Dispatches | Page 44

Late Winter, Willamette Pass

February 9, 2011 Dispatches

We drove straight from work and hit the trailhead at 6:15. The sun was already low, and the shadows of Douglas Fir fell long over six feet of snow. For the first hour, we had the false sense of warmth as dusk lit the air with alpenglow. Almost without notice, it became harder and harder to see; then it was dark. We turned on our headlamps, and the blue reflective diamonds marking the trail shone like gas flames among the trees. It was slow going. A foot of fresh powder had fallen the night before, and even with snowshoes, we waded ankle deep beneath our full packs, sweating under our fleece while the freezing air burned our faces.

Ethiopian Notes

February 2, 2011 Dispatches

By CRALAN KELDER

Driving for many kilometers and miles
through open desert area
endless plains
in shimmering heat
a man appears roadside
you ask where
on earth did you come from,
what are you doing here,
the translator sets forth
in a series of melodic greetings
and interrogations, he – the man,
asks the same of you.
__

Introducing Dispatches

January 26, 2011 Dispatches, News, News and Events

Today we are proud to launch Dispatches, a weekly column that will feature news, notes, and impressions from around the world. Some of our dispatches will be posted with great speed, to reflect recent experience. Others, like today’s installment from Jock Doubleday, might be a postcard of a season gone by.

Italian Winter

January 26, 2011 Dispatches

By JOCK DOUBLEDAY

November 15, 1998

Dear Helen,
Coming down to Italy on the train from Belgium, some inspectors entered my cabin and started going through my things. They found a little packet of nutritious grasses, meant to be stirred into a glass of spring water and downed before a marathon. They said, “What is this?” I said, “Grass.” They looked at me strangely, but no Midnight Express ensued. In Florence (little like a flower, much like a hammer), I asked the shapely cappuccino-maker “Che ora tu liberatore?” which means, I found out later, not “What time are you free?” but either 1) nothing, or 2) “What time are you open?” Got a phrase book after two days of smiling and pointing. Now I speak long sentences which mean things that no one understands. Slept in a decaying vineyard first night out of Florence. Put on four pairs of pants, eight shirts, underwear over my ears. Should have brought a sleeping bag but figured I’d have a girlfriend. When I arrived in Siena, I found a field behind a condominium and slept there that night and for the next four nights. Got a bed in the Ostello della gioventu when the rain got serious. The beauty of this place would knock the stuffing out of an olive. A presto.

Love, Jock