September 25, 2003

The San Angelo Weather Station tried their new flood warning message the last part of August. It was the first time in five years that the station needed a flood warning. Conditions were set for flooding. A tropical storm was off Corpus Christi, and a cold spell was poised to come in from the Panhandle.

The forecast from Mathis Field weather station over the telephone hedged the warning to a call of "possible high water in low-lying areas." Much safer sounding than the one on the radio opening with an ominous growling sound like an old pickup starter cranking the final turn on a cold morning. That one said, "Flooding is imminent in the following counties."

Though I was alone at the ranch in a downpour, it's hard to frighten a shortgrasser of high water, especially a shortgrasser 2550 feet above sea level and three miles within a plateau.

The warning further lost impact after reports on the watershed began to come in of a slow half-inch rain. But up here an inch an hour was falling. No matter how drastic the weather conditions, no one calls the ranch. Alex the cook and I spent five days stranded by high water once down at the old ranch. We didn't know until the water ran down, but both banks of Spring Creek had been evacuated without as much as a curious sightseer checking on us, much less a helicopter. This time, however, I was unsure whether anyone called as rain fell on my tin roof so hard, I couldn't sit close enough to the telephone to hear anything except the lightning making the bell jingle. (Takes a fierce storm to electrify an underground line.)

Way back, Goat Whiskers the Elder's wife, Aunt Ella, reported the rainfall at the Whiskers outfit on Dutch Woman draw to the Angelo paper from time to time. Aunt Ella always held jobs requiring integrity. Scorekeeper at the bridge games and the one to do the room counts at the PTA meetings were an example of the trust placed in her.

Aunt was of Canadian origin. She received wide respect out here in the wilderness after she broke and trained her spirited son. The guy known today as Goat Whiskers the Younger was then known as "The Terror of Upper Dutch Woman." I think had she lived a long life, which she didn't, she'd have been a consultant for the rough string at the military schools.

Her second qualification to report rainfall was that Uncle Whiskers had one of the first rain gauges in the country. Most ranches then used coffee cans and wooden rulers as a dipstick. One hombre on the east side of the shortgrass country stuck his thumb inside the can to measure the rainfall. He had a fat thumb, so he always had more rain than any of his neighbors.

Aunt Ella wasn't responsible for giving flood warnings, or I don't think she was. It would have been a good service to have an armed flagman at every draw in this country to keep folks from driving off in high water. Must have been a latent urge to be submarine pilots, because old boys were always bailing off in cars in streams too deep to cross in a wagon.

Before the highway 67 bridge was finished over Rock Pen Draw three miles west of Mertzon in the 1930s, the bridge builders rigged a cable tow line to pull cars across the draw during rises. Water nearly reached the seat in Mother's Model A Ford the morning we crossed. On the other bank, a worker put the fan belt back on, dried the distributor, and off we went to school.

Weren't any signs on Rock Pen crossing saying "No life guard on duty," or "Children must be accompanied by an adult," or "All boaters must wear life preservers." Fording high water was a good lesson for a redheaded boy unable to even dog paddle, much less swim. It taught self-reliance to plunge off into a raging creek full of brown water in a Ford Roadster. (The first time I remember hearing the question, "Are you all right, little boy?" was in a movie in college. Andy Hardy was gently and tenderly helping this kid off the ground after a fall from his swing. Blonde, curly-headed girl from next door watched Andy with adoring eyes for being so kind to the little boy. I remember wondering whether Andy's mom ever took him for a ride across a flooding draw.)

End of August rain is perfect to grow grass. Good thing we don't have warning signals for all bad weather. A drouth signal would be worn out before the end of the first year. I don't remember when Aunt Ella's job ended. Might have just played out during a dry spell.

September 25, 2003

October 2, 2003

Reading classified advertisements is a deep-seated habit. First things I read in the Livestock Weekly are the real estate offerings. I study the ranches in Coahuila, Montana and British Columbia, dreaming the dreams of a 20 year-old setting out to spread my brand across the boundless West and run big steers in the shadow of the image of Mr. Goodnight.

I'm always looking for a chance there might be an outfit cheap enough to finance or lease purchase. Men of my advanced years need to think big. Never know when a deal might arise to take the pressure off the coyote buffer zone we are holding as a seedbed for bitterweed and prickly pear and a Mexican eagle flyway.

The influence of this obsession spurred my imagination. I thought of an advertisement for my outfit the other day while waiting for a truck at the gate leading in from the highway: "Historic West Texas ranch with 11 miles of frontage on major highway. Thirty miles too far west to reach 10-inch annual rainfall belt, needs water well rig to deepen wells." (I had just learned there was worse news than buying a new string of pipe.)

Bit more time passed and this one popped up, "Will care and pasture mother ewes for the next 12 months on halves. Need working partner to furnish 100 tons of number two shelled corn, 30 tons of fine stem alfalfa hay, and 15 tons of molasses blocks. No references needed." Hot on the subject of sheep, I wrote this one, "Old time sheep rancher wants ratio of predators to livestock balanced on his ranges to the sheep's advantage. Can assure privacy for eradicators. Please, no telephone calls."

The working partner idea brought back an old advertisement a rancher east of Angelo ran several times a year in the daily paper: "Ranch job open. Call before 5 a.m. and after 10 p.m. at night. Furnish wood and water." Moved forward to fit the times, "Lady experienced in ranch cooking, care of children, pump and gauge oil wells, ride and doctor sick cattle, have grade school teacher's certificate, needs to relocate east and north of the Mississippi River. Farther north and east the better."

So many items came back, like, "Lost or strayed three year-old red and white bull. Last seen in railroad right of way heading east. Gain positive identification by calling 325-835-2113. Keep bull." Or, an offer to sell cattle, "44 head of short bred Angus heifers. Been running with low birthweight bulls two weeks. Ready to go as soon as quarantine is lifted on ranch."

Toyed with offering the fleet of trucks and pickups parked by rusty trailers at the ranch. "Big dispersion of ranch rolling stock. Homemade bumper and gooseneck trailers, half-ton and ton pickups, propane units, tool boxes and grill guards, collection of lug wrenches and high-lift jacks, tow chains and tow bars, used radiator and gas caps, leaf and coil springs. Need time to apply for new titles and license plates. One, maybe two, of the vehicles are ready for state inspection."

Still no truck, and nobody willing to stop to visit on the highway, I remembered "Old Jelly Roll," the kid horse we bought who threw a bronc rider from Fort Stockton so hard, he threatened to turn us in to the Red Cross for fostering dangerous working conditions. "Jelly Roll" should have been, but wasn't, represented in an advertisement reading: "Nine year-old kid horse. Spur Mark and Cold Jaw breeding. Contact owner and trainer at Community Hospital during visiting hours."

On the horse subject, every night the Big Boss and his polo cronies sat in the back yard of the bunkhouse at the old ranch or met at stables or training fields, they traded horses, praised horses, matched races, and did everything about horses except ride and shoe horses. I'd sure liked to have submitted this offering for one of their pets. To wit: "Swap or sell polo prospect named 'Iguana.' Two expert farriers can change shoes in one-half day. Sound on three feet. Goes back to Glass Eye and Albino Brain. Back even farther to Slouchy Slug and Ex Lax."

By the time the truck came, I'd reviewed Border Collies close to chicken farms needing geographical changes: "Free puppies. Come after children's bedtime," to "Complete dispersal of Mary Kay cosmetic inventory 30 miles north of Van Horn, Texas. No deal too small."

Part of the new West passed through my imagination during my wait. Never had any luck before writing classifieds, but I never had gone so deep into the truth.

October 2, 2003

October 9, 2003

Workmen using staple guns powered by the wallop of air compressors are overhauling the ceiling of the air terminal in San Angelo. Only access to the beams is a stepladder blocking the hall to the men's room. Only way to communicate with the airline agent is by pencil and paper. Only reason I found the right gate is there is one gate for departure and one for return.

On our last trip, regulations required we check in two hours prior to departure, as our destination, Vancouver, British Columbia, is an international flight. Extra time is also needed to inspect all checked and carry-on baggage. Plus, I need 10 minutes additional to extract my passport and driver's license from the money belt inside my pants top. Ten more minutes to close the pouch and buckle my belt. From five minutes to 10 at each stop to correct answers to questions I failed to hear at the onset.

My traveling partner acts as a translator except in restricted areas. After passing through the metal detector, I am on my own. The only part I do real well is extending my arms straight from my body to be searched. As I told the officer, that's the way we used to spread our arms doing swan dives off a rock into "Deep Hole" close to Sherwood. He must have been hard of hearing, too. His response was, "Take off your shoes, mister."

The next challenge was on the ground at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. The airline from Angelo should award "frequent taxiing miles" to customers. The runway must be closer to Waco than to Dallas. Before recent terminal improvements, the planes had to hunt for a parking space. San Angelo must have ranked way low on the priority, as we used to be locked up for 20 extra minutes hunting for the right spot to unload.

Major airlines claim 55 minutes is legal time to change planes at DFW. I don't think the majors factor in jiggling across the tarmac for miles in a commuter, eyes switching from the seatbelt sign to a yearning for the sign "men only" in their timeframe. The big guys must overlook passengers coming off the feeder lines and galloping for a distant gate with a clamor of screeching roll-on wheels adding to the panic of the moment.

Once boarded on the Vancouver flight, I found the "snack" listed on our itinerary was a granola bar, six ounces of yogurt (fruit-flavored), and four ounces of California (black) raisins. Included was a paper napkin the size of a bandana handkerchief — a big bandana — packets of salt and pepper, and a setting of plastic dinnerware.

Being road-wise, my friend and I sprinkled a pinch of salt and a few grains of black pepper on our tongues to deaden the taste buds. Crushed the granola bar in the wrapper and squeezed the raisin sack until the fruit was a near liquid. Poured the topping onto the yogurt. Shaded our eyes with the big napkin to prevent optical gastric reversal. Took bites as big as possible, ignoring even the most basic laws of etiquette. (At times, we play a game called "I dare you." Like, "Dare you to take the first bite," or "Double-dare you to look at your plate before eating.")

No smoking, no cell phones and little food distance the passengers. None of that oldtime congenial sharing of newspapers, or exchanging tales of bad weather and worse connections goes on. This is the age of head-down, fingers dancing across the computer keyboards writing or playing games, or sprawling in a seat to sleep off the tensions of the times.

One seat mate showed us how to unfold the new neck rests on the tops of the seats. But he immediately withdrew into his collar before I could tell him about a cowboy named "Sleepy Jones" who'd bet a hundred dollars he could slip his head from any head catcher ever made. Might have told you about the time "Sleepy" went through a whole work at the old ranch without ever being located except going to the house.

The change to Pacific Time put us into Vancouver Island at 11 o'clock, or one a.m. our time. Once we reached the hotel, we looked like we had washed ashore on a life raft instead of riding jet planes and a taxicab into town. The security guys had been through my checked bag, but I didn't care unless they had confiscated my pajamas. Yogurt, granola and raisins are powerful sleeping potions. Discounting the taste, the combination has some of the characteristics of food.

October 9, 2003

October 16, 2003

Travel bargains on the Internet are fast replacing grandchildren stories among the graybeards and granny set. Travelocity.com must be flying lots of folks around, as I hear of round-trip tickets to faraway resorts rich in luxury for less than the cost of a weekend playing dime a card bingo at the YMCA.

On our trip last month to Vancouver Island, I used a booking service to reserve an efficiency apartment at the Meridian Bay Hotel. Allow me, please, to go over the procedure: Me, the chump, logs in "vancouver.com" and clicks on the screen for hotel reservations. Views all the bargain rates. Loses his confidence booking online and calls the service's 800 number. Over the wire, loses his judgement, gives a friendly voice his credit card number for a deposit in the amount of $100 U.S. dollars or $130 Canadian to hold the space.

Then at checkout days later, the polite room clerk presents a bill for less than the rate quoted by the reservation service. Exhilarated by the unexpected windfall, overtips the bell man and makes a departure in a cab with a flourish befitting a northeastern banking magnate. Once back home, reality tolls the sad tune for a sucker in the form of a credit card bill showing the scoundrels at the reservation service charged the down payment payable to their account on the date of first contact.

Don't think I am going to admit to my luncheon group that I was skinned by an upstart of a booking service after all the time I've spent trying to wheedle a discount or an upgrade from every innkeeper on my path. Don't you go blabbing it around, either, how a gang of Canadian swindlers gave ol' Noelke a bitter lesson without ever straining a dot-com or exerting the energy to cradle a telephone for longer than five minutes. Sure makes a good story on a pirate ship to have a guy on board who didn't even have to be blindfolded to walk the plank.

Vancouver Island, however, was so pleasant I don't regret the loss. We rode a small bus around the clean city the first day, locating the museums, the gardens and restaurants. Unlike Toronto, Vancouver's tourist business hasn't been plagued by the horror virus SARS. Hotels showed decent occupancy rates; restaurants required reservations for the prime times to eat.

On the tour, the guide pointed to a grocery store featuring sourdough French bread flown from Paris every night for $90 Canadian a loaf. The lady sitting behind us sighed so deep her arms drew up in the sleeves of her dress.

"My lands, how many slices in a loaf of bread?"

The guide was already talking about Chinatown: Forty percent of the city is Asiatic. Chinatown is the safest neighborhood in all Vancouver. Only things sold under the table are live frogs. Ha, ha. (Tour guide talks in italics; the lady in quotation marks.)

"Good lands, how much is that a slice?"

Ten dollars, lady. Dolly Parton's son lives on Royal Street to the right. Likes to play hockey. To your left is where Henry Bankston, age eight, did the highest "wheelie" ever recorded on a tricycle. Ha, ha.

"Isn't it exciting to know where Dolly Parton's son lives? Wonder how old he is?"

First stop was the Granville Island Public Market. Huge affair of some 50,000 square feet filled with fresh cut flowers, baskets of blue berries and raspberries —plump and juicy — food stalls from all over the world and a solid mass of shoppers filling bags with cheeses and fresh fish.

Be back on the bus at 5:45. Anyone five minutes late will learn the cab fare back to their hotel. Ha, ha.

"May I stay on the bus? Cab drivers are reckless drivers. Cost a fortune to ride. Bad influence; brought my grandson home drunk one night."

As we crossed back to Vancouver Island, the sunset cast a film over the sea water like a veil dyed with rose petals.

We are now going to take you to see Stanley Park, named after Lord Stanley. Off Prospect Point, we'll see large black diving cormorants and beautiful great blue herons four feet tall with a wingspan of six feet. Maybe our bus driver Diane can shine the bus's lights over the water.

"My lands, sure is dark. How we going to see the black birds in the dark?" Before an answer could be made, "My stars, parks sure are dangerous places to be after nightfall."

Cormorants glow in the dark. Diane keeps a pistol and a flashlight under the seat to shoot bandits. Ha, ha.

Must have been 9 p.m. by the time the bus dropped us off at our hotel. Hard to sleep after seeing the street where Dolly Parton's son lives.

Last the lady said was, "My lands, you sure are a good tour guide. I'll tell the girls back home how to find you."

October 16, 2003

October 23, 2003

During my stop in Vancouver last month, I visited the old railroad hotel where the Big Boss and I stayed on a long-ago trip. The Boss and I had been camping so long in the woods, the room clerk probably thought we were fur trappers or Eskimos fresh from fish drying camp.

Fashions swelled formal in the 1940s in places swinging crystal chandeliers and spreading white linen cloths for china cups. On the afternoon my friend and I had a drink at the Hotel Vancouver, however, the Big Boss and I would have been overdressed among the table of guests wearing dungarees and scuffed exercise shoes. Aerobic exercise gives folks license to dress a notch above a sheep shearer's costume.

To be free to go where I please on the road, I pack a dark sweater for a coat, a pair of serge pants, a somber tie, and a blue oxford shirt. In high-class joints enforcing a dress code, I address the Maitre D's with "indeed," or "I beg your pardon." My biggest success was the "Pump Room" in Chicago; my biggest failure was a dance hall in San Antonio, "The Roaring Twenties." Sure hurts the pride to be directed to the coat rack to be stylish enough to go in a Texas honky-tonk.

But it was the Vancouver Art Gallery across the street from the hotel that lured us downtown to catch the flavor of the country. (Canadians call art museums galleries.) Art museums don't depend on the sun. The shadows are drawn or painted on the work hanging on the walls. The stillness, the quietness of the halls, settles the strain of travel. (I am supposing you want to know why a herder goes to an art exhibit.) On a Sunday afternoon, the visitors are off work. Guards stand mute as figures on canvas. The front desk keeps time. Verities in the weather make not the slightest difference. Your poke is safe. Babies sleep in carriages; mothers find refuge in the colors.

Doesn't mean I am interested in or appreciate all art. After spending the summer at the ranch with my 20 year-old grandson, I am having a hard time keeping from seeing the world through his eyes. A personal matter, but a very serious one for a graybeard to overcome. I'd be standing in front of a huge, classical oil painting featuring cream-colored, red-lipped cherubs, aristocratic ladies in plumed black hats wearing gold sequined gowns, and find myself imagining that a subject winked. Worse, I might offer to help a strange lady dismount from a cab, or fight an urge to pull out chairs for strangers. Go ahead and laugh, but you won't laugh if one of your grandchildren turns into a sorcerer.

On the third floor of the gallery, a prominent Canadian artist, Emily Carr, was on exhibit. What I found was a quote of hers that might explain better why hombres packing brushes and easels paint. "Everything is waiting and still. Slowly things begin to move, to slip into their places. Groups and masses and lives tie together. Colors you have not noticed come out timidly and boldly. In and out, in and out your eye passes. Nothing is crowded; there is living space for all."

On a tip from a guide book, we spent one morning and part of an afternoon in Stanley Park at the Vancouver Public Aquarium. Our focus was on the Beluga whales. The aquarium has three adults and one calf. Braving mobs of kids and harried parents, we held a spot looking through glass watching the underwater antics of the huge white beasts. At times the whales' faces were a couple of feet from our vantage point. Hudson Bay and the strait off Nova Scotia offer lots of whale sightings, but never as close as these in captivity. (Yes, you guessed. The whales are going to have to be released in the wilds.)

Being among so many kids was like trying to sleep in the jungle full of hyena packs on a moonlit night. We gave ground before we hit a baby buggy axle, or stumbled on a rattle. Went upstairs just in time to see a giant octopus unroll into a mass of waving orange tentacles. Thanks to Walt Disney, people are terrified of octopuses. My Aunt Myrtle was a lot like Mr. Disney at making up fantasies. Aunt M had us so scared of tarantulas, we had a hard time coming within BB-gun range to kill one.

I am sure the Boss checked us in at the Hotel Vancouver. I know he bought us each a tweed suit to wear to dinner. I know it was my first time in a Chinatown. I just had to go at night. I was terrified, but then as now, wanted to bring a story back to Mertzon…

October 23, 2003

October 30, 2003

On the fifth morning in Vancouver, we checked out of the hotel and crossed the bay to meet a ship to go up the Inland Passage. Went to the docks on Granville Island and boarded the Sea Bird, owned by Lindblad Expeditions.

Our cabin was next to the captain's on the top deck. Beds, bedding and bath ranked 10 to 20 times superior to a rusty little German tub we once sailed on in the Galapagos Islands. Sleeping on a life preserver on the deck of the Sea Bird would have been superior to the bunk beds in the hold of the Gallapago vessel.

You may have forgotten us having to carry an oar on the decks of the Galapagos boat to kill cockroaches, but I sure remember swatting those black monsters until the decks were as slick in carnage as a whaling ship. As we were to learn, gulls following the Sea Bird ate better than we did on a cabbage diet on the Pacific trip. Toward the end of that voyage, the passengers would have jumped overboard if they'd had the strength left to climb over the rail.

Right off, the style of the Sea Bird came forth in the salon. At the first briefing, flutes of champagne stood on a buffet among plates of cheese and smoked delicacies. All 45 passengers had plenty of space to eat and drink at tables and sofas. Trained servers whisked away empty glasses and plates. Corks popped; more hot and cold appetizers appeared from the galley. Linblad has a reputation of style among travelers. Here it was first-hand.

The small ship and the reduced size of the passenger list gave us more for our money. Little or no time was spent waiting in line, or the proverbial delay for late arrivals holding up the programs. The economy and the curse of the September 11 tragedy are probably the reasons for the reduced bookings. We docked once next to a cruise ship carrying 3000 people. Lines leading to the gangplank looked like the mobs going into a football stadium for a Saturday playoff. Made the 70-passenger capacity of the Sea Bird sound like a life raft floating into harbor.

In the introduction of the staff, the captain said he grew up in Georgetown, north of Austin. The lakes on the Colorado River are the largest bodies of water close to Georgetown. Whatever talent the captain had for sailing, it sure wasn't an early beginning. He must have been self-conscious about being raised a landlubber, as he pitched in helping the crew load our gear. The few ship captains I'd known considered pulling out the chair for young ladies as heavy duty.

Departing from Vancouver was a slow cruise of the entire harbor area. Rain clouds cleared, arching a rainbow off port side. Decks were not crowded. No demands were made to dress for dinner, or restrictions imposed on seating in the dining room. I suppose such a small ship with a small passenger list was close to being a private charter.

The following days on the Inland Passage going north passed into narrow inlets and calm, deep fjords formed centuries ago by glaciers. Massive western red cedars made 200 foot long reflections in the water. Fragments of clouds fogged the upper reaches of the banks into white streamers frosting a green conifer background. Light mist cooled the hikes in to waterfalls and forest trails. The nautically inclined paddled kayaks in the still waters. Rare was the sight or sound of boat traffic. Ferries ran on reduced schedule because of the lateness of the season. Passengers seeking solitude were able to find empty chairs on the deck.

Servers in the dining room, young adventurous kids, had difficulty understanding my Southern drawl. First evening, my order of roast duck came as a breast of chicken. Table mates laughed until a second order of roast duck turned out to be chicken for an old boy from Boston, who spoke universal English. More laughter and more wine as the other diners carved thick strip sirloins while the Boston guy and I ate an indifferent piece of fried chicken.

Mid-meal, the waitress caught the mistake. Aghast, she wanted to know what to do. Being appreciative of the language barrier and the temperament of sea cooks, I suggested she ask the cook to draw a picture of a chicken as a basic test. The cook may have been at sea so long he forgot the difference between a chicken and a duck. Never was able to catch her eye again to see if he'd comply.

Days became as calm as the water. Hardest work was raising our field glasses to our eyes or removing a marker from a book. A glorious time it was to be sailing the Inland Passage. Thus relaxed, my enunciation must have improved, as I was able to order duck one night for dinner.

October 30, 2003

November 6, 2003

Before leaving for Canada, I called Linblad Expeditions to know whether we were going to make wet landings on the trip up the Inland Passage. That's important to know, as rubber boots take up a lot of space. Shoes seasoned in the shortgrass country take days to dry on a ship in a humid climate.

The worry was unnecessary. The crew was careful boarding us from the ship's deck on zodiacs (rubber boats). On shore, they had enough people to pull the zodiac onto the bank. So much concern was shown about making the three-foot drop from deck to zodiac safe that on my turn the sailors sighed in relief once I was seated in the middle of the zodiac. The life jacket over my wet suit looked as trim as a deep sea diving outfit. I am sure I won the middle seat to be the ballast.

On one walk, we saw not a feather or a track across the trails. Every clearing was a fresh green meadow. Perfect setting for a deer or an elk. I suspect as late as September, migration or hibernation might be the reason for no game. The city folks invigorated by the fresh air were having a romp like an Irish setter released from his kennel. I didn't want to spoil the fun by asking the guide where the animals were.

The only port where the ship docked on the northward trip was at Alert Bay to go ashore and see the unveiling of a totem pole. We walked a mile or so along the bay to reach the site of the ceremony. Understand, totem poles are only mysterious to white men. The first nation people, or Indians, carve the poles to portray family history, or perhaps go so far as to record the family's enemies.

Appreciate, too, that the potlatch ceremonies of the Northwestern tribes are difficult to understand. When the people gather for a potlatch, the hosts give presents to friends and enemies alike and again present the family history. The family has two years after a death to be at peace before they can hold a potlatch commemorating the dead. (As many estate squabbles as I've witnessed, two years would equal the first round of golf on a miniature course for us to ever potlatch.)

Further proof we can't understand totems and potlatches: in 1870, the government prohibited potlatches in Canada. Came and seized the relics, interrupting historic succession of the families, never to be completely returned. The law wasn't enforced, but the damage was done.

But back to the unveiling of the totem pole. Here we are all standing: guest from the ship, the tribe, the chief, school children, a Mountie and dancers in colorful costumes. Wind off the bay whips and pops a blue plastic tarp large enough to cover a 20-foot totem pole. The chief welcomes us and his people. Calls for a moment of silence to honor a friend who has died today — an English fellow. Claps for the dancers to begin. Gives off a radiant friendly countenance. Next, a few words spoken in his language.

And then the discovery that the wind has fouled the ropes to drop the tarp. The chief laughs and says, "Go on up to the Big House for a dance and food. Fred will come with his bucket truck and remove the tarp." (At this moment, a special thing occurs. Two high school boys start to pass in front of us, then pause and say, "Excuse me." I feel faint.)

Up at the Big House, a log structure the size of a gymnasium with a huge fire burning in the center, the young people dance in costumes. "Hi-yea, Hi-yea," the singers chant to the beat of boys and girls doing more than an act. In the end, the ship passengers join in the line, laughing and dancing. Minutes after the dance, a long table of food is spread so no one can leave without passing by servers. (Laws governing tour operators require one folk dance per trip. The most focused dancers are the wild Huli Wig Men in the Southern Highlands of New Guinea. The pygmies' eyes literally feast on the audience.)

First, I asked the Royal Canadian Policeman about his assignment in Alert Bay, expecting crime statistics to be his answer. However, he replied, "I've only been here three months. I like it. The people serve food at every function." Second, a lady comes over, scolding me to eat. I ask her if her tribe can communicate with the Navajo people as I had read. She laughed and said, "Not only can we not communicate, the ones I tried to talk to in New York were so solemn I gave up talking in English or the dialects. Now, get some food."

Several times during the trip and in supplemental reading, there were explanations of totem poles and the potlatches. I suppose if we could defend our death customs, then we would understand why a generous tribe of men exists.

November 6, 2003