Friday Five (on a Saturday): World Cup Wonderings Week Three

Herewith, the latest instalment:

1. The stars are out to play. Mbappe and Haaland may be taking over from Messi and Rondaldo as the newer generation of super strikers. Goals galore are also expected from the likes of Kai Havertz and Vinicius Junior, while I am quietly keeping an eye on Harry Kane and Jude Bellingham. it was also noted that Mo Salah scored his first World Cup goal helping Egypt to win their first World Cup match (3-1 v NZ). How have they not done this before now? They are now in the round of 32: let's hope their successful run continues.
2. Meanwhile, other so-called celebrities are less illuminating. Those from the realm of music and film are recognisable: Mick Jagger; Matt Damon; Penelope Cruz; Javier Bardem; Tom Cruise; Billy Bob Thornton; Rob Lowe; Owen Wilson; Sofia Vergara; Alanis Morisette; Ryan Reynolds, to name but several. There are also plenty of former footballers out and about, notably David Beckham, Roberto Carlos, Ronaldo, Alexia Putellas, Zinedine Zidane, and Luis Suarez. The VIP lounges are full of champagne and prawn sandwiches, but the English commentators hilariously fail to recognise any 'stars' of American sports. The cameras pan to the supposed superstar who has no interest in the match and is purely there to be seen and dead air ensues while the commentator is clearly being told who that might be, before they announce it is of course some legend from letters (NFL; NBA; MLB). Until last week I had never heard of Patrick Mahomes, Marshawn Lynch, Jalen Brunson, Dirk Nowitzki, or Aaron Judge, I'm pretty sure many of the UK commentators hadn't either. Welcome to Corporate America.
3. Staying with transatlantic travesties, what are they trying to do to our language? When did transition become a footballing term? I know what it means, as a team tries to play out from the back through the midfield towards the opposition goal, but of course Americans need a new way to explain moving from DEEfence to OFFfence. While we're here, it is nil not zero, pitch not field, shirt not jersey, clean sheet not shut out, boots not cleats, manager not coach; striker not forward; squad not roster, and definitely club not franchise. Franchises have no place in sport. And teams are plural. You may be You Ess Eh? But We Are England.

4. On the subject of FIFA faffing, it never rains but it pours. We are now all aware of the sporting rain and weather protocols: we learned that U.S. sporting protocol requires a mandatory wait time of thirty minutes after the last observed lightning strike or thunder before play can resume. Every time a new lightning strike occurs within the designated danger radius (typically 8 miles or 13 km), the 30-minute countdown clock resets completely. So, after the start of the Mexico v Ecuador game was delayed by an hour, we were all expecting that there would be no hydration break, especially because FIFA announced that there wouldn't be. However, as the temperatures plummeted to 14 degrees, everyone was adequately cool and refreshed, and the momentum of the match was cracking along exceptionally energetically, Fox must have called FIFA and reminded them of the money they were making through the ads, and so we were 'treated' to one after all. What an absolute shower.
5. The super-subs: Over 20% of goals scored have been by substitutes, and many of these within mere moments of the sub coming off the bench. There are plenty of reasons for this, namely, it's only the second World Cup that has allowed teams to make five substitutions, and also, the fatigue of the existing players means the fresh legs are particularly valuable. It's hot, it's humid, some stadiums are at altitude, and this combination of factors causes players' performances to drop off towards the end of the match. It makes thing interesting if nothing else. Mattias Svanberg scored in the 84th minute for Sweden in their 5-1 victory over Tunisia, 18 seconds after stepping onto the pitch and with his very first touch in a set piece. Romelu Lukaku made a near-instant impact for Belgium in the 66th minute against Egypt. A mere 22 seconds after his introduction, his powerful run forced an Egyptian defender to turn the ball into his own net, rescuing a 1–1 draw. Coming on as a late tactical change in the 90+5 minute against Algeria, the Austrian Saša Kalajdžić met a crossed ball with his first touch to power home an equalizer just 61 seconds later. The dramatic finish meant that Iran were knocked out of the tournament as a 3rd place getter with insufficient points. When Switzerland played Bosnia and Herzegovina in their group-stage match, four of the five goals were scored by subs. As always, fans are often disappointed when their favourites are subbed off, but when it works, the manager is considered a tactical genius. Conversely, Australian manager Tony Popovic subbed on experienced captain, Matthew Ryan in the 119th minute of extra time to replace starting goalkeeper Patrick Beach for the penalty shootout against Egypt. The high-stakes strategic gamble ultimately backfired, as Ryan was unable to save any of Egypt's four penalties, resulting in elimination for the Socceroos in the round of 32.

Enough to bruise a heart

The Easter Parade by Richard Yates

(Vintage) Pp. 226

Along with Revolutionary Road, this compact and expressive work is considered to be one of Richard Yates’ finest novels. His vision of all-American self-loathing and entrapment is bleak and painful to read, while his characters are well drawn with sharp outlines. The opening line sets the tone: “Neither of the Grimes sisters would have a happy life, and looking back it always seemed that the trouble began with their parents’ divorce.” From there it is all steadily downhill and increasingly out of control.

The two sisters are Sarah and Emily: “Sarah was the dark one, with a look of trusting innocence that would never leave her; Emily, a head shorter, was blond and thin and very serious.” The novel is comprised of short descriptions without excessive detail; Yates tells stories and expresses thought and emotions succinctly. Over a span of forty years the girls grow up: their father leaves; they get careers and relationships and marriage and children; their mother, Pookie, goes into a home; and they try and live a life and be happy, but they aren’t.

Sarah marries an abusive man and succumbs to suburban depression; Emily has a succession of men; Pookie constantly tries to make up for being left by a man: they are all dominated by the need for male approval and validation, which chimes discordantly in this era. They seem to only validate their existence through male eyes. When Emily questions her older sister as to why she stays with a man who beats her, Sarah answers, “It’s a marriage. If you want to stay married, you learn to put up with things.” Emily suspects there may be alternatives and goes to college to major in English.

She moves to the city and takes on a series of not-very-important jobs in advertising, losing herself in unfulfilling relationships and drink. She begins to feel disillusioned as she ages. What options were there for women? Emily tells Sarah she could leave her husband and do something else, but what? “The only thing she could picture was Sarah working as a receptionist in some doctor’s or dentist’s office. (Where did all those pleasant, inefficient middle-aged ladies come from, and how had they gotten their jobs?)”

The relationships are all full of anger and spite, and the writing reflects this nasty misogyny. Emily’s husband, Andrew, tells her in intimate detail how much he hates her body (when they have been married for less than a year) in a degrading and objectifying manner, with no consideration of her mind. “I hate your sensitive little tits. I hate your ass and your hips, the way they move and turn; I hate your thighs, the way they open up. I hate your waist and your belly and your great hairy mound and your clitoris and your whole slippery cunt.”

These women are constantly trying to numb themselves from the sharp edges of the world in which they live. They turn inward, but they don’t like what they see there either, in what is a novel of profound sadness where the omnipresence of alcohol and ill health (both mental and physical) are reminiscent of Eugene O’Neill.

When the girls are young, Sarah dresses up to participate in the Easter Parade with her beau, and they are photographed in an image which will cause Emily lasting jealousy of their frozen-in-time happiness. But, whereas Easter usually signals new beginnings and hope, this is Richard Yates, so there is only stagnation and despair. This book may be small, but it is powerful, and the punch it packs is enough to bruise a heart.

Edward Woodward (1930-2009)

I first heard of Edward Woodward when we were living in America and The Equalizer was on television. Apart from my parents, the only English accents I heard regularly were the ones on television – you know, how Americans thought we talked in the 80s; the Joan Collins/Stephanie Beacham type – they were good for playing the cold-hearted bitch on soap operas it seemed – or the stuffy housekeeper Mr Belvedere type.

I was desperately missing tough gritty English accents and so I loved The Equalizer immediately. Edward Woodward was a British former secret agent or something who was now working for the Americans and cleaning up the stuff that they couldn’t (often involving pesky Ruskies) like a slightly more contained Michael Caine – he didn’t blow any bloody doors off that I recall. Actually, I don’t recall much about it at all apart from the voice, the fact that he wore a long gangster/football manager coat and looked like he couldn’t run to save himself. And yet, curiously, I loved it!

I later discovered that he was a very fine actor and a pretty good footballer. He apparently played for both Leyton Orient and Brentford and studied at RADA. He trod the boards as a real Shakespearean actor in Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet in the West End in the mid 1950s, before taking his talents to Broadway and Australia. It’s rare for an actor to be so well received on both side of the Atlantic so that’s a fair testament to his appeal.

Him Outdoors rates The Wicker Man (1973) as one of the scariest films ever – he says there’s atmospheric tension and a horrific final scene that makes you question human nature – I’m too scared to ever watch it. So Edward Woodward’s versatility spanned stage, film, TV and even musical comedy; High Spirits (1964-1965) won three Tony Awards.

However, I remember him most fondly because he features in one of my favourite jokes.

Q: What do you call a man with a tree on his head?
A: Edward
Q: What do you call a man with three trees on his head?
A: Edward Woodward
Q: What do you call a man with four trees on his head?
A: I don’t know either but I bet Edward Woodward would
Q: Why has Edward Woodward got so many ‘d’s in his name?
A: Because otherwise he’d be called Ewar Woowar.

Apparently this is a Morecambe & Wise joke, but I first heard it from a friend whom I ever afterwards called Ewar – that’s how he is programmed into my phone. He disappeared into the mountains for a while and I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years, until I saw someone who looked a lot like him running around the Southern Bays in the Harbour Capital Wellington Marathon.

I yelled out “Come on Ewar” and he grinned (grinned, I tell you, at about 30km into the race) and laughed, “No one’s called me that for a while!” I was riding my bike and he kept pace with me chatting for a bit. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done that. He came fourth in a time of 2:49:57 (30 seconds behind the chap in third). I wonder what Edward Woodward would have done.

Happy Blog-day

I see it's been a year since I started this blog. I had no idea where it would take me when I began. I checked out the 'labels' which tell me the topics I have written about most. It may not surprise those that know me to learn that the top five are:

• Liverpool Football Club
• theatre and plays
• travel (Italy & America)
• beer
• sport in general

So those would appear to be my main interests. Should I put them on my CV?

Friendship is...

If love is never having to say you're sorry (which I actually don't believe), then perhaps friendship is not having to say anything at all. I think of this because one of my favourite ways to spend time with friends and loved ones is in companionable silence.

The day we left America, Our Gracious Hostess and I sat at her dining room table drinking herbal tea, she looking up scrapbooking websites and me writing my diary. We hadn't seen each other for a long time and didn't know when we would see each other next - it could be years - but there was no need to babble on.

It reminded me of those times during our childhood when we sat quietly for hours flipping through magazines, painting our nails, drawing pictures, reading books... Occasionally we would look up and share a snippet of information, but most of the time we just worked quietly together.

There is a type of person who you know so well that there is no need for words. A look, a smile, a sigh or a gesture says it all. When I was a child I would often take a book into my brother or sisters' room and just sit on the floor or propped on the bed reading while they did their homework or listened to their records. It wasn't that I wanted to say anything, but I did want company. My cat is really good at this. He comes and sits near me, flicking an ear every now and then to let me know he's aware of my presence, but he doesn't say a lot. I like it.

Often we fill this silence with empty chatter - almost overcome by a need to say something, to prove our wit or our existence. We are almost afraid of silence as though it is somehow impolitie to be with someone and not talk to them. But when you have grown up with someone or shared so many experiences, there is no need for phatic communication.

I'm not good at small talk and I hate 'networking' or going to parties where I don't know anyone (this picture is not typical of what happens to me at such events) and I have to pretend I'm interested in what they've got to say. Sometimes I am, but often (especially it involves their children - which it invariably does with women over the age of 30 - or their salary to mortgage ratio) I'm not, and I can't bear the whole 'smile, nod, interject' routine.

This becomes even harder as I get older, and I fear I don't make new friends as well as I might. I miss being around my old friends and family - people who know where I went to school and what's my favourite colour and the terrible relationship mistakes I made. They know all that and accept it, so we don't have to go over it all again.

We can talk about things we really want to talk about, have pointless conversations, such as the definition of a sit-com; why religion and politics mix in America but not Britain; how easy is it to live without seasons; or we can simply say nothing at all.

Under a Big Sky

This is almost the final instalment in the Great Tour of America and Italy from last year - I just thought I'd capitalise that to make it look Big and Important - a trick learned from A.A. Milne. I'm going to need to go on another trip to get some more adventures about which to blog. In the meantime...

Lone Pine apparently used to have an iconic pine tree which has since blown down, so the town should really be renamed No Pine.

We have missed their 19th film festival by a day. This festival celebrates Westerns and famous actors such as Gary Cooper, Hop-along Cassidy, Kirk Douglas and the bloke who played the Lone Ranger. The surrounding mountains have been used as scenery for many a film.

John Wayne stayed in the very same hotel as we do. Our room is old-fashioned with a Wild West feel – there are stencilled images printed on the wooden furniture, a green and purple flowery carpet, and a friendly receptionist.

Dinner at the Merry-Go-Round restaurant is delicious. In keeping with the area, I have pea soup and then filet steak with beans and twice-baked potato. We share a bottle of Pepper Grove cabernet sauvignon which is a Californian wine imported from Napa. The restaurant is in a building like a tent or an octagonal big top and the food is excellent. I enjoy the atmosphere and it is the perfect end to a great day.

The next morning we wake up to the most amazing scenery. Wow, what a view! We’re flanked by real cowboy mountains; jagged peaks haunted with boulders and topped with snow. Him Outdoors discovers the trail up Mt Whitney is one that can be walked in a couple of days and he is itching to get up there.

Unfortunately we haven’t got a couple of days so we quickly explore the town (which sells crystals, rocks, wood carvings, pottery, moccasins, cowboy boots, belts, fringed jackets, cowboy hats and crockery) and have breakfast at a diner where the owner collects butter churns. Her admission of this fact leads to an unsolicited conversation with a punter who collects random antiques from radios to roller-skates.

We drive on again through towns such as Big Pine and Independence, the administrative centre of Inyo County complete with a courthouse and, according to its brochure, ‘a patriotic flag-waving Fourth of July celebration, featuring an early-morning flag-raising, pancake breakfast, a 4km/10km run/walk, a nice small-town parade, delicious home-made ice cream and pie social, kids’ activities (including a frog jumping contest), an arts and crafts show, deep-pit barbecue and, to complete an exciting day, a sunset fireworks show.’

Bishop is less dramatic. As well as the usual Denny’s, Burger King, MacDonald’s, Taco Bell, KFC and Karl Jnr, the town boasts such gems as Spellbinder Books and Coffee, Brock’s Flyfishing Specialists, Anne Marie’s Wedding Register, El Dorado Saving’s Bank, Giggle Springs Gasoline Market, Jumpin Juice and Java, Erick Schatt’s Bakery, and The Meat House.

This is an outdoor paradise with its clean air and bright light. We are in the High Sierras where people come to fish, hunt, shoot, trek, cycle, hike, and generally revel in the bluest skies I’ve seen outside Queenstown. We approach Sherwin Summit (7,000ft) where the steep sides of the archetypal American mountains are clad with pine trees and a sprinkling of snow.

Road signs promise twisting roads and bounding deer for the next umpteen miles. There are signs to Tom’s Place and an exhortation to report drunk drivers to the police. The landscape of boulders and trees is dotted with wilderness lodges, and paths wind through the scenery, beckoning runners to follow. Him Outdoors says, ‘This is my sort of stuff. I like this.’

Death Valley 2

We stop for lunch at Furnace Creek where the gift shop sells pawn jewellery (genuine Native American turquoise and silverwork that they have pawned to spend up large at the casino probably), kids’ books about spiders, snakes and lizards, and cute cuddly tarantulas.

I have a mesquite salad (smoked chicken, toasted pecans, salad greens, red onion and mandarin slices with lime and cilantro dressing) while Him Outdoors chooses a taco salad. This collection of beans, chicken, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, olives, guacamole and sour cream in a big taco shell is a sort of Mexican equivalent of a giant Yorkshire pudding.

The wind has died down but the sun is still relentless as we press on for a stroll along the boardwalk at salt creek, looking for pupfish (so called because they ‘play like puppies’). These amazing creatures have adapted to changing climactic conditions and can live in springs as warm as 30°C and in streams whose water can be five times as salty as the ocean. There aren’t any fish and we can’t see any water, but there must be some moisture as there is plenty of pickleweed, introducing rare greenery to the park.

Mosaic Canyon has beautiful marble-like slides on one side and rocks popping out of rubble like polished concrete on the other. The late afternoon sun casts shadows and patterns on the sand dunes. The temperature plummets as the sun dips behind the hills, and the reds, pinks, yellows and golds give way to browns, greys, purples and blues. The full moon appears ghostly in the sky above the Cottonwood Mountains; the coyotes will have something to howl at tonight.

We leave Death Valley behind. It got its name in 1849 when the California Gold Rush lured short-cut-seeking wagon parties through here. Only one wagon made it out, and one of their party died in the valley. Another member of the party turned and said, ‘Goodbye Death Valley’ and the name stuck.

The muted pinks of Panamint Valley are cool and gentle in the twilight. The moon rises high and the stars begin to come out; there are still no clouds to block the sky. It is pierced only by the silhouettes of the Joshua trees on the horizon, like Injuns creeping over the crest of the hill.

If the creationists are right, then Death Valley must be either a mistake or a hoax. It is as though the maker was going through an experimental phase and here is his waste basket into which he threw everything that didn’t quite work.

Perhaps this was the ‘difficult second’ for which he grew his hair, took some mind expanding drugs and produced a concept album in a gatefold sleeve, which he called Death Valley. And he saw that it was distinctly odd.

Death Valley 1

As if America isn’t weird enough, it has Death Valley, where visitors to the park are greeted by coyotes and massive ravens. Joshua trees pockmark the scenery and the sun picks out the contours and the ripples on the sand dunes. There are fantastic colours in the rocks – who would have thought it could be so brutally beautiful?

Apparently a lot of car companies come here to test drive new vehicles. There is no test track as such, but the varied terrain and dramatic change in temperature and altitude are perfect to try out engines and breaks.

Mt Whitney, the highest point in ‘the lower 48 states’ is less than 100 miles from Badwater Basin – elevation -282feet and the lowest point in North America. The temperature changes 5°C for every 1,000 feet, and there are three ranges of approximately 10,000 feet and two valleys of searing hot temperatures within the park, which would certainly create some challenging driving conditions.

Despite it's unprepossessing facade, the Ensenada Grill does a good breakfast. The cheerful, sunny roadside diner has Mexican music and jolly toothless staff. The décor may be basic (plastic covers over yellow tablecloths and woven red and green tablemats) but the food is good. We both have Ensenada skillets – Him Outdoors has one with ham, bacon and chorizo sausage, while my vegetarian version has peppers, mushrooms, broccoli, potatoes, onions and tomatoes.

Him Outdoors chooses tortillas and I have biscuits and gravy as my stodge – again, very basic but hearty. The gravy is a cracked pepper white sauce. Both are accompanied with homemade salsa and endless cups of black filter coffee from a pot, with which the waitress just keeps filling our cups. How I love it; and how Kiwis with their precious and pretentious ‘coffee culture’ would loathe it.

The wind is ferocious at Ryolite, an old ghost town. When gold was discovered in the early 1900s, 10,000 people flocked here – three railroads and many buildings emerged, including casinos and a three-storey bank. The boom went bust as the price of gold fell through the floor and the ensuing panic ended the gold rush by 1912. Now the town is eerie with the sound of bits of bank and casino flapping and whistling in the wind, and signs by dilapidated stores caution ‘Rattlesnakes’.

In a strange sculpture park is a lego-woman. She is made from pink blocks with long blonde hair and a yellow pubic triangle. Her big pert breasts stick straight out in front at right angles and she is on her knees. Is this how pioneers thought women should look? Some men have not moved on in a hundred years.

Entering Death Valley National Park again, we cross the state line. The sign welcoming drivers to Nevada is riddled with bullet holes. The mustard coloured hills bear testament to the harvesting of borax at Harmony.

Old pictures show the mines and mule trains – this area is certainly rich in minerals and was ripe for exploitation until Congress passed the Mining in Parks Act in 1976, which restricted and regulated mining in Death Valley for the first time. The park is now closed to new mining claims, and previously established claims and mines are closely monitored.

The colours at Zabriskie Point, and indeed everywhere, must change hourly and would be worth photographing throughout the day. This is a crazy place full of geological treasures.

The National Park brochure claims, ‘The colourful and rugged terrain shouts tales of cataclysmic forces that thrust thick rock layers upwards and of opposing erosional forces battling to tear them down. Desert winds whisper romances of the past – of the ’49ers lured by the glitter of gold and of Chinese labourers scraping borax-rich crystals from the valley floor.'

From Dante’s View, the mineral deposits in the mountains are the colours of the Firenze cathedral’s marble walls. Rivers of salt run down the valley.

At Badwater Basin, below sea level, salt flats stretch for miles; their crusty layers look like a particularly unappetizing meringue or Kendal mint cake.

Strange miniature pinnacles dot the Devil’s Golf Course and cairns are made from slabs of salt.

The artist’s palette features mounds and bands of many hues, as though the artist has dumped all his colour and pigments into one vivid lump. The residue of the excavated minerals leaves colourful rainbows on the land.

Road trip: Oakhurst - Beatty

At one extreme we have the Cuba Street Carnival on my week in images blog, and over here we have a continuation of the America travel diary. And we are heading to Death Valley...

Him Outdoors is very impressed with the American supermarket – an aisle of cereals including several types of Cheerios; individually wrapped slices of cheese; ginseng and honey in a can; self-service checkouts for clearly honest people.

We drive through infinite swathes of nothingness, questioning of flat, shimmering patches, “Is that the sea?” No, it’s Central Valley California; the fruit and nut (oh yes) producer of California. The faded and dusty American flags hang limply from pick-up truck shops – a total contrast to the bright snapping variety with their jaunty stars and forge-ahead stripes in the waterfront cities.

Boats are for sale by the driving range in Pinedale, but where’s the water, or do people sail away on a mirage of dreams? Apparently Paul Evans sells fun – if your idea of fun is a mobile home, then maybe he does.

We pass a procession of fire trucks and a cardboard city on the edge of Fresno. How can this be when the farmers’ fields are full of corn, cattle, beets and potatoes – there is food for Africa! The suburban giants are advertising hoardings sprouting up along the motorway, signalling Shell, Taco Bell, MacDonald’s, Jack in the Box, Denny’s. One sign reads, ‘People and pets, cremation urns and keepsakes’. There’s a market for everything in America – if you think of it; you can sell it.

There are stop signs at crossroads to nowhere. Delano is characterized by tattooed men in Stetsons driving pick-up trucks with tinted windows. We lock our doors and drive on through. As we approach the brown hills and distant mountains it looks like Graham Sydney country. A large black crow flaps and a wily coyote lopes away from the road kill at the dusty verge.

Many churches present
opportunities to worship along the way – there are Seven Day Adventists; Latter Day Saints; Baptists; Lighthouse Pentecostal, but none of your traditional everyday Catholics, Anglicans and Presbyterians. A forlorn sign pitched in a field of dirt reads, ‘Prayer changes things’ and a white painted cross on a brown barren hillside presides over the wasteland.

China Lake is a strange place – a naval weapons centre in the middle of the desert. There are acres of nuclear testing sites in nearby Nevada. These are represented by featureless purple blocks of shading on the map, and surrounded by a barbed wire perimeter fence in reality with a warning to keep out posted every twenty yards in case you don’t get the message.

Only two shops are in evidence – one sells ‘outdoor additions’ which appear to be gazebos, conservatories, barns and anything else that can conceivably fill the space. The other shop is the Gem and Mineral Society – a gathering of cars suggests the consumption of tacos, hot dogs and car washes offered for sale. Angus is boarded up and derelict; everything is demolished or for sale – this looks like real Mad Max stuff. Dry lakes, salt mines, deserted towns and a naval weapons centre – this really is an odd part of the country.

As the day is getting on, we drive right through Death Valley National Park. A mid-west couple (from New Mexico) tell us at the visitor centre of a ‘groovy little town’ called Beatty in Nevada, on the other side of the park, so we head there. If this is a groovy little town by their standards, I dread to think where they live. The motel we stay at has an industrial shower curtain, strange connecting doors, and a polyester bedspread in blue, orange, pink and yellow, with images of bears, flamingos, Canada geese, shells, skyscrapers, forest scenes and mountains. Still, it’s a room.

We go out to the Sourdough Saloon which we instantly rename the sour faced saloon on account of the extremely unfriendly waitress. The bar is in a horseshoe shape with high stools – there is nowhere else to sit but at the middle of this sea of Stetsons, baseball caps and cigarette smoke. Worrying that we might be sitting in a local’s seat, we order Michelob Amber Bock (the only thing we recognise other than Bud from the list the landlady barks at us). No one else drinks tap beer – it’s all bottles, spirits and Jaeger bombs. A man buys a bottle of vodka, which he wraps in a brown paper bag before leaving.

A turn-off in Beatty leads to Las Vegas, and that’s where many people are expected to go. The ceiling is papered with dollar bills from passers by. One woman swears loudly at her relatives across the bar. Another tells us she moved here two years ago from ‘the high desert in California’. She loves it here and sits out on the porch in the mornings with her coffee watching ‘the beautiful light’. She is not even deterred by the 70 mile drive once a week to Parumph to buy groceries.

The road to our hotel is lined with ammunition cases on sale – I’ve never seen such a collection and am even more disturbed by the potential market. There is a casino next to our motel and the lights flash on and off all night. It’s quite a draw card as there are no legal casinos in California (apart from on Indian land).

I watch True Blood on HBO, a series Our Gracious Hostess has recommended. It is slightly alarming that the images of vampires infiltrating society do not seem out of place in Beatty, Nevada.

Yosemite - Part 3

Ellery and Tioga lakes are semi-frozen and glistening beneath peaks and domes of rock.

We picnic and play ‘Guess the jelly bean flavours’ as we sun ourselves on the rocks at Tuolumne Meadows and startle the fish as we stepping-stone across the river.

Walking up to Cathedral Lakes through the trees, I keep a lookout for bears while Him Outdoors is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of scenery.









I love the big rock faces with large boulders on them that must have come down in floods or avalanches and are now left abandoned behind.

I also love the fact that they are called, 'erratic boulders' which conjures up notions of them nipping off to raves and behaving irresponsibly when no one’s watching.

We walk up and run back down – the huffing and puffing and shuddering should scare away any bears, or make them wet their fuzzy pants as they grown to each other, ‘I thought I was a big lumbering beast – have you seen that?’







There are reflections in Tenaya Lake and a glorious pink light over Half Dome. Glacial erratic boulders abound as we pile out of the car at Olmsted Point to take photos and a bloke tells us proudly of his eight-hour walk earlier in the day, pointing out the peaks he has encountered. A sign says ‘Watch for Rocks’ – Him Outdoors and I say simultaneously, “There’s one!” How childish!

Dark descends as we drive out of the park and come to Buck Meadows on the edge. We check into a motel and continue our American culinary experience with a meatball sandwich for me and a chiliburger for Him Outdoors.

I have a Fat Tire Amber Ale, which is nutty and malty, while Him Outdoors tries the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. They come in frosted schooners which are way too cold and turn the beer to slush – it’s much more palatable when it warms up.

Walking back to the motel, we are accompanied by the clear night sky. The starts are so beautiful; forgive me for sounding like an old hippy, but the Northern Hemisphere constellations are like dear friends. Hello Great Bear.

Yosemite - Part 2

Because of last night’s snow many of the roads are closed but we are able to see ‘the big trees’. Our Gracious Hosts arrived last night, so in the morning we all head off for a walk to Mariposa Grove where the giant sequoia trees grow.

These beautiful natural creations need fire to regenerate – a fact which was noticed by accident after many years of park protection when the rangers couldn’t work out why they weren’t growing. Now controlled burn-offs help these trees to germinate – this doesn’t mean they all start turning German, but the fires clear away the competing firs and cedars, and expose bare mineral soil for the seeds to take root. Only one in a million seeds takes hold and the trees only shed them once every two years – they’re not great odds. Nature can be tough!

The fabulous red trunks with their massive girth are almost too big to photograph, so Our Gracious Hostess and I play at taking macro shots of massive pine cones and bark patterns while chipmunks chatter from atop blackened tree stumps, fiercely protecting their secret stash of pine nuts.

An enormous tree has fallen on its side but used to be a tunnel. Jean and Mark carved their names into it in 1971, presumably when it was still standing. I wonder if their love is still as steadfast.

We drive to the valley floor where we attempt a scramble to the base of El Capitan. The marker says 0.3 miles but we instantly stray off the track and end up scrambling much further and higher across big boulders warmed by the sun. Climbers abseil and swing out from the cliff face, their whoops of abandon echoing around the valley.

Our Gracious Hosts’ eldest scrambles up like a little mountain goat, then Him Outdoors carries him back down on his shoulders because his little legs are weary. The view from beneath El Capitan is immense – that is one big lump of rock!

As the light plays over the rock, the view changes dramatically with gold and pinks entering the picture. John Muir sums it up succinctly – “It is by far the grandest of all the special temples of Nature I was ever permitted to enter.”

The trout that I have for dinner at the Wawona Lodge is some of the best fish I’ve ever tasted. I love the 1900s dining room with the lampshades featuring pictures of sequoia trees and pine cones dangling from the corners. People bask in comfy armchairs before a crackling fire with books and glasses of wine – fabulous stuff!

Yosemite - Part 1

Entering Yosemite National Park several signs warn that 'Speeding Kills Bears'. Despite the obvious quip that perhaps they should slow down a bit, these signs are apparently placed in every spot where a bear has actually been hit, which is pretty serious. As bears generally avoid roads and people it would also suggest that there are a lot of bears in them thar hills.

Yosemite is as beautiful as ever but cold – well, we are up at 4,00ft. At this time of year the streams and waterfalls are pretty empty, and Bridalveil Falls are slightly less than spectacular as the strong swirling winds blow the water back over the tops. The surrounding lumps of rock more than make up for it.


El Capitan (not Steven Gerard this time) has people hanging off the side of it as they shimmy up the sheer rock face. Those who have only made it half-way will have to bivvy out on a ledge tonight, which may not be much fun as high winds and cold temperatures are forecast. A couple on their 19 year anniversary hand us a pair of binoculars so we can spy on the rock rats.

We drive through the valley impressed by all the scenery, but it is simply too big to fit into our photos. The Ansel Adams gallery has great examples of how it’s done properly. His black and white prints are magical and they look good in full-size format. He writes, ‘Yosemite Valley, to me, is always a sunrise, a glitter of green and golden wonder in a vast edifice of stone and space.’ Books tell you where and how to take the best nature pictures, but I’ll leave that to the experts.

It starts to snow and all the wardens and rangers are thrilled, skipping about with excitement. This makes for an interesting drive back through the valley past trees and mountains that have disappeared although we know they’re out there. A deer tiptoes daintily across the road with her two calves.

The snow picks out features and contours like a negative shade, outlining and highlighting like a child’s drawing when they’ve run out of dark-hued crayons. The setting sun filters through the snow tingeing the clouds and trees pink. So it really does happen; perhaps the Magic Roundabout script writers weren’t all on drugs afterall. But then again…