Old-English word that means “getting on in age.” But hoarfrost brought out the poet in me. One day, I awakened to a calm, cold morning and looked out to see the entire world draped with lacy, feathery crystals that glinted in the low morning sun. A magical fairyland! I knew that this ephemeral, enchanting world would disappear as the sun rose high, so I jumped into my SORELs, threw on my Lands’ End parka, and grabbed my iPhone. Outside, hoarfrost trimmed the porch rails in dainty bridal lace. Woolen gowns clothed frozen flower heads, left in place for “winter interest.” Gleaming ice crystals snuggled barren tree branches. As I walked down the snowy driveway, I met a wonderland of pure white, a pearly blanket spread across the landscape. The earth exhaled and hoarfrost crystals formed on her breath. Dancing and sparkling, hoarfrost grabbed the sunlight and threw it about like a thousand diamonds. Hoarfrost turned our tall spruce, heavy with flocking, into delightful Christmas trees with delicate, blinking ornaments. A low fog, softer than breath, had turned our icy footbridge into an enticing path I dared not enter. Out there. Alone with Jack Frost.
I returned to an animated household fueled by caffeine and full of laughter. A few of us crammed into vehicles to see more of this day that Jack Frost had built. We drove past idyllic scenes of farms covered in quilts of down, with only their red barns and pastel houses coming up for air. We passed an old, converted church hiding behind a massive snow-laden evergreen. And we stopped repeatedly to photograph each new scene—many of them monochromatic—in black and white and shades of gray.
Later, my curiosity got the better of me. I heard a TV weatherman use the terms rime ice and hoarfrost and interchangeably, so I wanted to understand both terms. Here’s what I learned: Both produce exquisite ice deposits, but they form in different ways. Rime ice needs super-cold water vapor and wind. Liquid water in the air freezes into crystals on the windward sides of surfaces, such as trees and structures, building up and up in spongy, porous layers. Dramatic ice sculptures are formed from fog banks about 3000-7000-foot elevations under high winds.
Rime ice can be dangerous. Ships can be disabled by freezing ocean spray. Planes flying at hundreds of miles per hour into a super-cooled, moisture-laden cloud can pick up ice that affects their lift.
Hoarfrost is a direct deposition of atmospheric moisture in the form of ice crystals on objects like tree branches, plant stems, wires, and poles without the moisture ever passing through the liquid phase. It typically forms on calm, clear nights and gives objects their fairyland appearance, especially when illuminated by low-angle sunlight. “Hoar” is the frosty coating. Calm air conditions allow the complex, lacy layers to form. Hoarfrost requires a supersaturated column of cold air extending well above the surface of the ground. Moisture in the air condenses around nuclei, e.g., particles of dust. Once that starts, the moisture goes from a gas to a solid with ice crystals building up on everything.
Lois hangs out with Sabine’s dog, Fiona.
Family is everything. That’s our primary reason for our holidays-in-the snow event. This was the year, however, that I finally learned to love winter. Is it “the most wonderful time of the year” as the holiday tune claims? I wouldn’t go that far!In a few months, I’ll be pining for spring and soothing that urge to dig in the dirt by planting my garden.
Read more about Northern Bliss in Lois’s past blogs:
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon.
FESTPAC, the Festival of Pacific Arts and Culture, was first on my Bucket List.
This week’s Sunday paper tells me that there’s a boom in people planning, but not making, travel arrangements. Until Covid clears, people just want to put some joy back into their lives. I’d don’t blame them. As an adventurer with wanderlust in my blood, dreaming of traveling again is like giving a drink of water to a parched soul. So, Gunter and I spent part of the day making out a new bucket list.
Back in 2004, during our world circumnavigation, we attended the Festival of Pacific Arts, the world’s largest celebration of indigenous Pacific Islanders. This festival is hosted every four years by a different Pacific Island nation. At that time, we’d vowed to attend another one when the country and timing suited us. This could be the year! The 2020 festival was cancelled due to Covid and rescheduled for June 18-27, 2021 in Honolulu, Hawaii. The last such event, held in Guam in 2016, drew 90,000 visitors. This year’s festival will be made up of 28 nations, 3,000 delegates and could attract 100,000 visitors. I turned to Günter: “Because we have no schedule for this year, this fits perfectly. Shall we plan but not book?”
That turned out to be the applicable question. The very next day, Günter went back to the website to check on hotel reservations. The 2021 festival is now cancelled! The next one will be in 2024. FESTPAC will remain on my Bucket List but will no longer be Number One.
The following story about our experiences during 2004 FESTPAC is excerpted from The Long Way Back, the third book in my sailing/adventure trilogy:
A Taste of the Pacific Arts Palau Marina Hotel, Koror, Palau
August 1, 2004
Even though Pacific Bliss is now berthed in Australia, I’m not quite ready to put the South Pacific islands behind me. I’d love to be able to sample even more of the culture of these islands before we sail on to Indonesia and ports beyond. So, I talk Günter into treating me to the Festival for my birthday. The Festival occurs every four years and changes venues, like the Olympics, but that’s where the resemblance ends. First, it’s a celebration, not a competition. And second, the way it’s organized is island-style: It flows freely from one event to the other; schedules are treated as guidelines. Attending the Festival will be a grand finale to our South Pacific adventures and provide a taste of those islands we haven’t visited.
We arrive at the Palau Marina Hotel after a day’s layover in Guam following a flight from Cairns, Australia. In the lobby—decorated with bamboo furniture and giant shells—our taxi driver introduces us to the Japanese man who owns the hotel. We bow and talk with him while our driver translates. Smiling Filipina waitresses lead us to our table where we enjoy an arrival dinner of sushi and Asahi (Japanese beer). On leaden legs we climb the steps to our third-floor room and crash. We will have two days to rest up before the action-packed Festival begins.
The next day, we order the “morning set” for breakfast: a semi-American breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs and toast, grilled sausages cut at a slant, and finely shredded coleslaw with dressing. For lunch, we order a bento; yakitori for me and squid for Günter. The side dishes here differ from our old standbys at Ichiban’s in Pacific Beach, San Diego: fish balls, poi-like sticky balls, spinach, seaweed, and other odd delicacies. Emily—one of the trio of Filipinas who works here—fans away flies as we dine on the veranda facing the peaceful harbor ringed by the tantalizing Rock Islands. Our view is a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns, the sea’s sun-sparkles giving way to darkening wavelets as the wind freshens. A warm, tropical shower gently drifts past the veranda toward a perfectly domed, mushroom-shaped island, then encloses a backdrop of rounded hills in an ethereal mist reminiscent of Japanese paintings.
I turn to Günter. “Even if this is the rainy season here, I won’t mind.”
Mind? I will soon take back those words as I become intimate with the July-August weather slightly north of the equator!
As we leave the veranda for a sightseeing walk, a second shower appears. This time it’s the real thing. A million sharp-nosed bullets dive into the sea until it’s a mass of perforations, like a high-tech sound studio. We decide to retreat to our room to take our pensioners’ nap, a habit perfected in Australia.
Later, we don rain jackets and slog along the pitted dead-end street to the Palau Aquarium. Outdoor pools hold sharks, a hawksbill turtle, and a variety of large game fish. The magnificent interior contains the best live displays of marine life along a coral wall that I’ve ever seen.
Afterwards, we walk to nearby Fish & Fins to introduce ourselves. This premier dive-and-tour operation is run by an energetic Israeli couple who sailed their sailing vessel Ocean Hunter to Palau eight years ago, fell in love with the fabulous marine life here, and—like many cruisers we’ve met during our voyages—decided to stay in the place that captured their hearts. They charter out their sailboat for overnight excursions to the Rock Islands, along with Ocean Hunter II, a motor dive boat. We check on snorkeling tours for later in the week.
Remarkably, the Opening Ceremony on July 22 begins without the omnipresent rain. “Alii!” begins Palau’s President Tommy Remengesau, Jr. “Our home is your home; our food is your food; our island is your island; everything that we have, we want to share with you…except our spouses.” I chuckle. “The Pacific Way” has evolved! In a ceremony that reminds me of the Olympics, the delegates of 24 of the 27 participating nations march or dance across the PCC Track and Field, each to their own country’s traditional music. Each delegation presents gifts to the dignitaries of Palau according to the custom of these islands, stakes a box-art gift into the soil, and then performs in front of the grandstand. And what a show it is—absolutely awesome! For cruisers, I’d recommend the Festival over the Olympics anytime.
Günter and I privately declare the delegates from Papua New Guinea Best Dressed, not that they wore a lot of clothes! They sported flamboyant headdresses topping their fierce, tattooed faces with grass skirts and bare chests. (We had the good luck to talk to a few of these delegates briefly before the festivities began and noted their friendly dispositions. Later, Günter observed two of these warrior-dancers holding hands, as is their custom, as they ambled past the craft stalls.)
The Maoris of New Zealand draw gasps from attendees who have never witnessed their indigenous greeting: the warriors march forward—eyes bulging, tongues protruding, and spears thrust—while their women yell threats and twirl balls on the end of bungee-like cords.
The speeches, performances, and gift giving seem to go on forever as Günter and I shift our weight this way and that on the hard stadium seating. Then volunteers hand out box dinners of rice and fish (symbolizing a feast) to all. Yes—one box to every one of the participants: the media, the organizers, the dignitaries, and the attendees in the grandstand—all 8000 of us! Why? Because that is The Pacific Way. Altogether, the opening ceremony lasts five hours—despite a downpour during the last two—and closes with incredible fireworks, courtesy of Taiwan.
The Festival incorporates multiple simultaneous venues and activities—from symposia, movies, and plays to crafts, culinary arts, and natural history tours—forcing us to make difficult choices. We decide to make dancing our priority. Each of the 27 participating islands has entered a dance group into the competition. Taiwan, Japan, and Indonesia, as sponsors, have sent performers as well. The dancing program continues day and night at the ball field, the stadium—and when raining—the gymnasium.
After attending dance venues for days, we narrow our favorites down to half a dozen:
1. Papua New Guinea: for their flamboyant style while displaying fierce demeanors and fabulous headdresses.
2. Solomon Islands: for dancing to the most primitive rhythms while hunched over huge homemade bamboo flutes.
3. The Cook Islands: for the toughest workout: Male dancers sensuously knee-slap to a fast, pulsating drum beat, then twirl their women in perfect sync.
4. Rapa Nui (Easter Island): for the best choreographed routine—sophisticated, yet vigorous—muscled bodies moving to a hot beat.
5. Yap (one of the Federated States of Micronesia): for an astounding Las Vegas style, all-male chorus routine—ending with pelvic thrusts bouncing critically placed feathers.
6. Torres Strait, Australia: to Aborigines for enacting realistic stories from their lives; in one dance simulation of fishing, the performer falls to the floor, catches the bait with his teeth, and follows a fishing line in, writhing all the way across the stage. That performance raises the roof!
The routines of the Hawaiian and French Polynesian dancers, though the choreography was polished, lacked the drama of indigenous dancing.
From pages 28-29, The Long Way Back.
As the festivities continue, we note that music of the Polynesians, Melanesians, and Micronesians reflects a common, linked heritage while Asian Special Performances are clearly different. The songs of the Taiwanese highland tribes, for example, are sophisticated operatic arias with the typical dissonant chords of Asian music. They are 1000 years old!
This ten-day extravaganza has to be the ultimate Pacific tourist opportunity! Imagine mingling with locals from 31 islands while you’re shopping in the stalls, having lunch in Koror, or walking through the college campus to attend a symposium. We get to know and love these islanders as never before. We talk with and photograph dancers before and after their stage performances. Often dancers are having their own photos taken with performers from other troupes; we join right in. By the end of the Festival, I realize that the participants themselves are beginning to “mix it up.”
But it’s not only the participants who are learning from each other. About 7000 people attend the Festival events here each day, including about 3000-4000 Palauans. One local says to me, “This is a tremendous once-in-a-lifetime experience. I am proud to be a Palauan; I have seen my Pacific brothers and sisters, and now I know that there is no shame in being an islander.” (In Pidgin, this enlightened view is called Blong One Talk.)
An integral part of each year’s Festival is the Traditional Navigation and Canoeing Program. At sunrise on opening day, news helicopters hover above as smoke rises from a fire, triton-shell trumpets blare, and war and sailing canoes pass below Palau’s KB Bridge. Represented are war canoes from eight Palauan states and sailing canoes from Palau, Guam, and the Marshall Islands. Missing sailing canoes from Yap and Saipan, still underway, put a damper on opening festivities. They would show up days later. The monsoon season in Palau is not an optimal time of year for promoting the canoe program!
A few days after the official opening ceremonies, the “scheduled” races are held, although not one is even close to the time on the printed schedule. Günter and I take a taxi to the Friendship Bridge near the stated finish line for the kabekl (war canoe) race. We stand on the concrete jetty, cameras in hand, on increasingly wobbly knees. Then we spread our rain jackets on the concrete. And we sit. And sit. After about two hours, an announcer explains the rules for the two heats to be held by the canoes, to be followed by the play-off. Then we sit and wait again. About a half hour later, the announcer states that, due to the delay, there will be no final race. They will hold only the 1000-meter and a 500-meter. We wait even longer.
Nearby, a few ladies dressed in red and white—with towels over their heads to protect them from the sun—are cheering for the local Ngiwal State of Palau. I decide to follow their example. I stand and cheer, then sit and wait…and wait. Another half hour creeps by and finally the race begins. Everyone stands to cheer—this time for real. The ladies frantically wave their towels like flags. The red team wins. In the 500-meter, Koror wins.
All this waiting gives me the opportunity to talk with islanders. One stocky man in a red T-shirt that must be XXL explains how the Festival has spurred the sport of canoeing. “We’ve had races here before, but with motorboats,” he says. “Our boys didn’t know how to race canoes. You should have seen them only a few months ago. They couldn’t even paddle!”
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any sailboats in the harbors except those used for excursions. “Don’t they sail either?” I ask.
“No, ancient Palauans navigated by the stars and all,” he says, “but then they didn’t need to sail to other islands anymore. We have everything we need here. And sadly, the tradition was not handed down.”
Carrying on the island traditions and culture is exactly what the Festival aims to do. Hoping to learn how to navigate by the stars, we attend the Traditional Navigation symposium the next morning. Unfortunately, much of the discussion centers on intellectual property issues—how to prevent the usurping of traditional skills and knowledge by the West—as if we need those skills with the advent of GPS! Then the discussion turns toward how to get funding for the very program that some of the participants don’t want to share. The locals seem oblivious to the contradiction.
The Sailing Canoe Raceis scheduled for 1:00. This time, we take a taxi to where the canoes actually are, thinking that we will cleverly position ourselves at the start rather than at the finish line. By then, we have begun to understand “island time.” So, Günter keeps our cab while I venture toward the group by the canoes, potential racers who are preparing to barbeque their lunch.
“When do you expect the race to begin?”
“At one o’clock,” one of the racers responds.
“But it’s one-thirty now.” I point to my watch.
“I think the race is actually at four o’clock,” another canoeist volunteers.
“No, the program says that is the time for awarding of the prizes. Do you have a program?”
“No.”
“Hold the cab! We’re leaving!” I call to Günter.
Later, we hear that the races did occur that day—at 4:30 p.m. By then, two teams had decided not to race. Guam, Yap, and Palau—although mismatched—managed to paddle to the finish line against the wind and current under the bridge.
From pages 26-27 of The Long Way Back.
Festival activities keep us busy for the next few days. We enjoy hanging around Festival Village where we purchase souvenirs from various countries’ booths and sample their native food. We walk through the thatched-roof Pavilion to view tattooists, carvers, and weavers at work. One project, called MAT, calls for each participant country to weave a 2×2-foot square that will eventually be combined into one majestic Quilt of the Islands, to be displayed at the Palau National Museum. This Museum will also display a carved log with each country’s section, and one large storyboard representative of all carvers’ combined efforts. We view architectural displays and attend poetry readings, instrumentals, and plays. In a clever New Zealand stage play, two actresses recount the history of the Maoris from the first sighting of the white man.
During the final days of the Festival, the rains arrive to stay. A typhoon is moving toward Japan; all of Micronesia is drenched in the resulting weather system. The closing ceremony is moved to the college gymnasium. To make space, the country delegations sit on the wooden floor in the center. Even so, the grandstands are overloaded. Many Palauans are left standing outside holding umbrellas. I sympathize with this tiny country of 20,000 that has valiantly tried its best to be the perfect hosts to 4,000 visitors. But I’m proud of them as well. I’m touched by the warmth of the speeches and by the sincere effort to again feed the crowd in keeping with The Pacific Way.
“In today’s strife-torn world,” concludes Festival Host President Remengesau, “it is uplifting that so many of us have come together to celebrate the value and beauty of our heritage.”
May these Festivals continue to uplift, to teach, to inspire, and to celebrate the heritage of the islands. Attending the 9th Festival of the Pacific Arts was a birthday gift that I will cherish forever.
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Other SailorsTales blogs about the South Pacific are:
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased on Amazon.
During our world circumnavigation, Gunter and I loved Australia and the Aussies so much that we decided to spend another year in The Land Down Under. We stored our catamaran Pacific Bliss on the hard in Mackay, Queensland and took the tilt train south to Sydney. From there, we rented a drive-yourself caravan (camper) to tour inland through the Blue Mountains, Cowra, Canberra, and back to Sydney via the sea route. Although fall was turning to winter throughout the Northern Hemisphere, in Australia we were enjoying the spring-to-summer transition. My favorite holiday flowers for arranging are the red tropicals: ginger, anthurium, and proteas. Imagine my delight seeing fields of such flowers on display at nature preserves!
Field of Proteas
Following are excerpts from my journal:
Touring Australia’s Blue Mountains
September, 2004
Katuomba Falls Caravan Park.Blackheath Caravan Park. Destinations roll off our tongues as the landscape passes by. We experience two days of dreary skies and depressing, intermittent rain, which makes our road trip anti-climactic after the sunny skies and excitement of Sydney. But on the third day, the weather clears and an ethereal, winter-pale sun peeks over the evergreened landscape before it descends below the foothills and treetops. It leaves a soft brush of amber on the clouds. It’s amazing how the van seems cozier, less claustrophobic, when there’s a hint of sun.
Gorgeous, white parrot-like birds with yellow crests flit from tree to tree as we enjoy our sundowners. Ducks waddle toward the van while we throw out tidbits. I take a twilight walk up a hillside and stumble upon one lone rhododendron bush; the rest will bloom next month.November 1 is the beginning of the Rhododendron Festival here in Blackheath.
Called “Australia’s most accessible wilderness,” the heralded Blue Mountains looked like a collection of Sydneysuburbs on a ridge of a cut-out valley—eroded highlands with valleys below. “These are certainly not mountains like our western Rockies,” Gunter grumbled.But as we drove further, he changed his tune. Narrow river gorges wound through the lower mountains. As we rose in elevation, vistas opened to yawning canyons. Mountain streams tumbled over escarpments, falling to thick, tangled vegetation.
Eucalyptus against limestone
Blue Mountains Overlook
Sydneysidersare fortunate to have such a national treasure within a few hours’ drive. A brochure we’d picked up in Sydney stated: “What a better way to uplift the soul than a weekend of World Heritage Wilderness!” This heritage area, made up of eight nature reserves, was established in 2000. It contains 400 animal species, more than one-third of Australia’s bird species, 1,300 plant species, and 4,000 species of moths and butterflies.
For the first twenty-five years of European occupation, the Blue Mountains defied settlers’ quest to expand west of Sydney. Expeditions were turned back by impenetrable undergrowth, wandering gorges, and steep canyon walls. Finally in 1813, three men, Gregory Blaxland, William Wentworth, and William Lawson, broke through after eighteen miserable days.They were rewarded with a view from the top of Mount York never seen by Europeans. Grassy plains stretched as far as their eyes could see—plains, they believed, that could support a continent of millions.During the next two years, the Great Western Highway was cut through these mountains and western migration began.
Morning brings a bright sun and clear blue skies. We are eager to begin the trip to the top of the pass. From Blackheath, we’ll backtrack to Medlow Bath, then double back and proceed on to Bell, drive along the north canyon rim to Mount Tomah, then double back again to Lithgow, finally proceeding on to our reserved cabin near Lake Lyell.It is a fine, crisp day for touring but the drive is long and tortuous. The two-lane route—the same one followed by those early explorers—is narrow with tight turns and sheer drops. In most places, the ridge is too narrow for turnouts, look-outs, and rest stops.
Gunter is an experienced mountain driver; even so, this route requires intense focus.
At Medlow Bath, we stop to see the Grand Hotel, a famous meeting place for world dignitaries. Melba, a famous Australianopera star, sung here. Other celebrities have taken advantage of the hotel’s hydra baths for more than a century. While we stroll through the old hotel, we note that the place still has a regal flair: a smart-suited and suitably aloof male receptionist hands us a typed information sheet about the hotel. We enjoy a cappuccino on the deck with a wonderful mountain view and then we’re off to the next stop: Govett’s Leap.
We joke about the sign saying 15-Minute Walk to Bridal Falls.“It doesn’t say how long the return is!” I warn. “But let’s go anyway. We need a little pensioner’s walk.”
We’re back at the parking area in one and quarter hours. We did take our time, though, past the stepping blocks over the river to the other side. The morning sun brightened the deep, verdant valley. The river was wonderful, cascading over rocks banked with yellow blooming acacia, rust-colored banksias (bottlebrush), and delicate yellow, white, and blue mountain flowers. Bridal Veil Falls, a tantalizing stream of water and fine mist overhanging a rock garden of moss and ferns, was well worth it. By the time we returned, huffing and puffing up all those steps, lazy sheep-clouds had drifted in. They stayed with us for the remainder of the day, providing cooling interludes.
Gunter on the path to Bridal Falls
Bottle Brush Plant
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Our next stop is Evans Point. We amble over to a must-see lookout over pulpit rock. Afterwards, Gunter re-parks the van so the view from the rear window has the valley view. This is when driving a campervan pays off! We enjoy our smoko of chicken breast, dressing, and whole wheat bread.
Our nextstop is Mount Victoria. Gunter buys a few used paperbacks from a quaint, old shop attached to a house that has been in the owner’s family since the early 1900s.Across the street stands the historic Victoria and Albert Guesthouse and Restaurant, where dining on the wooden, green-railed veranda has been a tradition for over 100 years. The street is lined with blooming pink and white ornamental and fruit trees. What a wonderful time of year to tour the Blue Mountains!
From the GWH (Great Western Highway) the Darling Causeway links Mount Victoria to Bells Road, which takes us toward Mount Tomah. We continue on to the Mount Tomah Botanical Gardens (called Australia’s Coolest Botanic Gardens) developed by Sydney’s Royal Botanic Garden. Here, at 1000 meters above sea level, many plants not suited to Sydney’s climate can be grown successfully.
I’ve fallen in love with these gardens—and especially with the collection of the largest proteas I’ve ever seen. Their wide-open pink blooms remind me of sunflowers backlit against a glowing sunset. The pond’s rock garden, with shimmering lime-colored reeds complementing its gray rocks, is the perfect setting for contemplation and meditation. The blue haze from the mountains turns this place into a heavenly delight.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased for the holidays on Amazon.
Thanksgiving in 2020. This year, our uniquely American Thanksgiving will be like none other. No one will be sorry to bid 2020 farewell, with its devastating wildfires, hurricanes, floods, global pandemic, and turbulent presidential election. Travel plans have been abandoned; communal gatherings with friends and family cancelled; and we mourn those who are no longer with us.
Gratitude. Yet we must continue to be grateful for what we do have because being thankful is a state of mind more nourishing than any feast. Gratitude soothes our souls. Little did I know in March of 2019 what would lie ahead. This is what I wrote then: “I’m also grateful for the opportunity to travel by land and sea.I would not trade our eight years spent circumnavigating the world for any object money can buy. Travel has taught me to invest in money, not stuff. It has taught me to collect memories, and to press them—like flowers between pages of a book—within the folds of my heart. I’ve taken thousands of pictures, and when I look at them, I realize that I’ve collected the sights, sounds and smells of nature—and the laughter, joy, and sorrow of people around the world.” During this pandemic, collecting memories have become even more important.
Twice during our world circumnavigation, we celebrated Thanksgiving abroad. The first time was at sea during our Maiden Voyage. We had experienced heavy seas during our Gibraltar-to-Canaries passage, and I used our pressure cooker to make a meal from a frozen chicken and what was left of our tired vegetables. I wrote a blog about that experience called Thanksgiving Then and Now. During the sixth of our eight years onboard our catamaran, Pacific Bliss was berthed at Yacht Haven Marina in Thailand where we prepared to cross the Indian Ocean. I yearned for a traditional American Thanksgiving. We finally found one at the Phuket Marriott Hotel. Here’s an excerpt from The Long Way Back:
An American Thanksgiving in Phuket
November 24, 2006
“Pacific Bliss is a vessel of splendor and tranquility…with a beautiful navigator steering us to exotic ports,” Günter says poetically, pecking my cheek. “I like it here.”
I love it when he says such things, but I have cabin fever. I’ve been supervising the teak varnishing and oiling project for a week now, never even leaving the marina, and I’m dying to get off this boat. Besides—it’s Thanksgiving! We don’t know if Phuket restaurants offer a celebratory Thanksgiving dinner, but Günter thinks the Marriott, an American-owned hotel chain, is our best chance for getting one. So, towards evening, I change into a special sundress, and I even curl and spray my hair. But as we walk down the long “A” Dock to our rental car, it begins to rain. And by the time we’re a few miles away from the marina, trying to find the Marriott Hotel, the storm hits with a fury—thunder, lightning and a driving, sideways deluge.
“I can’t see a thing through the windshield. I’d rather be back on the boat,” Günter complains.
I’m so disappointed I could cry. “Let’s just pull over and wait it out,” I plead.
“Could take an hour,” Günter grumbles, but he complies.
Fortunately, before long, the rain eases. Then we drive through pooling waters on a long, narrow, unlit road that skirts the airport. A sign reads: “Temporarily No Access,” but we slosh through anyway. When we finally exit, we discover we’ve gone in a circle, and we’re back near the entrance to Yacht Haven!
“Let’s try this direction,” Günter says, turning onto the main road and heading back toward the marina. Then, a mere seven minutes after passing the marina, we come to the Marriott Hotel, and the rain stops magically, as quickly as it had begun. I can’t believe it. There it is before me—Civilization! A wide, imposing entrance beckons, with valet parking, an infinity pool that stretches all the way to the Andaman Sea, intricate wood statues and carvings, and rich, Thai décor. I can’t wait to get inside and, once there, we stroll past bubbling fountains with overlays of gold and into one of the hotel’s three restaurants.
The gorgeous tropical grounds at Marriott on Andaman Sea.
Günter spots a “Thanksgiving Buffet” sign. He’s drawn by an enticing aroma wafting from a huge wok where a slim Thai woman sautés a scintillating, butter-and-cinnamon mixture.
“I’m suddenly very hungry,” Günter says.
“Me, too.”
“Do you have reservations?” asks a beautifully gowned Thai hostess with a concerned smile.
“No,” I answer, with a concerned frown.
“We are all booked, but I will try to find you something.”
My heart sinks.
She hands us over to a waitress with shoulder-length ebony hair, who flashes a huge Thai smile and leads us directly to a poolside table for two, which overlooks those fabulous fountains of gold. The table has a RESERVED sign with the name of the guests neatly printed in black. “These people didn’t come,” she explains, whisking away the folded cardboard.
Gold fountains grace the Hotel Marriott.
A bus boy promptly places a crisp, white napkin on my lap. “Would you like the wine buffet, or should I send over the wine steward?” he asks in perfect English.
“Send the steward.” This service is more like it. We have arrived!
The buffet is exotic: a mix of American, International and Eastern dishes; twenty different salads; a fresh oyster bar; mussels, clams, and sushi; butternut squash soup made with maple syrup; corn bread; twice-baked potatoes; au gratin potatoes; beans with almonds; okra with tomatoes—and two, huge, carved turkeys. As for the desserts—well, they’re to die for: pecan pie; sweet potato pie; “American” apple pie; mousse; hot brownies with fudge sauce; and an ice cream bar where one can order a real banana split and pass out from pleasure! After eating my fill, I settle for one scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of two small wedges of apple and sweet potato pie and, somehow, manage to find a place for them in my distended stomach.
The Thanksgiving buffet includes a fresh seafood bar.
We sit at that intimate table for two hours and then return blissfully full to PacificBliss. Tomorrow, we’ll fast!We’ll live off our memories of a unique and extremely satisfying Thanksgiving and add this to our ever-growing treasury of sailing experiences in foreign lands.
Lois and Gunter in Phuket, Thailand.
Yacht Haven Marina, Phuket.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased for the holidays on Amazon.
“Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world. The forces change, yet the essence remains the same.”—Rumi
We all recognize the survival instinct in the animal kingdom. This year, I discovered that the will to live is just as strong in trees. On July 19th 2019, Northern Bliss, our lake home in Wisconsin, was struck by an F2 tornado. We lost 21 trees on our acre of land and hired a tree service to clean up the mess.
One of the most painful moments during the week that followed the tornadoes of 2019 was making the decision to cut down our wise old oak. She stood beside our sidewalk, proud and tall, flanked by two other oaks. Her limbs held multiple feeders: a corn cob holder for squirrels, a small feeder for chickadees and goldfinch, and another for hummingbirds. The tree service was nearing the end of cutting down a dozen or so storm-damaged trees. One worker pointed to the wise old oak. “No, not that one too!” I cried. From my vantage point on the sidewalk, she appeared to be okay, but on the other side, her trunk had twisted so much that one could see right through. “Another storm—less powerful than a tornado—could take ‘er down. He pointed again: “She’d fall against your roof there.” My heart sank; objections would be futile.“How far down?” the worker asked, chainsaw in hand. “We could cut ‘er right below the twist.”
I consented. The canopy on that tree was so high that it took a crane to bring workers to the top. It was so wide that they were forced to chop it down branch by branch so that it would not disturb the surrounding buildings and gardens.
Chainsaws buzzed across White Ash Lake for the remainder of that Wisconsin summer and on into fall. No one talked further about the fate of Wise Old Oak—a dying stump three feet in diameter and thrice my height. During the spring of 2020, the tree service returned with their cranes to yank out the remaining root balls along the lakeshore.After shoring up the bank, I focused on planting a row of young river birch there.
It took most of the summer to get Northern Bliss back in shape, but during the dog days of August, Gunter and I finally got around to aesthetics: what should we mount on top of that massive stump? A life-size eagle would be too puny. Any mammal would have to be huge enough to honor Wise Old Oak. An animal native to Wisconsin? Aha! How about a carving of White Ash Bear, the one who frequents feeders and garbage cans all along White Ash Lane?
Wise Old Oak must have welcomed all the attention because guess what? She decided to grow! She wasn’t dead after all.
The oak stump decides to grow.
How can a stump live? I went inside to search for our copy of tree-whisperer Peter Wohlleben’s The Hidden Life of Trees. I re-read the sections that might apply to Wise Old Oak. His book convinced me that trees are social, sophisticated, and even intelligent. They cooperate with each other and maintain relationships by sending out chemical, hormonal, and electrical signals. They communicate underground but also send phenomes and other scent signals through the air.
But Wise Old Oak was now a stump. She could not communicate through the air anymore because she had no branches or leaves. I guessed that she could communicate like most trees do: through networks of symbiotic fungi—a wood wide web—to share nutrients, carbon and other information. But doesn’t a tree need leaves to sustain itself? Wise Old Oak had no leaves for almost a year.
During photosynthesis, the experts say, plants open pores on their leaves to allow carbon dioxide to enter. Open pores also allow water the plant has not used to be released into the atmosphere. This process, called transpiration, draws water up from the roots so the plant doesn’t wilt. But a leafless stump needs another way to circulate water. During a study conducted in New Zealand, researchers reported that kauri stumps lived by sharing water with neighboring trees. They were connected through an underground plumbing system formed when their roots naturally fused, or grafted, together.
Wise Old Oak had a neighboring oak on either side. But why would a tree support a stump that can’t reproduce or make its own food? Did she knock on the doors of the trees next door and say: “Hey, Oakey, I’m dying. Can I get a little of your carbon?” Not likely. She probably had that underground connection before she became a stump.
It turns out that natural root grafts have been reported in some 150 tree species. Exactly how those roots fuse are buried mysteries. One tree communication expert from Tennessee thinks that trees support stumps to maintain symbiotic relationships with helpful fungi. That makes sense, because I recently read that the coveted king bolete mushroom of Russia (known as Porcini by the Italians) grow in complex symbiotic relationships with the surrounding forest trees. But I’m way off track here—back to the bear.
Mounting the Bear.Wise Old Oak grew a branch straight out of her bark near the top, complete with tiny oak leaves.At first, she looked weird with that small, single branch. But as it grew, the branch turned upward toward the sun and spread wide so that it resembled the back of a chair. We had been imagining a standing bear but decided that the legs of the statue might not be strong enough to hold its weight. Now we envisioned the bear sitting on that stump, embraced by that branch, her feet pointing toward the lake. During a trip to Cornucopia on Lake Superior, we stopped to chat with an expert woodcarver in Shell Lake.He set us straight. “A life-size bear made of wood would be too heavy, quite expensive, and would rot anyway within a few years. You should be able to find one made of resin with a hollow center.” After a few hours of internet searches and calls to customer services, I found what I was looking for: a sitting big black bear.
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When that bear statue arrived this fall, we were flummoxed. We had to open the box by cutting it around the bear, leaving it in place. Even at 60 pounds, it would be difficult to put atop that high stump. Our son-in-law Mike came to the rescue. First, he took Big Bear home to his workshop to build a wooden platform attached to his rump. Second, he added hinges to attach it to the stump. Third, he stood on the roof of his ATV to align with the stump so he could slide the bear onto his new home. This is one bear that won’t be hibernating this winter!
Big Bear takes a ride.
Big Bear awaits mounting.
Standing atop his ATV, Mike mounts the bear statue.
Big Bear with sister Oakeys.
What will happen this spring? Will the branch continue to grow? This one thing I know. Wise Old Oak will find a way to live—somehow.
The Oak Tree
A mighty wind blew night and day
It stole the oak tree’s leaves away
Then snapped its boughs and pulled its bark
Until the oak was tired and stark
But still the oak tree held its ground
While other trees fell all around
The weary wind gave up and spoke.
How can you still be standing Oak?
The oak tree said, I know that you
Can break each branch of mine in two
Carry every leaf away
Shake my limbs, and make me sway
But I have roots stretched in the earth
Growing stronger since my birth
You’ll never touch them, for you see
They are the deepest part of me
Until today, I wasn’t sure
Of just how much I could endure
But now I’ve found, with thanks to you
I’m stronger than I ever knew
–Johnny Ray Ryder Jr.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” —Albert Einstein
Seasonal change. Growing up on a Wisconsin farm, I failed to appreciate the fall season because that meant winter would follow—and I disliked cold weather. My father grumbled about how frigid weather made his arthritis act up: “As soon as I retire, I’m moving south.” His attitude must have rubbed off on me because I decided to do him one better: I would move to gentler climes before I retired!
Here in San Diego, the changing of the seasons is subtle. During October, the summer heat finally subsides; the deciduous trees droop their crinkled leaves onto parched ground; and all of nature sighs and waits for restorative winter rains. The first years after Gunter and I acquired Northern Bliss, our lake home in northern Wisconsin, we treated it as a summer place. We opened it up prior to Memorial Day and closed it after Labor Day.
That was a mistake.
This year, because of Covid, we left San Diego in March when authorities closed the beaches, bays and boardwalks. We returned in late October, just days before the first snow fell on White Ash Lake. There, we experienced all the seasons: the fickleness of April—with tulips bursting forth one day and snow flurries the next—the blush of spring in May, the flowery fullness of June and July, the dog days of August, the transitional month of September, and the magical leaf-peeping month of October.
What Einstein said is true: Everything is a miracle. But spring has been graced with poetry and prose, glorified with the promise of new beginnings. Autumn? Not so much.
Preparation. I had not realized how much nature prepares for fall. Growing up on a farm, I knew all about “harvest time.” My father and my grand-father built wagons and fixed up a rig for silo-filling, and then pulled their “train” to neighboring farms to cut and store their corn silage. My mother and grandmother were busy canning garden produce and storing root crops in the earth cellar. Consumed with our struggle for survival, we did not have time to enjoy nature back then. Nature just was.
This fall, I had the luxury of time to focus on all of nature’s activity on our one acre of land and 200 hundred feet of lakeshore. From the middle of placid White Ash Lake, a pair of loons cried during September nights. One called “Where are you?” The mate wailed, “I’m here.” The call of the loon is an evocative sound you will never forget.
Every day, bald eagles screeched overhead, dominating the scene. Sometimes they spotted a fish and swooped down to the lake’s surface while every other bird scattered. The pair will stay the winter; they need to fatten up. Our resident hummingbirds flew south, so we washed and stored their feeders. Goldfinches followed. Flocks of red-winged blackbirds disappeared from our platform feeder. Only our pair of blue jays, along with ladder-back and pileated woodpeckers, remained at the suet feeder. Below, robins pecked at the ground. Black-hatted and bibbed chickadees continued to flit through treetops searching for insects while calling chick-a-dee-dee- dee. They visited their own “private” feeder often—after the goldfinches disappeared. Undaunted, with their winning personalities, they sat in a pine tree watching me plant bulbs. After Jack Frost paid us a visit, it was time to pull up the annuals and prepare for spring. This year, I added a dash of cayenne pepper to each bulb to foil the squirrels who dug up my bulbs last spring. As I dug and planted, those squirrels dashed about in a frenzy underneath our remaining oaks, burying acorns like prized treasures. Living among nature is never boring; there is always something to observe.
Our favorite experience this autumn was watching the pair of trumpeter swans teaching their three cygnets how to fly. The swans usually hang out in the marsh at the north end of the lake, where their little ones were born. Females typically lay 4-6 eggs and keep them warm for 32-37 days until the eggs hatch, while the cob helps defend the nest from predators and intruders. Unlike most birds, female swans do not sit on their eggs; instead, they use their feet to keep the eggs warm. Their young are born precocial, with downy feathers and eyes almost open. They are ready to swim from their nest within a few days of hatching but remain close to their parents for the first year. When we crept by on our pontoon, we marveled at how fast the three cygnets had grown since spring: fully feathered and one-half the adult size in less than 10 weeks. The swans still had some pale brown feathers. Apparently, they do not develop white plumage until their second winter.
Five swans getting ready to fly.
Trumpeter Swans are the kings of waterfowl. They are North America’s largest and heaviest native waterfowl, stretching to 6 feet and weighing more than 25 pounds—almost twice as large as Tundra Swan. Their first attempt at flying occurs at 90-119 days. Getting airborne requires a lumbering takeoff along a 100-yard runway. One fine September day, Gunter and I heard a commotion on the lake and rushed to see what was happening. The parents were teaching their three children to fly! Quite a racket accompanied the flying lessons. During courtship, trumpeter swans spread their wings, bob, and trumpet together. These flying lessons, however, reminded me of a shouting match! During takeoff, the swans slapped their wings and feet against the surface of the lake. Finally, the family of five took to the air, mother in front, children in the middle, and father bringing up the rear—just like they swim across the lake. We cheered them on, clapping until they were out of sight!
The name for trumpeter swans, cygnus buccinator, comes from the Latin cygnus (swan) and buccinare (to trumpet). (We humans have buccinator muscle in our cheeks; we use it to blow out candles and to blow into trumpets.) These swans produce a variety of sounds, but they are known for their low bugle call. In addition to that call, they use head bobbing to warn the flock of impending danger or in preparation for flight. Listen to the sounds they make here. Both sexes make a flat-toned, single-syllable “hoo” call to locate each other. Younger swans make a more high-pitched sound. But when they want to keep the family together, defend territories, or sound an alarm, the make the characteristic deep trumpeting “oh, OH” call.
A few days before leaving Northern Bliss in mid-October, the trumpeter swan family—all dressed with black bills, feet, and legs—paid us a visit. They arrived in the morning and hung around during the day, heads underwater and tails bobbing in the air, foraging for underwater weeds. At night they left, presumably for their nesting grounds. But each day they returned. We liked to think they were saying goodbye. What a treat! We hope this pair survives the winter. They are truly soulmates, the symbol of true love. Did you know that if one partner dies, the other could die of a broken heart?
Nature’s Miracle: A Sense of Time
I learned so much more about trees after replanting 20 of them after the 2019 tornado.
After one of the young maples dropped its rust-red leaves this fall, I examined a stem to see what was left behind and was I surprised! Little buds were already in place, just waiting for the right time to open. How do they know when to bud? Can trees tell time?
Shedding leaves and growing news ones depends not only on the temperature but how long the days are. The folded leaves, resting peacefully in the buds, are covered with brown scales to prevent them from drying out. When those leaves start to grow in the spring, you can hold them up to the light and see that they are transparent. It probably takes only the tiniest bit of light for the buds to register day length. Tree trunks can register light as well because most species have tiny dormant buds within their bark. Amazing!
Lois with one of the maple trees she planted at Northern Bliss.
As the maple leaves drop, buds for spring have already formed.
Leaf-peeping in Wisconsin.
In-between “closing-the-cabin chores,” Gunter and I took day trips throughout Northwest Wisconsin, on leaf-peep expeditions. Wisconsin back roads are wonderfully maintained; during the summer, most of them gained another coat of smooth blacktop, making autumn road trips a pleasure. I hope you enjoy my photos below:
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
This the last in the series about sailing Fiji with a new crew, Lydia and Helmut. The stories in the series are excerpted from Sailing the South Pacific, Chapter 10.
Pacific Bliss docks in Levuka, Fiji
Levuka—Fiji’s Ancient Capital
June 13, 2003
When I record the passage from Leleuvia in the logbook, I realize what day it is: Friday the thirteenth. No wonder it was one wild ride! Thankfully, the passage was short and we’re here, although Levuka is on a lee shore, the windward side of the island.
This morning at 1100, the sun appeared just in time to make the passage. It continued to shine while we navigated the Moturiki Channel, then disappeared for good as we sailed up the east coast of Ovalau to Levuka. We experienced 20-knot winds all the way, with occasional gusts to 25. The waves were 3 meters high. One of the huge waves splashed into the cockpit, drenching Helmut.
Lydia did not have a good passage. She spent it lying on her stomach on the cockpit bench, queasy and frightened. These were the highest waves she had experienced because, until now, we had been protected by Fiji’s reefs.
After a well-deserved siesta, the four of us dinghy to the wharf. We walk the length of the town until dusk. We pass by groups of women and children in flowery frocks chatting underneath shade trees lining the seaside promenade. From the sidewalk, we can see Pacific Bliss bobbing in the background. It dawns on us that anyone on Main Street can see her. They all know who we are. Tourists are rare in Levuka.
Pacific Bliss, the only boat at the dock
Main Street, Levuka, Fiji
We pass three lively pool halls—that’s where the men and boys hang out. We amble into the expansive lobby and past the charming curved bar of The Royal Hotel, the oldest continuously run hotel in the South Pacific. No one knows when it was built, but records show that this historic building has existed at least since the early 1860s. Reportedly, ship’s masters, plantation owners, and even the notorious blackbirder, Bully Hayes, frequented this hotel.
A plaque provides the history: In the 1830s, Levuka had been a small whaling and beachcomber settlement. It was virtually lawless; ships followed a trail of empty gin bottles through the passage into port, and the town was a haven for escaped convicts, ship jumpers, debtors, and other ne’er-do- wells. The Royal was the finest place in town and the place to stay. The front rooms faced the sea, so that the captains could keep an eye on their anchored vessels, just as we look out at ours now. A crow’s nest still stands atop the hotel’s top floor.
The next day, after a night as bumpy as if we’d been on a miserable passage, we venture to Ovalau Holiday Resort, a 3-kilometer taxi ride over rutty blacktop roads. We skirt around potholes and gulleys washed out by last night’s high tide at full moon. In many areas, the high seas had taken sections of the road out to sea and left debris behind.
This is the same full moon and strong surf that battered Pacific Bliss. No wonder I couldn’t sleep! God has, yet again, sent His guardian angel to watch over us.
The casual resort contains about a half-dozen bures. We have chicken curry with rotis, pepper steak with rice; and a family-size coleslaw salad. The food is wonderful—especially because we don’t have to cook on board with the rain pelting the cabin roof. We talk about what we’ve seen in Levuka so far.
“It’s the land time forgot,” says Günter.
“It’s a wild west tumbleweed town transposed to the Pacific,” says Lydia.
“Don’t forget the fish factory,” adds Helmut. “PATCO employs 1000 of the 1800 people who live here.”
We call for a taxi back. The rain continues into the night.
The new day begins with more rain. We’ve signed up for Epi’s Lovoni Highlands Tour. We decide to take it despite the rain. Back on Main Street, we pile into the canvas-covered back of a truck, and off we go, bumping and slip-sliding along the muddy roads to the village of Lovoni, built on the crater of the extinct volcano at the island’s center. At the outskirts of the village, we pick up a well-known tour guide, Epi Bole.
Lovoni Village, built on the crater of an extinct volcano
Epi leads us past tiny homes made of western-style weatherboard. At the community hut, he tells stories of his ancestors who first settled this land. The villagers of Lovoni, he tells us, are a proud people. They are descendants of the strongest tribe in Fiji, the Cakobau, who were never defeated. In fact, they showed their displeasure with the European settlement of Levuka by burning it down three times. Men from Lovoni demonstrate their superiority by wearing hats in other villages, including in the chiefly village of Ba.
From what Epi tells us, the political climate in Fiji is depressing, and the future of the sugar industry does not look good. Epi has the typical Fijian opinions on land ownership (it should all belong to the Fijians; he is pleased that even the former Crown land is being returned) and on Indians (the Queen should have taken them all back when Fiji became independent).
“Don’t the Fijians need the Indians?” Günter ventures. “We see them working the land owned by the Fijians…we see them running the stores, and even most of the tourist operations. Seems like a symbiotic relationship to me.”
Epi nods slowly. “That’s true,” he admits. “Lots of Indians left Fiji during the 2000 coup—mostly the professionals—doctors, lawyers, businessmen.”
How can they reconcile the two positions? They want the Indians gone, yet they like them to do all the work they don’t want to do. They’re not realists, they’re dreamers. Too much kava in the blood?
“Do the people here want large families?” Lydia asks.
“Yes, they want as many children as possible,” Epi replies.
I know that the Indians, when asked, will respond similarly. Both ethnic groups want to increase their own numbers—this without regard for the quality of their children’s lives, the cost of their education, or the hazards of pregnancy.
We watch a relative of Epi making our lunch on a one-burner hotplate in the corner. Two little boys, two and four, hang on her sulu. Another child is clearly on the way. “Where will she deliver?” Lydia asks.
Epi explains, “She will deliver in Suva. The Levuka hospital lost five babies in last month. No ultrasound here. No Cesarean either.”
I imagine life in Lovoni Village. A one-room, weatherboard house. Hotplate in the corner. Washing dishes outside from water out of a bare pipe. Two beds at the edges of the mat-covered room, one for the children, the other for the parents.
No wonder the educated young people go to Auckland to find work and dream of going to America.
Back in Levuka, I ask to be let out of the truck at the ATM on Main Street. After I nonchalantly insert my credit card and pull out a pile of Fijian $20 bills, I turn to see a group of Fijian teenagers close behind me. Curious, they want to see how this new money dispenser works. Later, I would read the headline in this morning’s paper: “Westpac launches Ovalau’s first ATM.” The article explains how this is “launching the old capital into the electronic banking age.” Obviously, this ATM has quickly become the pride of the town!
On Tuesday the port captain is finally on duty after his Monday holiday. We check in and check out on the same day. We’re ready. It has been a very long weekend under mostly rainy skies. We all walk into town with our bags to provision. Then next morning, we turn Pacific Bliss around in the small wharf, and we’re on our way. We look back to see the entire island of Ovalau shrouded in gloomy, low-lying clouds. We can’t even make out the highlands in the center. No wonder they changed Fiji’s capital!
Helmut, Lydia and Gunter at Levuka, Fiji–Ports Authority
Savusavu, Fiji. The sailing was great during our sail to Vanua Levu, Fiji’s second largest island. Sleepy Savusavu, located on the peninsula that divides Savusavu Bay from the Koro Sea, is Vanua Levu’s second largest town. Because the town is a Port of Entry and a natural cyclone hole, it is a popular gathering spot for cruisers, and we met many of them. It was an ideal place for Helmut and Lydia to end their sail with us.
After docking, the couple packed while Gunter and I found our way to the Planter’s Club. In operation for 46 years, the Planter’s Club was a revelation of how colonial life in Fiji must have been. We entered a compound with a massive, colonial-style building in the back, surrounded by a white porch and picket fence. To the right, we saw a small shed with a sign, “No alcohol allowed.” I wonder whether that is still the case today. Through the open door we could see men drinking kava. To the left, we saw two lawn bowling fields, side by side. Customers with cocktails line the porch, loudly cheering on the teams.
We went inside the building and ordered rums and cokes. Everyone was friendly. All the “planters” we met were Fijian—the best-dressed and most cosmopolitan Fijians we had ever seen! No fraying 1950s-style muumuu dresses for these women: I noticed that one wore a black silk top with black-and-white vertically striped pantaloons. Her hair was straight, cropped short, and swept behind the ears. Smart! Günter couldn’t help but notice how a full-length sarong wrapped another lady’s curvaceous figure! She wore a modern stretch lace top cropped at the waist. The men wore long pants or pressed jeans and bula shirts with short sleeves. There were no T-shirts in sight except among the few white yachties who were there, like us, to observe.
Planters Club, Savusavu, Fiji
We were happy to see such apparently well-to-do Fijians and wanted to learn more about the different world of Savusavu. But we needed to go back to Pacific Bliss to spend our last night with our crew.
Saturday went by in a flash with usual frenzy of final packing and goodbyes. Helmut and Lydia continued their own adventure in Australia before returning home to Germany. As we always do, Günter and I had mixed feelings about crew leaving. “On one hand,” I wrote in my journal, “the enthusiasm, optimism, and energy of youth has left Pacific Bliss. We feel sort of blah and alone now. On the other hand, we enjoy our solitude. Schedule becomes less important, as does wearing clothes on board! And now we will have the opportunity to explore this island and others at our leisure. We will cook only when we’re hungry—much easier on our waistlines.”
Churchgoers line up at the storefront on Main Street. Their church, The Lighthouse, is on the second floor.Weighing options and making decisions. Gunter and I spent a week in Savusavu, weighing options. Advice from cruisers did not impart confidence: “This is a rather tricky triangle,” one cruiser warned. “The seas are angry there…and the wind is often gusty and unpredictable.” Clearly, we were afflicted with the local disease, Polynesian Paralysis. We prayed about whether or not to sail to Fiji’s remote Lau Group. We prayed with Darren, the minister of the Lighthouse Church. “Do you know going west is scriptural?” Darren asked. “The Tabernacle always faced east to west. First the entry, the sacrifice, the washing area, then the holy of holies. Also, all major revivals have proceeded east to west.” Perhaps that says something about God’s will for our voyage, I thought. We decided to leave it all in God’s hands.
From then on, events seemed to take over. Instead of attempting to circumnavigate the island of Viti Levu, Fiji, we decided to take the northern route back. We would reverse-navigate through those northern reefs, proceed to Lautoka, make repairs in Denarau, rest in Musket Cove until we had a weather window, then take off with the trades, going westward with the wind toward Vanuatu. But first, we would leave our yacht safely in Savusavu and travel to other destinations in Fiji. We would take a ferry to Taveuni, Fiji’s Garden Island. And then we would to fly to Suva, Fiji’s modern capital, and eastward to the Lau Group.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
“I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me.” –Walt Whitman
Let’s go. The northwestern Wisconsin summer had succumbed to the dog days of August. Flowers continued to bloom at our happy place, Northern Bliss, but the lakeshore was beginning to look a little drab. Water lilies faded. Ferns and hostas curled and turned brown at the edges, recoiling from the heat. I felt that I might shrivel too if I hung around much longer.
I turned to Gunter, my soulmate, travel companion, and best friend. (He also happens to be my husband.) “The gardening’s all caught up—finally. The housework—well it’ll still be here. It’s not going anyplace. So let’s just take off and go.”
“Where?” Gunter asked, raising one eyebrow to show he was really listening.
“Cornucopia.”
“And what is that? Sounds like something you’d use as a Thanksgiving centerpiece.”
“It’s a town. On Lake Superior. My gardener told me about it.”
“Have you been there before?”
“No. That’s why I want to go. Adventure is out there. The freedom of the open road and all that.”
Gunter leaned forward in his recliner. That was a good sign. I pressed my advantage.
“It’s close to Bayfield, and I have been there. That town is the launching point for the Apostle Islands, where I learned to sail.
“A piece of your history I don’t know about. Hmm. Could be interesting.”
“We could take a car ferry to the largest of the Apostles, called Madeline Island,” I proposed. “I haven’t done that, because our Sailing Club rented boats and departed right from the Bayfield marina.”
Gunter warmed up to the idea, so we blocked three days off our calendar—Monday-Wednesday, August 10-12—for which we had no commitments. Basically, we would need to book a safe place to stay for two nights. Other than that, we’d play it by ear, keeping to the back roads of rural Wisconsin as much as we could, stopping at small towns along the way. Gunter and I embrace the concept of slow travel; we like to make memories instead of rushing to destinations. That way, we can expect the unexpected.
We’d be traveling across Northern Wisconsin from west to east, through counties in which COVID-19 fatalities were in the range of 0-10. (Our county, Polk, has only two fatalities since March so we’ve become accustomed to low numbers; here we have a .005% chance of dying from this disease. We didn’t want to increase our risk. My task was finding a hotel or B&B that had safe procedures in place. Through my internet search, I came across Timber Baron Inn, a secluded forest get-away that serves up to eight guests. Breakfasts would be delivered to the rooms and they maintain strict cleaning policies. Bingo!
We set out to drive the rolling hills and lush green valleys of Wisconsin under a cobalt blue sky and puffy white clouds—a perfect morning with temps in the low seventies. Our SUV was stocked with a well-balanced diet of caffeine, salt, and sugar. We would stop along the way for “real food.”
Spooner. Our first stop was the town of Spooner in Washburn County. At the River Street Family Restaurant we enjoyed a late breakfast of bacon, eggs, and homemade potato fries. There was not a mask in sight! Spooner, with a population of 2700, calls itself the Crossroads of the North, because Hwy 53 and Hwy 63 meet there. But in the past, it was a busy railroad hub. The Wisconsin Great Northern Railroad still operates a historic train line centered in Trego on 26 miles of track, between Spooner and Springbrook. The Railroad Memories Museum, unfortunately, was closed due to COVID. We stopped at a wood-carving museum instead where we garnered advice about putting a bear statue atop our high oak tree stump.
Hayward. From there, we followed the Namekagon River, part of the St. Croix National Scenic Riverway, to Hayward, Wisconsin, 2300 population. The county seat of Sawyer County, Hayward is best known for its chain of fishing lakes. It is home to the National Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame. That facility contains a 143-foot (44 m) musky, the world’s largest fiberglass structure. It is also known for the Lumberjack World Championships, an event I attended one summer with Gunter and his sister Helga.
Ashland. Our next stop was Ashland, Wisconsin, 50 miles away on the shores of Lake Superior. This port city of 8200 is known as the Historic Mural Capital of Wisconsin, where the ghosts of the past appear in living color. Strolling through Ashland’s lively business district was a treat: I loved walking past all the old brick and brownstone buildings—still open for business. Along the way, we stopped to view more than a dozen murals depicting the city’s history.
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Ashland has been a working trade town, ever since French fur traders Radisson and Chouart landed on its shores in 1659 and built a shack that became the first European dwelling in Wisconsin. Two hundred years later, Chequamegon Bay was filled with rafts of cut timber and boats ferrying locally quarried brownstone to the cities in the east. Later, when the Upper Peninsula’s Gogebic Range began producing iron ore, freighters carried it out of Ashland’s docks. Now, none of those docks remain.
Before leaving town, we filled up at a rare gas station—with a beach. Lake Superior stretched out in front of us, for as far as the eye could see. This magnificent lake is the largest of the Great Lakes of North America, the world’s largest freshwater lake by surface area (31,700 square miles), and the third largest by volume. There, we sauntered along the Lake Superior shoreline, stopping occasionally to photograph sun-struck, red-iron boulders and wave-weathered driftwood. Afterward, we sat there for a while, thinking about that busy port of long ago. I turned toward Gunter. “This lake looks calm right now. But did you know that she’s dangerous? She caused about 350 shipwrecks and she’s known for keeping her dead in the deep? I had his attention. “Yes, over 10,000 lives have been lost in these waters.”
Lakeshore, Superior.
Lake Superior boulder.
During a road trip in America, one must down at least one big burger. We fulfilled that goal on the way from Ashland to Bayfield. I picked up my burger so Gunter could take the photo. I tried to take a bite, but it wouldn’t fit into my mouth!
Big Burger.
We drove through the town of Washburn and followed the GPS where it said to turn, three miles south of Bayfield to Ski Hill. I could understand how this road got its name! We drove up and up and up, to the foot of Mt. Ashwabay, and took a left onto a long dirt driveway. There it was—The Timber Baron Inn, our secluded forest getaway. Through the trees, one could see the waves of Lake Superior dancing under the sun.
Ski Hill.
Sunrise view through our window.
Tuesday morning, we could have slept in. We knew that the first departure of the Madeline Island Ferry was not until 9:30 a.m. But at 6:30, a gorgeous sunrise beamed through our sheer curtains, daring us to join the day. Gunter went for coffee in the lobby and by 7:30, our breakfast tray arrived filled with goodies: scrambled eggs, sausage, blueberry scone, and yogurt-with-granola. That could fuel us for the entire day!
Our breakfast platter.
Bayfield and Madeline Island. The town of Bayfield—with a population of 500 and many times that during tourist season—is a popular resort, yachting, and vacation destination. It is also known as a lumber and commercial fishing town. But to me, this town has always been the gateway to the Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, the group of islands where I learned to sail. These islands are a national treasure, with lighthouses, sea caves, and some of the best kayaking in the world. The year 2020 marks fifty years as an official National Lakeshore. You can take a virtual tour here that includes a hike around Stockton’s Julian Bay and Raspberry Lighthouse, one of nine lighthouses within this national park.
Gunter at the wheel while on the car ferry.
View of Bayfield Old Mansions from ferry.
Bayfield Yacht Club as seen from ferry.
The process of taking the car ferry on the 3-mile trip from Bayfield to Madeline Island, the largest of these islands, went like clockwork and soon we were driving through the quaint town of La Pointe. Unfortunately, the museum was closed but as we drove, we came upon a garden store with gnomes and fairy garden figures. These would be our souvenirs of the island. After that stop, it was time to find some nature. The island is home to Big Bay State Park and Town Park. Since we would only be there for the day, we chose the Town Park rather than buying a sticker. We were not disappointed! A conifer-lined walking path took us down over a bridge to an islet with a wonderful sandy beach and fantastic views. We sat on a log and took off our shoes. I dipped in a toe, then my entire foot, and then walked in up to the hem of my shorts. Brrr! It was then I realized that only children were in the water. The parents—those wimps—sat watching them from their portable chaise-lounges on the sandy beach! It was then that I remembered another statistic: The average temperature of Lake Superior is 36ºF, 2ºC.
Madeline Island road sign.
Testing the water.
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Back in Bayfield, we enjoyed smoked lake-trout salad for a late lunch and purchased more smoked lake fish to take home.
Smoked Lake Trout Salad.
“This was nice, but I look forward to Cornucopia,” Gunter said as we left Bayfield.
Washburn. We returned to The Timber Baron for a rest and then drove further south to the town of Washburn (population 2200) for dinner. We stopped for made-to-order pizzas at Dalou’s Bistro & Wood Fired Pizza Oven. Mine was one of the best pizzas I’ve ever had! We preferred the laid-back, hometown feel of Washburn to tourist-filled Bayfield. After our dinner, we discovered a local city park where we watched the sun set over Lake Superior—just the two of us—along with a group of friendly seagulls.
Dalou’s Bistro.
Cornucopia. “I want to finally see Cornucopia!” Gunter said during our second home-cooked breakfast at The Timber Baron. He was practically jumping up and down.
I laughed. “Today’s the day.”
We plugged our destination into the GPS. It was not a straight route. We didn’t mind the scenery, even though the track took us inland from Lake Superior most of the time. But when we hit detours and then a miles-long stretch of road construction, we both grew impatient. A supposedly-27 minute drive stretched to two hours. Finally, the official green sign came into view. “Cornucopia!” we shouted in unison. A mile later, we spied another sign. This one contained a drawing of huge cornucopia right in the center—just like the Thanksgiving centerpiece Gunter had envisioned.
Welcome to Cornucopia sign.
On our way into town, we spied at a rest stop—if you could call it that—with one picnic table under a colorful wooden pergola. We pulled off the road into a sandy parking area large enough for about five cars. We followed a nature path to a deserted sandy beach, complete with two worn Adirondack chairs. We walked the narrow beach for a while, stepping over more weathered logs and gray driftwood. As we returned to our SUV, another vehicle pulled in. A family of five poured out, each carrying his or her own container, promptly pumping the handle an artesian well. “Oh, that’s what this stop is for,” Gunter muttered. “Wish we had a container.”
We drove toward a small marina, with working fishing boats, surrounded by a few cute tourist shops. “Stop!” I demanded. “This must be where the Siskowit River meets Lake Superior. “They’re bound to have some shops there.” The harbor was quaint and picturesque, old fishing boats and quaint shops reflected in clear water. But I was disappointed to see that they were all closed with “Due to COVID” signs. We never met a soul.
Further on, we saw a commercial fish factory. That was open! We purchased smoked whitefish, all cut up and deboned for a salad, and loaded up on ice for our cooler. It felt wonderful, just to talk with someone! Outside, we found unlocked, public restrooms. Hooray!
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Expect the Unexpected. Surmising that was the town, we were more than a little disappointed. But as we drove on, we noted that the business district was off the main drag. There was more! There we found “Wisconsin’s Northern Most Post Office,” Ehlers General Store, a large brick building that could be the town hall, one café, and a few businesses fronting two sides of a wide, paved street.
Little Nikki’s Restaurant.
Ehlers Store.
Siskowit Farmhouse.
Beyond that, the road led to the Siskowit River waterfalls my gardener had raved about. We ventured down a path to the lower falls, but it was dark, with fleeting river views between the foliage, and full of mosquitoes. The best photo op was from the gravel road that crossed the wooden bridge. There the upper falls dropped energetically from a ledge in the stream to a twelve-foot-wide sparkling pool of foam. We sat there for a while and ate one of our salty snacks.
“So this is Cornucopia.” I said. “A population of only 100 souls.”
“Pretty in its own way,” Gunter volunteered.
“Yes, it is. Just not what I expected.”
River walk alongside falls.
Siskowit Falls, Cornucopia.
Road trips are the equivalent of human wings. Ask me to go on one. Anywhere. We’ll stop in every small town and learn the history and stories, feel the ground, and capture the spirit. Then we’ll turn it into our own story that will live inside our story to carry with us, always. Because stories are more important than things.
–Victoria Erickson
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
Often when traveling—whether on sea or land—I’ve grown accustomed to taking the road less traveled and coming across unexpected delights. During our Fiji adventures with Lydia and Helmut as crew, we took a sailing detour to visit a little-known research station located on a small Fijian island. We heard about these magnificent clams from another cruiser and decided to check it out for ourselves. We were not disappointed! Here’s an excerpt from pages 230-231 of Sailing the South Pacific:
Makogai Island, Fiji
June 20,2003
0630: Roosters crowing. Birds gossiping. Fish splashing. What an idyllic morning! As I sit in the cockpit, the only sound of civilization is the generator from the research station located farther into the bay. We will visit that facility today. The coffee pot whistles. As I turn to the galley, I notice fountains of cumulus clouds at each of the bay’s entrances. Palms fringe the mountain tops, rimming the dawn. It is the type of morning I love.
Makogai is one of these rare jewels that few know about. It’s not listed in the Lonely Planet. The only way to get here is to sail as we did or hitch a passage on boats visiting the government aqua-culture operation and sheep station. This island, transferred over to
Suva in 1979, has a history as a leper colony. Now it’s a spawning area for an exotic species of giant clams called Tridacna gigas.
Our snorkel over the reefs is perfect. The spawning beds are specially marked. The giant clams bred here are the largest I have ever seen—humongous mollusks with lips of cobalt blue, emerald green, and mottled brown. They are set in corals covering every color of the spectrum. Fan coral in shades of amber and taupe wave at me while iridescent reef fish dart in and out of the coral. A huge sea slug that looks like a fat crooked finger lazily makes its way over the sandy sea floor. What a wonderful day! We enjoy a glorious sunset, sipping cold white wine in the cockpit while we admire the western sky at the opening to Dalice Bay. I feast my eyes while Lydia excitedly snaps one photo after another.
The next morning, we snorkel through the two reef gardens again before heading for the fishery. We learn that the fishery plants hundreds of baby clams along the reefs throughout Fiji and exports some to Tonga and the Solomons.
A supervisor there gives us a tour of the giant clam incubation tanks. He tells us that this species are the largest of the bivalve mollusks. In ten years they can be measured end to end with outstretched arms. They have a 100-year lifespan and can weigh up to 500 pounds. With their shells wide open, they bask in sunlight so the symbiotic algae living with them can produce their food. Interestingly, hundreds of tiny eyes dot their skin, allowing them to sense sudden changes in their environment. The shells then close defensively. The man says that the adult clams here are incapable of slamming their shells completely shut because of their massive bulk. Still, no one volunteers to put that to a test with an arm or foot!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
The sun sets over the reefs of Leleuvia where Pacific Bliss went snorkeling.
Continuing our adventures in Fiji with Lydia and Helmut as crew, my husband Günter and I sailed our 43-foot ocean-going catamaran Pacific Bliss, to the backpacker’s paradise of Leleuvia. This far into our world circumnavigation, we have learned to treat Pacific Bliss as a person. In this story, she shows human emotions, such as jealousy. The following section has been excerpted from pages 226-227 of Sailing the South Pacific.
Leleuvia, Fiji
17° 48.5 S, 178°43 E
June 11, 2003
Yesterday, the four of us snorkeled through colorful coral in crystal clear waters dappled with the refracted light of a beaming sun. We swam from our anchored dinghy, Petit Bliss, to the palm-covered islet of Leleuvia in a sea of teal glass. We ambled around the islet, digging our toes into the sunbaked sand. Every so often, one of us stooped to examine a shell, a piece of driftwood, or one of the delicate pink-and-white magnolia blossoms that had wafted onto the shore.
Perhaps Pacific Bliss had become jealous. After all, we left her anchored in the bay while we went off in our dinghy, Petit Bliss, to explore. Or perhaps Pacific Bliss was determined to go snorkeling as well. Why else would she allow herself to be pulled into a current and blown onto a coral bed?
Today, before 0500 and still pitch dark, I am rudely awakened to a thumping sound. I head topsides to check it out. It has just begun to rain so the sky remains ink-black. I take the torch (flashlight) and check the anchor chain. It is pulling tightly; the wind has returned. I check the stern. Petit Bliss is bobbing furiously, pulling on the painter and occasionally hitting the swim ladder. Much ado about nothing.
So Petit Bliss is the one making all the noise! No worries.
Then I notice the pale teal color of the water highlighted in the torch’s beam. My pulse quickens. Something is not right. Pale means shallow. I rush back into the salon to turn on the instruments. Yes, the depth meter shows only 3.8 feet! I check the wind direction. South. It was from the northeast when we anchored here. Then the weather turned calm for one glorious day of sea and sand.
Gunter comes up from the starboard hull, and I fill him in. “We have over 90 feet of chain out, but the wind has shifted almost 180 degrees, pushing us toward the reefs.”
“We’ll have to take in some more,” he says.
We pull in about 8 feet of chain by hand. Besides the chain stripper being broken, our up/down windlass only functions intermittently.
During breakfast, we discuss re-anchoring with our crew. We are not comfortable in this small anchorage with reefs on three sides.
The seas are benign and the wind calm as we head for another anchoring location that allows us more swing room. We proceed to a familiar, sandy area that is farther out to sea from our snorkeling area of yesterday. A South African Cat, Sea Rose, had anchored there before they left. It must be safe. Before we can drop the hook, a wind comes up.
“Now we have wind and it begins to piss,” Gunter complains as he grabs his rain gear. “We should have done this before when it was calm.”
Men! Monday-morning quarterbacking.
He motors and stops at our selected spot. “Drop anchor,” he commands.
The crew complies as the wind pushes Pacific Bliss toward the reefs. Then we all realize that by the time the anchor hits bottom, we will be in too close to these new reefs to allow for swing room if the wind changes direction again.
“Pull anchor,” the Captain Gunter commands. This time, the windlass control doesn’t work at all. Helmut has to pull the anchor with all that chain hand-over-hand. Both engines are in neutral.
Then things happen at warp speed—too quickly for us to analyze. A fierce gust of wind appears out of nowhere. And we think we hit the dangerous area of strong current that the Fijians on shore have warned us about. Pacific Bliss is pushed out of control; we haven’t cleated off the anchor line; and the line begins to pay out. Helmut had not cleated it off. Now he cleats it, but we can’t pull it in. It is probably caught on the bottom—and not where we want it.
“Go forward, Gunter,” I yell, but the wind swallows my words. Gunter comes up to the bow to evaluate the situation, with the engines still in neutral. “No. Take the boat forward so that we can pull the anchor loose!” Gunter rushes back to the stern, but it is too late.
Pacific Bliss, stubborn as she can be sometimes, has stopped right in the spot where we had gone snorkeling the day before! What audacity! What obstinacy! Her bottom is sucked into coral and she is not budging!
Helmut and Lydia jump into the water with their snorkeling gear. They find no damage anywhere—so far. But the bottom tip of the starboard dagger board has snagged a coral head. Gunter helps me winch Pacific Bliss forward since the anchor is still out and holding. No luck. Helmut is still in the water, trying to push Pacific Bliss off the coral head from the starboard hull. That doesn’t work either.
Then we get lucky, very lucky.
A dive boat is returning to the islet because of the inclement weather. I wave frantically. The passengers all wave back, nice and friendly.
“Come here! Pull us!” I yell from our bow. Immediately—no questions asked—the Fijian boat roars closer. The driver throws me a long towline, which I tie to the bow cleat. The boat pulls, Helmut pushes, and Pacific Bliss is coerced into deeper water while we all pull in that chain. Her snorkeling escapade is cut short.
They say that there is always a first time for everything. This is the first time during our circumnavigation, though, that Pacific Bliss has gone snorkeling. In over 17,000 miles of sailing, half-way around the world, she had never kissed a coral head. Until now.
And if I have my way, she will never kiss one again!
Later, we sit around the salon table sipping hot chocolate and munching cookies, attempting to nourish our shaken souls. Captain Gunter has finished beating himself up. Now he sits there, glum and dejected. “I don’t need this,” he says. “Lois, what do you think we would be doing if we were back in San Diego right now?”
“Thinking about snorkeling in teal, crystal-clear waters near a sandy palm-covered island somewhere in the South Seas?”
Gunter swimming alongside the boat.
In the next installment of this series, we explore Levuka, Fiji’s ancient capital. I had researched the town’s past: In the 1830s, Levuka had been a small whaling and beachcomber settlement. It was virtually lawless; ships followed a trail of empty gin bottles into port, and the town was a haven for escaped convicts, ship jumpers, debtors, and other ne’er-do-wells. What will it be like now?
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
The adventure continues. In the last blog, we left the four of us—Lydia, Helmut, Gunter and me—setting anchor alarms while we tried to sleep. Strong winds were battering our catamaran Pacific Bliss in the Tomba Naloma anchorage in Viti Levu, Fiji. This next section, excerpted from pages 224-226 of Sailing the South Pacific, continues our effort to navigate the reef-strewn northern side of Fiji’s largest island. Our goal: to sail to Fiji’s ancient capital, Levuka.
“One wouldn’t know by the peacefulness of this morning that this is the bay that I had grown to hate only yesterday. From the cockpit, I watch seabirds soar over still waters; they fly by me in pairs. Golden light breaks through low lying clouds hugging the bay. Hills hug us on three sides, purple-gray, silent, protecting. Yes, yesterday I wanted out of here, never to return.
How quickly and easily the sea changes its face! One minute brooding, the next minute inviting. One minute savage and threatening, the next, calm and pristine. Like she is right now.
Will this be yet another cruising day that points out our vulnerability out here, how simple mistakes can lead to dramatic and immediate consequences?
This morning, Pacific Bliss faces west, pushed by a gentle SSW Force 2, 7-knot breeze. The hills brighten as the sea wrinkles.
How long before the high trade winds roar in from the southeast again, turning the sea into a monster?”
It didn’t take long for us to run into problems again. We turned Pacific Bliss to follow the path on the electronic chart, just as we had the day before. But we were in for a surprise. There was no path between the reef and the marker! From that point on, we knew that we could no longer rely on the reefs being marked. All alone out there on the Northern Passage, we couldn’t afford to take chances, so we crept along until dusk.
“With a 20-knot wind, we’re afraid of dragging anchor. We head for a big bay instead and set the anchor with 140 feet of chain, in 41 feet at low tide. It’s deeper than we’d like and not very sheltered, but at least we won’t swing into anything.
Lydia and I fire up the breadmaker to bake wheat berry bread while Helmut continues to fish. Toward dusk, he hauls in a trevella. We gorge on warm bread while the fish marinates, then fry potatoes and plantains. The high wind gusts cool the salon, so we sip on hot Good Earth tea spiked with rum.
Life isn’t so bad after all!
As we let down our guard and begin a leisurely dinner in the salon, the day falls apart. It begins slowly— this falling apart—as one event careens into the next.
First, Günter notices that the anchor alarm shows that the boat has moved 500 feet. “Can’t be!” His face pales. “Must be a mistake—it didn’t go off. Helmut, let’s check our calculations.”
The computer shows that we have drifted halfway into the bay! We quickly clear our half-eaten dinner. I tell everyone to shut the hatches, in case we end up on a reef today, after all. Then Günter calls us all into the cockpit for instructions.
The night is pitch black. “Lois, go to the nav station. Follow our MaxSea track back to our original anchoring location. I’ll just motor slowly. Helmut and Lydia, after we pull anchor, you’ll use the flashlight and spotlight to warn us when we’re near shore.”
Pulling anchor is difficult now with the stripper broken, but our new crew makes fast work of it. Günter inches toward shore while I direct our autopilot carefully, using plus or minus one degree, until we are a few boat lengths from our original anchoring spot. Fortunately the wind has died, and the anchor sets easily.
I never want to see this Nananu–I–Cake Anchorage again. Our crew wanted a learning experience; well, they’re certainly getting it.”
June 4: “…As the day drones on, the strong wind returns. It whistles through the rigging, swinging our little home around as she pulls tight on her two anchor chains. We all know that it’s a given that we stay here until the weather cooperates.
While the men focus on boat maintenance, Lydia and I bake up a storm, creatively using ingredients we have on board. We realize that we will need to provision soon. But how?
We jump into the bay to cool off after cooking. The current races so fast between the hulls that I dare not let go of the swim ladder. The dinghy goes wild, bouncing on the waves.
The wind blows so hard that we have our sundowners inside. Lydia compares her expectations with how she feels about sailing now. “I thought we’d be sitting outside, in a calm anchorage, sipping piña coladas in the sunset,” she says, discouraged.
“Did you expect to have wind for sailing?” I ask. “Of course. I dreamt about sails billowing in the wind, pulling us along.” “But then when you wanted to sip those piña coladas, the wind would suddenly disappear?” “I didn’t think of that…in fact, now I wonder whether I should buy into Helmut’s dream of sailing around the world.”
The next day, the bay is still too rough to deploy Petit Bliss, so we order a pick-up from Safari Lodge nearby. Günter opts to stay with the boat.
The three of us take off in the skiff. It turns toward Ellington Wharf, where we receive the brunt of the east wind racing through the channel. The spray comes over the high sides of the launch. Helmut’s T-shirt is sopping, but he laughs.
“It’s good I brought a spare,” he shouts over the shrieking wind.
When the launch stops at Ellington Wharf, I’m amazed. I cannot imagine Pacific Bliss—or any large boat for that matter—pulling up to this dilapidated structure. We disembark. On the wharf, angry brown froth smashes against the jetty. Palms bend over in pain.
Wind-dried and salty, we hike toward the bus stop. After a mile or so, an Indian cane farmer with thick black hair and dusty clothes offers us a lift. We pass field after field of sugar cane.
He drops us off at the farmer’s market. What a scene! Colorful blankets cover the grass. Fijian mothers hold the babies and toddlers, while older children play games together in the shade trees across from the market. Under the shade of a banyan tree, men drink kava and gossip. The produce is laid out in mounds. A mound of limes: $1 Fijian. A mound of oranges: $1. A bunch of bok choy: $1. One green papaya: $1. Soon our canvas shopping bags are full, with a $1 bunch of bananas topping it off.
“Bula!” Women wearing colorful muumuus greet us with wide smiles. They even smile when we don’t buy from them. They do not cajole, like Indian vendors.
We find three grocery stores containing everything else we need, including a Fiji Times and lots of chocolate to placate Günter. After catching a taxi back to the wharf, it’s another wet ride back to Pacific Bliss, where the high winds have continued unabated.
Finally the next day the sun shines, and the wind decreases enough that we dare to leave the bay. We navigate the reefs past Ellington Wharf and through the narrow Navelau passage to Viti Levu Bay. The process is horrendously slow. Our disturbingly inaccurate electronic chart shows us going over land in many places. We are thankful to have sharp lookouts on board. By the time we anchor twice in the bay, we are all tense and tired.
The following day, we motor for five hours and are forced to pull in at 1315. The skies turn dark and foreboding; ominous clouds line the entire horizon. Navigating through the reefs had been tricky with full sun; no way do we want to take this route under an overcast sky. We anchor in a muddy area south of the Natori Ferry Terminal. Then we set a second anchor as well. Appropriately, Günter plays Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, one of his favorites.
We come topsides in the morning, overjoyed to see a flotilla of 12 sailboats passing by the bay’s outer limits. This makes navigation easier; we’ll be following them. Even so, navigation is extremely tricky. By the time we anchor again, I collapse into my berth while Günter takes Lydia and Helmut to a nearby reef to fish and snorkel. I’ll have my chance to snorkel in Leleuvia, a small sandy island that is touted as a backpackers’ paradise.”
Little did I know then that Pacific Bliss would decide to go snorkeling herself! That story is coming up next. And in the event you didn’t read Part 1 of this Fiji series, you can access that link here.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
Reef Encounters of the Worst Kind: Attempting to Circumnavigate Fiji
This past weekend brought a pleasant surprise: Gunter and I reconnected with a crew we’d had on board our catamaran Pacific Bliss when sailing in the Fiji Islands during the spring of 2003, seventeen years ago. Here’s how I described this couple in my book, Sailing the South Pacific:
Denarau Marina, Viti Levu, Fiji, May 30
Lydia and Helmut Dueck are an adventurous German couple who decided to backpack around the world before they marry and have children. We first met them through our website. Helmut’s dream has always been to sail the world when he retires. He is a sailor, but Lydia, his fiancé, has never been on a sailboat. Crewing is an opportunity to find out whether his dream will work for them. Only in their twenties, they are wisely thinking ahead!
…Lydia is a pert, fun-loving blonde. Helmut is dark-haired and serious, yet I suspect that he can be fun, too.
We had arranged for a taxi to meet the couple at the Nadi airport and to take them directly to Pacific Bliss. They appear to be relieved to see a berth freshly made up for them and towels and washcloths in their own port head. Frugal backpackers, they find Pacific Bliss luxurious. We find them to be a refreshing, happy couple and look forward to spending time with them.
Lydia and Helmut on Pacific Bliss, Fiji
Sunset in Denarau, Fiji
Since that introduction to the cruising life, Lydia and Helmut married and succeeded in their professions, Lydia as a midwife and Helmut as a businessman and entrepreneur. They raised four children, lived in various countries—including Germany and China—all the while holding onto their dream of sailing around the world. They never forgot their adventures sailing Pacific Bliss in Fiji, where they experienced the highs and lows of the cruising life.
Here’s a taste of what they experienced:
We arrive in Vitago Bay and anchor easily with our new crew working in unison…After a delicious dinner, we all go into the cockpit to watch the stars light the sky with no city lights to interfere. Helmut and Lydia are in their element. They are truly amazed by it all…
Following that high, we’re rounding the northwest point of Viti Levu during our attempt to circumnavigate that island. This is what happens next:
We are all on lookout now as we navigate through the reefs…To make the turns, I take the nav station inside, Gunter takes the helm, Lydia takes the pulpit seat using our powerful binoculars, and Helmut takes the other pulpit seat…Strong gusts hit as we slowly approach Tomba Naloma, our anchorage. We know that this bay is full of reefs close to shore, but because it’s not low tide, we can’t see them. We motor in slowly. I take up my position at the bow, with the anchor windlass control.
“Don’t worry,” Gunter says. “I’ll bring you right to the anchor symbol we put on MaxSea. 30 feet, 28 feet, 26 feet…we should be there in five minutes.”
We creep cautiously. The wave heights gradually decrease but the wind keeps blowing.
“24 feet. Drop anchor,” Gunter commands.
I drop but the wind blows us backward rapidly. The windlass won’t release the anchor chain as fast as the wind is pushing us back. Then all of a sudden, the anchor catches and jerks the boat.
“Let out more chain,” Gunter shouts from the helm. “I’m letting it out as fast as I can,” I shout from bow back into the wind. “I’ve got 120 feet out and she’s still pulling.” Gunter comes forward. “Let’s deploy the bridle with a short leash this time. Let out some more.”
He sets the bridle, but now the entire chain has payed out. At the anchor locker, I can see the rope, all the way to the bitter end. I try to bring some back by reversing the windlass control. The rope binds and bends the chain stripper (the device that pulls the chain from the wheel and lets it fall, pulled by its own weight, into the chain locker.) Helmut helps me straighten out the mess.
Now we have a “broken boat” again. Until it’s fixed, we’ll have to haul anchor hand over hand, which is not only physically strenuous but can also be dangerous when timing is critical. We brainstorm the next port where it can be fixed—Tonga?
We could have scrapped this daring venture and headed back to Denarau but to our crew’s credit, they agreed to continue on with our plans. We set anchor alarms that night and took turns standing watch as 25-30 knot winds howled through the rigging.
Helmut catches a huge Trevella along the coast of Viti Levu, Fiji
This was only the beginning of this couple’s adventures on Pacific Bliss. We took a launch from Ellington’s Wharf and hitchhiked to a colorful village market to provision; we snorkeled in Leleuvia while our yacht decided to pull anchor and go snorkeling the reefs herself; we visited Levuka, Fiji’s amazing ancient capital; we viewed the largest clams in the world at Makogai Island; and we sailed on to Vanua Levu, Fiji’s second largest island, where the couple departed to continue their backpacking trip. I’ll share more of those stories in future blogs.
Here is the letter Lydia sent to me last week for inclusion in this blog:
After sailing with Lois and Gunter in 2003, my husband Helmut couldn’t stop thinking of doing this one day in the future. We never stopped traveling but cruising on a yacht seemed very unrealistic to us. Living in China for five years and in Mexico for two, our feeling got stronger that if there’s anything we’d like to do in our lives it’ll be sailing!
Here we are—17 years and four children later, we will start our own journey on a Lagoon 45 Catamaran from Croatia. Not sure where the wind will carry us but for sure we will go back to Fiji where it all began.
Feel warmly hugged,
Lydia
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I strongly urge you, my readers, despite all the obstacles that may be in your paths, do not give up on your own dreams. Continue to pursue your passions, and those dreams will come to pass!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
One year later, a pontoon ride around White Ash Lake shows that residents have done an awesome job of clean-up but still more work remains. So many have planted new trees that will never reach maturity during their lifetimes. Indeed, “to plant a tree is to believe in tomorrow.”
Last night, the National Weather Service issued warning for many counties in Wisconsin, including Polk. “This time, we will be spared,” I muttered, “for the simple reason that one should not have to endure a tornado for the third time.” I remembered the tornado of 1955, all of us on our knees praying in the kitchen of our farm home in Eureka township. (The house didn’t have a basement to run to for shelter.) I’d never written a story about that experience, but my brother Dave did. Here is his story:
From the Memoirs of Dave Glassel:
The Polk County Wisconsin Tornadoes of 1953
I was watching the weather channel the other morning and it brought to mind the tornadoes of 1953 in the St. Croix Falls, Polk County, Wisconsin area. I was about eight years old and it was my job to go get the cows at milking time. My sister Lois, three years older than I, used to go get them, but as she grew older, that became my chore. She was relegated to house chores by then.
Our small dairy farm was at its best in 1953. Dad was milking about 18 cows and we were filling about 5 or 6 milk cans per milking. The milk house was quite a way from the barn and Dad built a two-wheel cart that would hold 2 cans. It had big wheels he’d taken off an old horse-driven hay rake. I would help Mom push on the cart uphill on the last leg of the journey to the pump house where we put the cans into the stock tank to cool the milk. We had two tanks. Mom and I were able to lift the cans into the low tank. It was not easy because when the can went into the water it settled to the bottom slowly because of the buoyancy, subsequently one needed to keep it upright all the way to the bottom. I guess that is why my knees and back are bad. Too many hay bales and milk cans wrestled with in my youth!
We had a hired man in those days. His name was Larry. He was from McKinley and from a family Dad had known for years. He was a genuine slacker and Dad never could get him to do any work to speak of. He was always out behind the horse barn smoking cigarettes and that made Dad furious. When it came time for milking he was never around. He and his friend Wayne would be off riding Wayne’s Indian Motorcycle instead. Dad despised Wayne as well. He finally told Larry’s Dad to come get him. It was the same day of the Big Storm. No one came and he finally hitch- hiked his way back to McKinley.
I went to get the cows about 6 p.m. They were way back in the southeast corner of the 80 acres on the border of the Rock Creek Farm and the Old Rehbien Farm. Dad had made a pasture on the back of the big hill that always washed out when he planted corn there. The grass was green and lush and had lots of cow pies to step in.
I am suggesting it was probably in June when the tornadoes were spawned. I had gone to get the cows and bring them home for milking. I always carried my walking stick that Grandpa Glassel had made for me. I also had the Lassie, the cow dog, with me. I don’t know which Lassie as we had numerous Collies, all by that name. The cows were all bunched up in the far corner of the pasture. Lassie barked at them and tried to get them to get into the cow path and head for the barn. The cows always walked single file and had a deep rut cut in the ground. But this was a new pasture and the cow path was not well-defined. I thought that was the reason they wouldn’t start going to the barn. Between Lassie and me, we finally got them heading north to the barn.
Then, without any warning the cows all started to walk really fast. Then they began to run! I was scared because when they ran, they would let down and all of the milk would start coming out of their udders. Dad used to scold Lois and me for letting the Collie dogs make them run by biting at their heels. But soon, I couldn’t keep up with the cows.
Meanwhile, Dad saw the cows rush toward the barnyard. They ran frantically through the gate and into the barn—all into the wrong stanchions. “That had never happened before,” Dad told me later.
He figured out something was wrong and when he didn’t see me, he climbed the hill to go looking for me. By then I had just reached the top of the hill.
Dad later told me that he heard about the tornadoes on WCCO radio in the barn and then saw the tornadoes on the horizon over the St. Croix River, heading in our direction. I was scared and was running as fast as I could go but I kept tripping. I calmed down a bit when I saw Dad coming for me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me down in a gully. The storm blew over as fast as it came. In a matter of seconds, its fury had passed us by. It skipped over our farm but we watched in awe as the huge barn at the Rehbien farm flew into the air and landed in a million pieces.
The next day Mom and Dad loaded us all up in the rusted, green 46 Ford and we went for a ride to view the devastation. There were 18 tornadoes spawned by the storm stretching from the Glassel farm to Grantsburg and East as far as Clam Falls. The majority of the damage was done west of Eureka and north of Cushing. We drove past areas where as many as six barns and a few houses were totally demolished. Dead cattle were strewn everywhere. Unfortunately, most all of the milk cows were in the barn for milking at that time of the day and the barns collapsed on them. We stopped to visit Donald Christensen, Leroy Christensen’s Dad and Mom. Their barn was blown down and there were dead Holsteins everywhere. Some were still alive but immobile. They didn’t shoot them because they wanted to keep them alive until they could be butchered. The slaughter houses in Luck and Milltown were all backed up, however, and unable to take more cattle. Mom cried like a baby for hours for all those poor, injured cows. She loved animals!
But she loved her babies more. After the storm I remember Mom hugging me and thanking Dad. Her nine children were all saved.
The next Sunday, we went with Aunt Gertie and Grandma and Grandpa Glassel to Clam Falls. The old Glassel house where Dad and his brothers and sisters grew up was leveled to the ground. The farm had been vacant for several years. I went back to find the place years later but there was nothing there. Nature had taken over.
I often think about that storm. At the last class reunion, I talked to Judy Jensen, a historical writer for Polk County who worked for the Polk County Museum in Balsam Lake. She told me that they had numerous photos of the devastation from those 18 tornadoes in ‘55. It was the most devastating storm to ever hit Wisconsin and has since been recorded in the records as such.
I don’t know if I can actually say I was “in” the tornado or not. I just remember being really scared and Dad being on top of me. There was an unbelievable wind and then a flood of rain. I remember seeing Dads lips moving but couldn’t hear anything because of the overwhelming noise. Perhaps he was praying. Dad claimed that what saved our farm was the fact that it was built in the ravine sheltered with hills on all sides. During later years, he recalled that he saw the funnel going overhead and it looked like as if it went right over the barn and house. We never even lost as much as a tree limb!
As for the cows, later I came to understand that their erratic behavior was related directly to their sensing the oncoming storm. That is why they were all grouped in the corner of the pasture. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that the animals can’t detect weather and storms. Dad used to say to Mom, I know it’s going to rain. I can hear Landahl’s horses whinnying. He was right every time.
I’ve forgotten many things about my St. Croix Falls childhood days. But there are many stories that I do remember—especially those events that took place on that 80-acre Dairy Farm during the fifties.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
“The West of which I speak is but another name for the Wild; and…in Wildness is the preservation of the world.” —Henry David Thoreau
My last blog stated that Jackson Hole is open to visitors this summer, even though the coronavirus is still lurking. That’s true, but visitors are now required to wear masks in public places. Even so, it’s convenient to use Jackson Hole as a base for touring the Tetons and enjoying the valley. You may want to consider the following attractions:
Grand Tetons. During our trip to Montana and Wyoming in September of 2019, the four of us (my sister Ret, brother-in-law John, Gunter and I) stayed at Canyon Lodge in Yellowstone and then drove to Colter Bay Village in the Tetons. We had planned to stay in basic cabins there for four nights; however, a cold front hit us the first night with rain turning to sleet. We checked out after breakfast and decided to drive on to Jackson Hole to “hole up” while the storm passed. It was a wise decision because the sleet turned to snow by the time we arrived at our two-bedroom condo at Jackson Hole Lodge, in the heart of town. We stocked up on food and hunkered down until the weather cleared. Keep in mind that Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons—separated by 31 miles via the John D. Rockefeller Parkway—encompass nearly 4,000 square miles. That’s a lot to tackle in one trip, so a few days rest was welcome.
Ret, John, Lois and Gunter on a cold morning in Colter Bay. We planned on taking a boat ride; that was not to be.
Colter Bay in September with snow on the way.
Well-rested, we took a day trip back to Colter Bay and the surrounding area. After stopping at Jackson Lake beneath towering Mount Moran, we continued our scenic drive through the park. We enjoyed expansive views of snow-capped peaks as we headed back to Jackson following Hwy 26, 81, and 191 along the Snake River, stopping at overlooks whenever we could.
Kayakers navigating Snake River.
Vistas near the Snake River Valley
We stopped for a raptor show along the way.
One option—for those of you who can—is taking a high-elevation morning hike. Drive to Jackson Hole Mountain Resort to hop on the aerial tram for a 4,000-foot vertical ride to the top of Rendezvous Mountain, peaking at 10,450 feet. Here, you can access an extensive network of trails that link to Grand Teton National Park. The 4.2-mile Rock Springs and Cody Bowl Loop trail is easily accessible from the tram and offers spectacular alpine scenery and sweeping panoramic views of distant peaks.
Moose and Elk. One day we drove along the Moose-Wilson Road, named for the associated towns but known for moose sightings. We didn’t see one, but we certainly put some bumpy miles on our rented SUV! On another day we drove north of Jackson to visit the National Elk Refuge, known for the thousands of elk that winter here. The area is also home to 47 different mammals and 175 species of birds. We were one of the few visitors to the Miller homestead that day, so we had plenty of time to converse with the caretakers who live there part-time. We learned that this 25,000-acre elk refuge was established in 1912 as a sanctuary for one of the largest elk herds on the earth. Home to an average of 7,500 elk each winter, the refuge is managed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Elk migrate from as far away as southern Yellowstone Park but like to winter on the sheltered grassy plains. During the spring, the herd follows the retreating snows to growing grasses of Yellowstone. The Boy Scouts of America have been collecting the thousands of elk antlers shed each year to sell them at auction. The arrangement requires them to return 75% of the proceeds to the refuge. About 10,000 pounds of antlers are auctioned each year! Some of them are purchased by the city to replenish the four elk antler arches at Jackson Square.
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Mormon Row Historic District. We continued driving until we found the historic homestead complexes along the Jackson-Moran Road in the valley near the southeast corner of Grand Teton National Park. Six building clusters illustrate Mormon settlement in the area from 1908-to the 1950s with features such as drainage systems, corrals, barns, and fields. The site is a bonanza for photographers, framed with the majestic Teton Range rising in the background. I could have spent half a day there, but we were hungry so we headed for the small towns of Moose and Kelly searching for food. The restaurant choices were limited; we settled on a burgers-and-barbeque place.
Mormon Barn
Mormon Historic District
Museums. The National Museum of Wildlife Art looks like a fortress nestled into the hillside, but inside you’ll find 14 separate galleries showcasing an extensive permanent collection as w ell as touring exhibits. The museum reopened on June 2nd with a retrospective of the work of Tucker Smith, featuring more than 75 original oil paintings. The exhibition, Celebration of Nature, presents the breadth of his subject matter from western wildlife to camp and cowboy scenes to intriguing landscapes. You can download the museum app to your iPhone, iPad or web device.
We visited the Buffalo Bill Center of the West in Cody, Wyoming on the way from Red Lodge, Montana to Yellowstone Park. Although quite commercialized, the man, the legend, and the legacy of Buffalo Bill do come together in a remarkable testament to the Wild West lifestyle. The first cowboy hero in show business and popular fiction, Buffalo Bill Cody was also a daring entrepreneur. He invested in hotels, an Arizona mine, stock breeding, ranching, coal and oil development, film making, town building, tourism, and publishing. In fact, he had his own newspaper, the Cody Enterprise, which still provides news to the town of Cody. He was an early advocate of women’s suffrage and the fair treatment of American Indians. An interesting book on this is William F. Cody’s Wyoming Empire: The Buffalo Bill Nobody Knows, by Robert Bonner. If you go, note that an exhibit honoring women who shaped the west is on display there until August 2, 2020.
Wild Bill Cody
Cody entertains the Queen of England.
Music. Each summer, Jackson Hole hosts the Grand Teton Music Festival. This year, it will not be able to proceed as planned; however; the program Music from the Mountains will be streamed online on August 21, 22, and 23 and will appear on TV in the fall. Watch for it. “Backstage” passes are available for watching the filming of the festival on ZOOM.
Shopping is a favorite tourist activity in Jackson Hole. You’ll find all kinds of wild art!
Art. Jackson Hole is home to over two dozen galleries in town, but that’s not all. Art is displayed in restaurants and businesses all over town. Ret and I enjoyed walking through home and furniture stores with local art displayed in every setting. In between sightseeing, we walked to galleries from our condo. Gunter and I purchased a large framed photo of the Tetons in the spring with purple and white lupines fronting a deep blue mountain lake. This photo now hangs in the formal entrance to our home, providing cherished memories of the Grand Tetons and the wonderful times we had there.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
During 2020, with so many events and festivals cancelled, I’m encouraged to see that most of places we visited during last fall’s trip to Montana and Wyoming are now open for tourists. Yellowstone Park is open with few restrictions. You can access events here. The Grand Tetons are open as well. And the Jackson Hole Chamber of Commerce has announced that the 36th Annual Arts Festival will be held from Wednesday, September 9th to Sunday, September 20th.
During our 2019 road trip, after touring Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons, we spent a week in Jackson Hole. Along with my sister Ret and brother-in-law John, Gunter and I had rented a two-bedroom condo there to enjoy some R&R before driving back to Billings and flying home. But Jackson Hole turned out to more than we expected: a happening destination in and of itself.
This city of 10,450 calls itself the “Heart of the American West.” Fur trappers and frontiersmen called it “Jackson’s Hole” when they traversed the steep pass in the early 1800s and came upon the majestic beauty of the valley. Since that time, this valley has drawn cowboys, dude-ranchers, mountaineers, skiers, and even John D. Rockefeller, whose large swaths of ranchland later became Grand Teton National Park. Jackson Hole is flanked by the Teton and Gros Ventre mountain ranges offering powdery skiing in the winter and splendid hiking in the summer. The Snake River, with its headwaters in nearby Yellowstone Park, meanders through fields of grazing buffalo and elk. Luxury ski resorts have brought glamour to this wild western town, but Jackson Hole is still a hometown kind of place where you can wear your cowboy boots to the most upscale restaurant.
A lone buffalo grazing at Yellowstone Park.
Lois at Snake River
We four were fortunate to be in Jackson Hole during the final days of the 35th Annual Fall Arts Festival. What a fun event! My sister Ret and I left our husbands—still in their PJs—behind at the condo and rushed off to the 9 a.m. Quick Draw Arts Sale and Auction at the Jackson Town Square. In a unique alfresco setting, national, regional, and local artists demonstrate their skills while spectators watch.
Each has an outdoor “booth” in the Square to set up their “studio” with sculpting or painting tools. They are allowed to have a photo or sketch of art they’ve done before, but each artist begins with a blank canvas. At the end of ninety minutes, the artist must be finished and ready to frame or otherwise display his or her work.
Ret and I strolled through the tree-lined park, watching artists work feverishly to see their works come to life in canvas or clay. The skill required was amazing! Bystanders would ask questions and artists would answer and even tell stories while continuing their work. We stopped to watch for a while when we encountered an especially engaging bear, elk, or mountain scene. In the middle of the square, volunteers from the Chamber handled bidding registration. We were curious about how these pieces would be auctioned off, so occasionally we watched from the sidelines. Then we would take another walk around to see how the artworks we liked had progressed.
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The ninety minutes went by in a flash. And when the QuickDraw concluded, the big sales tent on Delaney Street filled up quickly. At first, we took two of the empty seats, but then we noticed that each of the empty seats held a bid card. We realized that we would be forced to stand or sit around the edges of the tent or group outside the entries and exits. But my sister and I don’t give up easily! Inside, near the edge of the tent, we found a small, flat-topped tree stump, a perfect place for people-watching. We would take turns sitting. What an intriguing cross-section of humanity! We saw anxious artists and their supportive families, local ranchers and businesspeople, well-dressed and wealthy art patrons from all over the world, and on-lookers like us. The noise level increased as excitement built and the tent filled. We watched bidders take reserved seats on the main floor—some wearing cowboy hats and boots, others casual-elegant, and a few dressed to kill—while latecomers crowded around the entrances. The buzz reached a crescendo until the host representing the Jackson Hole Chamber of Commerce sprinted on stage to introduce key celebrities in the art world. Then he called the auctioneer to the stage amid cheers and waving of hats. It was time to begin. A hush swept over the crowd.
The Quick Draw Auction held in the big tent.
The live auction was a fun and spirited affair. Art enthusiasts bid for their favorite pieces while the auctioneers urged other participants to bid up the price. Ret and I could imagine the stress the artists felt as they waited for their own work to be displayed on the stage! Afterwards, a festive air enveloped the entire town. Shops and restaurants opened their doors while art galleries held wine-and-cheese receptions. Streets were packed but everyone was friendly and having a wonderful time.
Gunter and John joined us for an early dinner across from the Town Square at Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, Wyoming’s landmark watering hole. During the ensuing days, we explored the area, using Jackson Hole as our base. That story is coming up next.
Lois and Gunter
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
Those with wanderlust in our bones are dreaming of traveling again. When I provide recommendations for international travel, I always include Uzbekistan in my short list. (See my February blog: International Destinations: Where to Travel in 2020.) Here are some other links to my blogs about Uzbekistan:
Oh, to go back to that pre-COVID era of innocence!
But If and When You Go:
Contact Zulya Rajabova, founder and president of Silk Road Treasure Tours, Office: 888-745-7670, Cell: 908-347-4280. Her company manages independent and luxury travel tours throughout the Silk Road Countries of Central Asia, as well as to Mongolia and Georgia.
Below is Zulya’s latest blog, which she has graciously consented to share with us here:
The traditions and customs of the Uzbek people have been shaped by their unique position at the crossroads of the Great Silk Road. The treasures that flowed were not only the ones that can be held in one’s hand, but also those that touch the heart and soul. Art, philosophy, science, and religious ideals were exchanged, enriching the cultures of both the travelers and their hosts.
Uzbek culture reflects a beautiful synthesis of these influences, while maintaining its own unique traditions. From the harmony of its architecture to the masterful detail of its applied arts, from the busy, noisy bazaars to the peaceful, laid-back chaikhana, a journey through Uzbekistan is unique and unforgettable.
It will be helpful for travelers to be aware of some of the conventions of Uzbek society. Let’s share with you our Sallabandon celebration.
Ritual and tradition connect us all. The people of Bukhara, an ancient oasis city in south-western Uzbekistan, celebrate Sallabandon – literally “tying the turban”. This particular ceremony marks the transition of a woman to motherhood.
The regions of Central Asia have a history almost 3,000 years old and the ceremony of Sallabandon has roots in pre-Islamic Sogdian culture. Sogdiana was an empire of city-states in prominence from the 6th to the 11th centuries throughout what is now Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, in the heart of the Silk Road. Archaeologists at Sogdian sites have found terracotta figurines of a female fertility deity holding a pomegranate and a baby in her hands. Interestingly, they feature a turban-like headdress in the form of a tied scarf.
Sallabandon often takes place with other celebrations. It may, for example, occur together with gavorabandon – the occasion of putting a newborn into a cradle for the first time. Russian and European travelers to Bukhara in the early 20th century described the beauty of the local dress and the richness of the jewelry. Women’s clothing in Central Asia retains its traditional sophistication and aesthetic appeal.
On the day of Sallabandon, the young mother wears a splendid kuylak, the traditional tunic-style dress, its front decorated with peshkurta, a gold and silk embroidered band. She uses a kultapushak or gold embroidered headdress with a hair cover, a peshonaband (forehead cover), a large white shawl and a lachak; a white veil. The dressing takes place in the presence of relatives and invited guests. This ritual is performed by a respected senior female family member with many children and grandchildren, usually the grandmother of the young mother. Accompanied by traditional singing, the headdress is placed on the head of the young mother and a length of white fabric is wrapped under her chin and tied on top. The peshonaband is covered by the white shawl symbolizing purity. The young mother then bows to all her guests and relatives and receives their gifts. Her mother and mother in law usually present her with a gold ring, earrings and bracelet, the circle representing the magic of protection from evil. Ceremonial headdresses and costumes are gifts from the mother to her daughter, connecting generations, and bestowing the desire for fertility and protection.
Family values, the importance of children, and the role of mothers as guardians of the house and family, all are brought together in the wonderful Bukharan ritual of sallabandon. We look forward to taking you to our people’s homes to participate in such amazing traditional Uzbek celebrations during your travel in Uzbekistan. You may also enjoy to participatate in the Silk and Spice festivals or Navruz festival.
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page.
When I pack up our belongings in San Diego and fly like a migrating bird to return to our home Up North, I know what I’m escaping from: I’m escaping the noise of the city. I’m tired of car horns honking, ambulances and police cars screeching, traffic whizzing, airplanes ascending and descending. I’m tired of background noise in the hallway and elevator of the condo building. And I’m even tired of the sounds of the beach: roller blades clinking over each crack in the boardwalk, youngsters partying in the Jacuzzi, jet skis revving up on the bay at 6:00 a.m. I realize that, even in our own space, noise enters like an unwelcome intruder.
When I leave the condo, sounds increase to a dull roar. Muzak piped into elevators and shopping malls was bad enough, but now televisions and video screens are everywhere—in waiting rooms, restaurants, and coffee shops. Even gas stations blare out music and weather updates. Those who want to drown out those sounds listen to podcasts emanating from their earphones. It seems that all the world is eager and willing to bear nonstop sound. Is silence an uncomfortable experience for them?
Noise pollution is a real health hazard. Loud sounds trigger fear, the flight- or-fight response of our endocrine systems. That causes a spike in blood pressure and stress hormones such as cortisol. These adaptive mechanisms helped our ancestors survive a wild animal attack but if they are triggered day after day, they take a toll on our cardiovascular systems.
A 2007 study by a working group called the WHO Noise Environmental Burden on Disease found that long-term traffic noise exposure in cities may account for around three percent of deaths from coronary artery disease each year. According to the study, that’s about 210,000 Europeans annually killed (in part) by noise. Other studies showed that children living near airports score lower on reading and memory tests.
The sounds of silence. It’s no wonder I look forward to returning to our refuge, Northern Bliss, each spring. Heading north takes me to that silence I crave. Because creativity needs silence to flourish. The poet Khali Gibran said,
“Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.” Silence refreshes the soul.
As soon as my husband Gunter and I cross the St. Croix River and spot the sign that says WELCOME TO WISCONSIN, we can feel our bodies begin to relax. Ah! We’re almost home! Do birds feel that same sense of relief when they finally land after their long journey back to where they raised their young?
The first day of coming home is fun, yet hectic. It is Mother’s Day, May 12. My daughter greets me at the airport and my granddaughter welcomes me by re-stocking our fridge and pantry. The second day, I climb into the hammock with a book in hand. It doesn’t take long to drop that book, breathe in the fresh spring air, and listen to those long-awaited sounds of silence.
A few moments later, I realize that my inner transformation is complete. Silence has awakened my senses. I can see clearly now and my heart is filled with joy. I cheer on the hostas, green spears only three inches high, piercing through the earth. I admire the fiddlehead ferns, fuzzy balls on short stems, just beginning to unfurl. I jump out of the hammock and dig into the soil with my bare hands. I’ll soon plant flowers here! The soil feels moist. It smells earthy and rich—totally different from the sandy, parched soil of California. I return to the hammock to inhale some more silence.
But this time, I’m attuned to the nature enveloping me and my world is no longer silent. I’m swathed in a euphony of sounds. I recognize the scree-scree of a blue jay and the rat-tat-tat of a pileated woodpecker drilling a hole into the bark of nearby tree. When I look up, a bald eagle whooshes over the roof, returning to his nest on the lake. A gentle breeze whispers through the pines and rustles the maples and oaks. The windmill slowly turns while rippled waves lap the shoreline and the door chimes ring ever so softly.
I’m reminded of the words of William Penn: “True silence is the rest of the mind, and is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.”
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About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson
We arrived at Northern Bliss, our Wisconsin lake home on June 4 this year—too late to see the fiddlehead ferns unfurl, too late to see the tulips and daffodils bloom, but just in time to see the trumpeter swans swimming along White Ash Lake, goslings in tow. My heart sang for joy!
Because of a mild winter leading to an early spring “up north” this year, the landscape is already dramatically lush. I marvel at the many shades of green: blue-green and lime-green hostas, dark-green spruce, and pale-green shoots of new growth. Talk about “50 Shades of Gray.” Here we have 50 shades of green! And green is all about de-stressing, slowing down, and letting go. It’s the color of life, nature, harmony, renewal, and energy.
50 Shades of Green
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I agree with John Burroughs, who said, “I go to nature to be soothed and healed and to have my senses put in order.” While the green palette soothes my soul, the song of newly-arrived finches tickles my ears, the feel of warm soil running through my fingers connects me to the earth, and the heavenly scent of budding flowers brings me peace. I wet my lips and taste the freshness of the country breeze rustling through the treetops.
What happens to your body in the presence of green? Your pituitary gland is stimulated. Your muscles become more relaxed, and your blood histamine levels increase. That leads to a decrease in allergy symptoms and dilated blood vessels. In other words, green is calming and stress-relieving, yet invigorating at the same time. The color green has been shown to improve reading ability and creativity. Aha! That’s gives me just the excuse I need to spend some time in that inviting hammock reading a book!
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
Layering a buffet table works well for many reasons. This technique makes the best use of limited space—ideal for a condo, apartment or yacht. It establishes an inviting “come-to” zone where guests can freely help themselves again and again. Besides, we all know that three-dimensional buffets are always a better way to display yummy foods, condiments and desserts!
For many years, I considered using this approach for our annual Parade of Lights holiday party; this year I finally took the plunge. First I researched the subject by surfing YouTube, where I found professional chefs and party-planners dispensing advice. Then I scaled it all down to suit my needs.
Here’s what I learned:
Take a good look at the table or surface you will use. Does the location allow for walking around or past it without guests bumping into each other? Can you move it to a better location? I decided that I didn’t have sufficient room in my condo for walking around the dining table, so I decided to push it near the wall, leaving a milling-around-and-line-up area for guests.
Determine a party theme and color scheme and for your venue. Because my party is held in mid-December, an obvious choice was a Christmas theme. I chose shades of red and green, with a little white for contrast. I love flower arranging! Using fresh flowers and greens purchased at Wholesale Flowers, I made six bouquets, all using the same basic scheme.
Search for items to use for layering; you probably have them in your home. I selected a riser from my linen closet and used stacks of books for the rest. This was a good solution for me—I always have to find somewhere to stash books during a party! Then I selected a large green tablecloth and used a burgundy-red tree skirt for contrast.
Place one table covering flat on your table, then add stacking materials.Cover with the top cloth (or tree skirt in my case), bunching it up like the professionals do. I scattered a few evergreen branches to peek out of the “valleys” between the risers, added three matching small arrangements—short so they won’t obscure the view of the food—then placed a tall bouquet back by the wall. Voila! I was all set.
To eliminate last-minute chaos, place a note on each dish that describes what will go into it.I placed another stack of serving dishes in the kitchen, for use by those bringing appetizers. I placed a three-tiered stand on the counter, to fill later and replenish the buffet after the parade of boats had gone past our balcony.
The layering plan worked out well. I would use it again! Layering made good use of limited space and I thought it made the table more appealing. Of course, I did need some “muscle men” afterwards to put the table back in place!
Have you used buffet layering techniques? How did they work for you?
About the Author: Lois and Günter Hofmann lived their dream by having a 43-foot ocean-going catamaran built for them in the south of France and sailing around the world. Learn more about their travel adventures by reading Lois’s award-winning nautical adventure trilogy. Read more about Lois and her adventures at her website and stay in touch with Lois by liking her Facebook page. Lois’s books can be purchased from PIP Productions on Amazon and on her website.
The Propeller Thank You Party in Vanuatu. One place that stole our hearts was Vanuatu (formerly New Hebrides), an archipelago of 80 Melanesian islands. Gunter and I had recently attended week-long festivities honoring the installation of a new chief at Waterfall Bay, in Vanua Lava, one of the Northern Banks islands. We left fond memories those villagers behind and anchored in Vureas Bay on our way back to Luganville. As soon as we were settled, rowers came to welcome us. We recognized the men from the festival and remembered that they had to leave early because of a faulty prop. Gunter had looked at it there and tried to fix it, as had other cruisers.
Sallabandon often takes place with other celebrations. It may, for example, occur together with gavorabandon – the occasion of putting a newborn into a cradle for the first time. Russian and European travelers to Bukhara in the early 20th century described the beauty of the local dress and the richness of the jewelry. Women’s clothing in Central Asia retains its traditional sophistication and aesthetic appeal.
SailorsTales 
