Monday, October 15, 2012

2012 Montana Festival of the Book

So another weekend, early in October, we returned to dear Missoula, staying with the Rotts, visiting old friends, and attending another Montana Festival of the Book. Alas, I missed the Thursday, Thursday night, and Friday events--Allegiant flies only on Fridays and Mondays, although direct from Oakland to Missoula (!) and very cheap--but I did make it for the Friday night gala and also some of the Saturday and Saturday night events.
Humanities Montana chair and Mr. Montana PBS William
Marcus opens the Friday night gala readings














Mayor John Engen welcomes the throng...more than 1,000;
Hizzoner's welcomes have become an event in themselves,
and this year's edition dwelt on Missoula's horribly hot,
dry, fiery and smoky August and September, and
particularly the 42 days without rain; it's below...














Ivan Doig, one of the patriarchs of western writing, reading
from his new novel The Bartender's Tale














Personal favorite David Quammen (Song of the Dodo,
Monster of God) reading from his newest, Spillover: Animal
Infections and the Next Human Pandemic














Pam Houston, reading from her new Contents May Have
Shifted
; definitely from the "why didn't I think of that?"
genre; a great night of readings, great western fiction,
thought-provoking contemporary commentary, insightful
and amusing travel fare...














Saturday night, after a day's worth of panels, readings, etc.,
Festival Goddess Kim Anderson introduces














Lois Welch and composer Wayne Horvitz, discussing
Horvitz' Heartsong of Charging Elk Song Cycle, based on
the novel by James Welch, to be performed that evening














At the conclusion of the performance; the Song Cycle was
serious, contemporary music, probably something never
heard before in the venerable Wilma Theatre; not Welch's
cup of tea, I suspect, but he knew his words moved and
transformed people, and he would have been gratified at this
sincere tribute














Almost any reason is good enough to visit Missoula, but
on this occasion we went primarily for me to be declared a
"humanities hero"














Of course we found time to transfer items to and from our
home/storage unit in east Missoula












































































I was introduced to a Missoulian reporter as the founder of the book festival, and the following story resulted:  http://missoulian.com/news/state-and-regional/festival-of-the-book-founder-pleased-with-effort-to-promote/article_97c42694-0fff-11e2-b8ad-0019bb2963f4.html. Indeed I am very pleased still to be associated with this great Montana event.

And here's Mayor's Engen's weclome to the 2012 festival:

Why I Have a Degree in Journalism and not an MFA in Creative Writing

John Engen, Mayor

Forty-two days gone and not a drop of rain, mountains appearing and disappearing depending on the day and the breeze and the smoke and the people, my people, miss the comfortable landscape, the familiar, abrupt horizon rendered dull by the haze through which Russell Chatham must see the world.

And, you know, we’re not in goddam Livingston. Our writers wear smaller belt buckles and are prone to overt suffering and higher-rent drinking problems. There are fewer horses and a lot more ennui here; thick, milky ennui. We’re not Livingston. We’ve got cloudy winters and a peace center, so don’t bring your lonesome doves around here, because we have a French restaurant and an aloof squab could easily be the dinner special.

We’re not used to all that dryness. Every story’s about what springs from water: the timber and the ore and the booze and the punitive snow and these rivers carrying the fish, which, when combined with a dry fly and a decent cast will give you all the Universal Truth you could ever need. We write what we know or hope to know and we don’t know this. The smoke is all about young men and fire, but all that should burn in memory, from a distance, and not interfere with the hot, sunny August that’s still cool at night and smells just like it did when you were a kid.

Red suns are for Martians. Red sunsets for sailors. We don’t get that here. The righteous night sky in August is black but for the countless stars and the moon, somewhere.

Forty-two days gone and not a drop of rain. The sky’s gone missing, missing, I tell you and the people, my people, miss their place, their home. The last time we were dry this long was in 1896, and they may or may not have lynched the mayor, a purportedly jolly fellow right until the end.

Then, silently, in the middle of the night, snow. And we’re not and never were Livingston. And we’re not dry. Not hazy. Not smoky. Not angry. We’re chilly and it’s October and it’s finally OK and, coincidentally, the Festival of the Book begins tonight, in Missoula, Montana, the place we miss when it’s gone.

Welcome back, Missoula, and welcome to the Festival of the Book.

Oct. 5, 2012

Friday, September 28, 2012

A Weekend In Yosemite

Next weekend we borrowed a bunch of camping gear from Rebecca and Jeremy, and Rebecca's car, and drove over to Yosemite NP, our third visit in a year. And for the first time, we never even got to the Valley.
Our modest campsite at Crane Flat, where nothing at all is flat, not even tent
platforms; we hadn't tent-camped since Ireland in April-May, 2009; unlike
Ireland, at least it didn't rain; looked like it hadn't rained in months in Yosemite
















But we enjoyed our first campfires in years...since the Bighorns in August, 2008
(the Chimaera, singular as they are, don't count); campfires are pretty much a 3rd
world thing, except in the US and Canada (where they charge extra)

















On the Tioga Road, en route to our Saturday goal...














Lembert Dome, overlooking Tuolomne Meadows, which Vicki had climbed in
1972















On the summit of Lembert Dome














Nearby Dog Lake














Driving back toward the Valley















Next day, hiking in the Tuolomne Grove of
Giant Sequoias



















Me in the dead Tunnel Tree














Before the Age of Spray Paint














And later in the nicer but less popular Merced Grove














Tree toucher














Looking up the same giant tree



















Return To California And Beyond

So on August 24th we jetted from Toulouse to Paris, took the familiar Air France bus from Orly to CDG, and then jetted to SFO. I watched The Big Lebowski again; and again. It's becoming something of a long haul ritual for me, when available, as it generally is. After a hundred viewings or more, it is still my favorite movie. And in English too. (Incidentally, I watched a bit of the French version, a disappointment, frankly, The Dude replaced by Le Duke, and Jeff Bridges' character "in whom casualness runs deep" is replaced by a gangster/tough guy voice). "Hey, attention, homme, il ya une boisson ici!"
Waiting for us, of course, was grand-daughter Penelope, now 16 months old,
and well into toddlerhood
















Middle California is a nice place, and I'll allow as there are
some nice folks there, but the main attraction is P, here in her
swing at the Holbrook-Palmer Park in nearby Atherton























And here with Mama at the Rio del Mar Beach at the south end of the Peninsula















Visibility was about 1/10th of a mile, tops; yes, the water was cold, but P took to
it like the California surfer girl she'll soon become...














And here we are, a week later, at the Art and Wine Festival in Mountain View
























A few not-so-nice folks at the Festival




















Moments after the Happy Baby suck-bag incident in Mountain View















World's greatest tie-dye outfit, courtesy of grand-aunt Carole and cousin Lexi















And the travels continue, me on an NEH site visit in Laramie,
Wyoming


















And in the beautiful old Plains Hotel in Cheyenne; some
nice folks in Wyoming, too

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Au Revoir, France, and Europe

We spent our last couple days in France, and Europe, in the very generous and pleasant company of friends Jane and Gordon at their home near Cadeilhan, in Gers, not far from Toulouse. Southwestern France is a gentle, beautiful countryside, within half a day's drive of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, and the Pyrenees and Spain, with culture and history and pre-history at every turn. And the food and drink are, well, um, French. We'll return there in April of 2013.
Jane and Gordon


















Their beautiful home near Cadeilhan; very traditional, but
completely updated; it is for sale, and very reasonably priced
at c. 200,000 euros (contact jseigal1@gmail.com)














Not your average European kitchen













Detached guest/rental cottage


















Enormous stone barn/workshop/garage, with room for large
vehicles














And with full outdoor kitchen and entertainment area















Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Larressingle

We proceeded on to the bastide town of Larressingle, which bills itself as France's smallest fortified town and as a mini-Carcassone. It was nice, very scenic, but nano-Carcassone would have been more accurate. I did get my Armagnac tasting, however, and more.
Au Camp du Siege Medievale; a nano-themepark, closed,
alas














Entrance to Larressingle















One of the more interesting facets of
Larressingle, its very old half-dome church



















Carving in the church














OK, the mermaid stained glass is perhaps not
Medieval



















Exterior of church


















Walls and tower


















Larressingle is definitely on the Camino de Santiago
pilgrimage route; some few pilgrims use donkeys
(and transistor radios)














Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Condom

In the few days that remained of our "summer vacation," we headed back north, wanting to see more of Gascony. I had read that Armagnac is becoming the "single malt scotch" of France and wanted to see its region and have a tasting. (I drank some Armagnac many years ago; it was good, and much cheaper than cognac.) So we drove up to Condom, France, to visit the Armagnac cooperative. Vicki had other, perhaps obscure, reasons for wanting to visit Condom.
Tree-lined roads are one of the emblems of France, and they
are nowhere in more abundance than in this region 















Unfortunately, the cooperative in Condom sold only one
brand of Armagnac















But they sold plenty of wine, in bulk














So anyway we visited Condom; the actual expression in
French is, I have read, preservatif















We next visited the Chateau de Cassaigne; but balked at the
admission fee















In the vicinity, the bastide town of Lectoure