Fall is my favorite time of year.  My birthday is in November, maybe that is why.  I feel most alive when the leaves are turning color and the temps are in the 50s and 60s; when the bugs are gone, and when life seems to settle in.  It is also when school starts and as a child I waited all summer for school.  Summer to me, as an only child, was boring. My sister wasn’t born until I was just about ten and by then I was out of the sibling play stage.

In North Dakota, where I was born and raised, we had something called “Straw Stack Parties.”  These were parties in the field, when all the straw from the wheat fields was pushed up in a huge pile and then the dads would start it on fire.  It was exciting and visually beautiful all at once–that huge blaze and the heat enough to push you backwards into the safe zone.

Fall was probably the time when I saw both my parents together the most at meal time.  On the farm, life goes with the seasons–planting, cultivating, and harvesting.  By October this frantic time is over and darkness comes early enough to prompt an end to the day’s work by 6pm, when a supper of fried pork chops, boiled new potatoes, and garden tomatoes would decorate the table.  We could all eat together for a change.

And Fall represented the exciting world of school.  A one-room school house with grades 1-7 all together.  And when I came home I would walk through the fallen leaves of the cottonwood trees, and follow the smells of my mother’s kitchen as she made cream gravy from the fried pork chops, or perhaps an apple crisp that we would enjoy for dessert.

I delight in the colors of my own garden these days.  The sumac turning bright red, the roses trying to get out their last blooms before winter, the droopy yellow leaves of the frozen hosta, the brave little johnny jump ups, still nodding their velvet heads with yellow smiles, the mint plants still vibrant green.  And all the birds at the feeders; the last hummingbird moth going from geranium to geranium.

And I have nearly always been in school on these fall days.  But these days I teach at a university instead of attending a one-room school, and I have my own little house instead of walking up the driveway to our little farm kitchen. No matter where I live, the fallen leaves still crinkle just the same at this time of year and the apple crisp baking in the oven still smells like home.

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Today on the radio I heard that if you have a cat you are 40% less likely to die of a heart attack.  Since my father died of a massive heart attack when he was 48, and we never had any cats, and since I am much older than that now and have had cats for the last eighteen years, and am in perfect health, I can’t dispute these statistics.  I do know just looking at my two cats gives me a sense of calm no matter what the stress of the day.

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Iris and Trillium are full sisters born two years apart.  Iris is the oldest, at five, and Trillium is three.  They are pure bred Himalayan, which is a mix of Persian and Siamese.  Iris is called a tortoise point because she is multi-colored brown and Trillium is also called a “Tortoi” because she has one pink foot pad and the others are grey.

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It is nearly impossible to photograph these cats, but I keep trying and they keep tolerating my scratching sounds in order to get them to look up at me.  Iris has always loved the camera and Trillium has always done anything she can to make sure I don’t get a good photo of her face, like look down.  And if you look closely (or click to enlarge) the above photo she is sticking her tongue out.  The best photos I have of them are when I catch them sleeping, but then their beautiful blue eyes don’t show. I hope you think “the girls” are as beautiful as I do.

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This story is part of my series of adventure stories that I am writing for my book.  This adventure happened in 1998.  I see now that many of the tour companies in Tofino have larger boats that are covered and can make the trip to the hot spring in much less time.

Tofino, British Columbia Whale Watch

After traveling in my mini-van for several weeks from Minnesota, covering over two thousand miles and one ferry crossing, I finally arrive in Tofino, British Columbia, a town on Vancouver Island, where I have reservations to go whale watching in a Zodiac, which is basically an inflatable rubber boat with a motor. It’s no surprise that it’s raining—it rains a lot here, like 120 inches a year—but I was hoping for better weather. I stop at the little brown building to ask if the trip is cancelled and I am told, with a smile, that they go, rain or shine. I am a little disappointed at this news. I am not an ocean person and I don’t like adventures in the rain.

They hand me an orange snowmobile suit—my best description, but really these huge suits are for ocean survival and bright orange because orange is easy to spot if you are in the water, a fact that is not comforting to me. The suits also keep you warm. Well, I can attest to that. Here on shore with temps in the upper 50s they seem ridiculously hot, but the wind is strong and with the drizzly rain, I am sure I will be glad to be bundled up once we are out on the ocean. We will spend all day on the water looking for whales, a fact that sounded darn exciting back home in Minnesota during a blizzard when I reserved my spot. There is no shelter in a Zodiac, and the rubber tubes look pretty low to the water if you ask me. I am not really an ocean person, is the thought that keeps popping into my mind. The literature said to wear a swim suit under our clothes as we will relax in a hot spring at the mid-point. That also sounded very enticing when I looked out at four foot snow banks, but already the suit is up my butt and I haven’t even sat down yet. I wonder about bathroom breaks. Hmmmm. At the last minute I shove a couple granola bars into my pack with my towel and camera. The last thing we do is put on heavy black rubber boots. We all look like we are victims of some disaster.

“You wanna’ go in the adventure boat or the leisure boat?” Todd asks us. Todd looks like he should be on the cover of Outside magazine as he stands on a piling. His feet are in Teva’s and his toes are all shriveled up like beige prunes. He does not wear an orange suit or black boots. “All adventure boat people over here,” he directs.

“What does adventure boat mean?” I ask him.

“We will go faster, see more sights, and have more fun.” is his reply. His mop of black hair hangs in his eyes and his white smile could light up the darkness.

I move to the adventure boat, thinking that I may as well get my money’s worth, faster is better in this rain, get it over earlier, what the heck. And if I’m going to be miserable on the ocean I may as well have some eye candy to look at.

Seven of us roll and bounce on board the adventure boat in our 20 pound orange suits. Our feet slosh in 2” of water. We find our places, crowded together. Our hoods nearly cover our faces, so we pretty much look identical. I wonder where I can keep my pack so that my camera stays dry. Finally, I wedge it between my right leg and the tube, keeping my rain poncho on top. Sitting down, we all look like huge buoys ready to be thrown over the side.

The rain pounds down, running off the backs of the three people in front of me. The ocean is tumbling around, all grey and blustery-looking. I wonder what I am doing out here, I am not really an ocean person, flashes through my mind for the thousandth time. My feet are already wet and cold inside the rubber boots.
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