Wilson comes out . . .and discovers love

I know you folks  have been waiting with bated breath Since Valentine's Day to find out what readers had to say about Wilson's gender. Well, you may be in for a big surprise.

Let me prepare you. Wilson lives on Seattle's Capitol Hill, where, as Garrison Keillor might say, "all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and a whole lot of the kids are adopted."

Wilson: Not what 

you thought

That's right, Wilson lives in a community where gender lines are greatly blurred. None of the responses to my Valentine's Day question about Wilson's gender took that into consideration. It's time to rethink my truly adorable indestructible  little traveling companion, who has become a very close, personal friend in a very special way.

Times have changed. For example, Only a few years ago I was dancing with an attractive, tall computer programer who had kids. My partner was more solid and taller than I. And he was beginning to deal with his ambivalent gender by wearing clothing usually reserved for women, and using the ladies room at the dance hall. That guy could do dips better than any female follow I knew.

It felt strange dancing with he-she, which made me appreciate how strange the world may have felt to him-her, and the courage that was involved in coming to grips with the dichotomy.Then, for about a month,  he-she wasn't at the dance venue. And then he-she was back--most of him, anyway. He left part of himself in Thailand, where she had enlisted a surgeon to indelibly clarify her gender for the remainder of her days.

Wilson doesn't have to worry about that. Unlike gays, lesbians and transexuals, Wilson can't have a sexual identity crisis, because Wilson isn't sexual. (Wilson is a perfect sphere--no gonads in sight.) So what do you call that? Pregendered? Pregendered in a post-gender age? Nongendered?

And how about those pronouns?
And what kind of pronouns do you use? He? She? It? I kind of like "they." Give credit for that to those uppity feminists who threw a hissy fit because of the predominant use of the male pronouns. Now we end up with language like this:  "If anyone is missing a set of keys, they can find them at the lost and found." "

"They" has becomes the new third person nongendered singular.

Can't we just be friends? Well, no!
Remember the movie, "When Harry Met Sally?" Billy Crystal tells Meg Ryan that "men and women can't just be friends." Well, Wilson and I have spent a lot of time together. And I've had my hands all over the little critter -- but in a platonic sort of a way. Really. Uh, oh, here comes Wilson now.

"Robert?"
Uh yeah...?"
"What is love?"
"Ah, geeze, Wilson. Don't ask me that..."
"But I really want to know."
"Yeah, you and everybody else."
"Oh c'mon..."

"Uh, well, that's hard to say. I can only speak from my limited experience. But you might learn a little bit about that from Tevye by clicking your mouse button on the photo below:" (The schmaltzy video will open in a new window.)

"Wow. Was that what it was like for you?"
"More or less.

"You know, Wilson, women like to talk about 'intimacy.' They haven't got a clue what it is. It's not just rubbing your surfaces together. There's something more. It's the sharing. And the times we've spent together. And the memories we accumulate along the way. And the trust. It's not your story. It's not my story. It's our story."

"Robert, remember when we were at the top of Costa Rica's Irazu volcano, and you were wheezing and dizzy from the 11,000-foot altitude? You held me up and we did that little dance from Rocky.

At the Irazu Volcano, Wilson and Robert imitate Rocky from the movie of the same name.

"Yeah, Wilson, and you were there right next to me, when we all watched that little turtle making it's desperate run for the Caribbean."

Wilson was there to watch The Little Turtle that Could.

Wilson took the stabbing like the

 little indestructible critter they is.

"And that girl-thing was so impressed when we were climbing Little Si and you stuck your pocket knife in me to show her how resilient I am."

"And that time at the torture museum in Rothenburg, when I let you try out the stocks."

In Rothenburg, Wilson learned all about shaming.

"And it was sure comforting for you to hold me during those tense moments in that East German Stasi interrogation cell."

Wilson and Robert wait for the man with the with the clip board and the electrodes.

"And letting you hang around  Checkpoint Charlie  where the Americanskis and the Russkis used to face each other eye-ball-to-eyeball during the cold war."

At midnight, Wilson hangs around the former frontier.

"And ever since I saw the Nazi Burger King in Nuremberg--Hitler's old power station that's now schlepping fries--I've wondered just what french fries taste like."

The power station for the Nazi parade grounds now sells the Whopper.

"You know, Wilson, it was a real comfort to have you along on that six-hour rain hike up Mount Si."

Wilson was there for all six hours of that cold, miserable hike.

"And I appreciate you taking me along when  we descended into that dry,desolate crater of Maui's Haleakala volcano. You were so tired after climbing from 7,300 feet to almost 10,000 feet, to get out of that hole. And, we did it together!

Wilson at the bleak basin of Haleakala's.

Wardrobe malfunction
"Hey, Wilson, remember your wardrobe malfunction on the Chirico Trail to Poo Poo Point on Tiger Mountain? You slipped right out of that kinky see-through net tether you like and went rolling down the trail naked as a jay bird! (Nobody who saw it laughed, because you look the same from all directions.) Fortunately, my hiking buddy Sue Butkus was there to fix that tether.( I was too shy to handle your garment with people watching.).

Third Rainier attained.

"Well, what I really remember, Robert, is how blue the sky was above Mount Si when we completed enough vertical feet gained to equal three Mount Rainiers. I was on that climb right behind you. I never saw such a blue sky!

Mount Si's famed "Haystack." The tiny colorful dots are people. This was our third "Rainier."

"You know,Wilson,  I can't tell you how many women I've met online who say they want to get together to see whether there's any "chemistry." But it's the time together that make the bonds so tight. My 31-year marriage didn't start out on whether the "chemistry" was right. It started with three mini-disasters in a row. But we got there, and we did it without hurting someone else in the process. It was a clean join. If you're interested, I'll tell you about it some time.

Coming attractions
"And, Robert, you know what I like to think about--it's what's coming up next. In April we'll have another great adventure -- Ecuador! And we'll be bringing some of my relatives along for that one. At least two will end up playing with kids in an orphanage, and another six or eight will find other homes somewhere around Quito."

"Yeah, that'll be fun. Then, in May, I'll be taking you to Tijuana so you  can watch a couple dozen Catholics from St. John Vianney Parish in Kirkland  build a house in a poor neighborhood."

"And by mid-summer, I'll be tied to your ankles as we start our 3,000-foot butt-slide down the snow field from the top of Mount Adams, looking out over all creation. I'm revved!".

"Robert?"
"Yes, Wilson."
"Do you love me?"
"Ah, geeze Wilson! Let's not go there."
"Robert, I'm asking you a question. Do you looooove meeeee?"
"Uh...OK, I guess I do."
"And I love you too...Poochie Poo."
"Uh. Wilson. People are reading this. Lots of people. They know me. I'm going to hear about this. Lay off the pet names, OK?"
"Why not, Punkie?"
"Wilson! "
"Yes, Poopsie?"
"Wilson! Knock it off!"
"Robert?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we having our first fight?"

After all this time, we finally shoot our first "Selfie."

Guy, or Gal? What is Wilson, anyway?

Wilson wonders: Women?
What is that, anyway?

Another big day coming -- Valentine's Day. How do I explain that to Wilson? Being virtually indestructible, he's never had a broken heart, never felt lonely. And he knows absolutely nothing about women. I'm not sure that he knows that there are such things as women.

Oooops! Did I say "he?" I make that slip every now and then. It's a bit of residual chauvinism. It's influenced by the name. People think "Wilson" is a masculine name.




Anyway, today I sat down with Wilson and I tried to explain Valentine's Day, and women. Women, especially. Now Wilson knows what flowers are, but having no palate, the indestructible futbol is entirely clueless about chocolates. Has absolutely no idea of their power. And Wilson can't tell a woman from a man.

But I think he understands love, because as of today, he has brought love to 2,010 children somewhere in the world, and he did it with your help.

Before I tell you about that, though, I want to make you an offer. Tell me whether you think Wilson is male or female, and why. If the best reply is "woman," the winner gets a box of chocolates. If the best answer is "man," the winner will have to settle for donation of a One World Futbol in your honor. Respond by e-mail, please.

Two-thirds towards goal
First of all, I want to thank all of you who have purchased futbols for donation in the Wilson campaign to distribute 100 of these balls around the world. As of this writing, 67 balls have been donated through your purchases--that's two-thirds of the way to goal.

The One World Play Project  estimates that every One World Futbol serves 30 kids. So you have given 2,010 children something to play with that doesn't wear out. While a $10 soccer ball might last a day, or maybe a week, or even a month in a refugee camp or some remote village, the One World Futbol always stays inflated, even when you stick knives in it. Run over it with a jeep, and it flattens--and then instantly re-inflates. Donating one of these marvels costs only $25, less than the cost of a modest restaurant dinner with your significant other. Or a nice bouquet of flowers. The ball will last for years and years--longer than a long-term relationship! That's a great return on investment.

So, is Wilson a man or a woman? Well, what is a woman, anyway? And what is a man?

I used to be a woman
The fact is, I used to be a woman. Well, OK, so I used to be a very tiny pre-girl, while I was in the oven, cooking. And then some genes took over, and those things that girls have really changed. I mean, they really changed!  I kind of think of it as making significant improvements. And by the time I was born, I was a guy! Wow! And in a man's world (at least it was called that in the 1940's.)

As for those things called "nipples," well, mine are just ornamental. The engineers put them into the plans, but the contractor realized I was going to be a guy, and would never use them, so he just never bothered to turn them on. Think like an evolutionist: It takes too much energy to make them go away, once they are there. Or, Think like a bachelor--if they ain't broke, don't fix 'em.

Man = Woman!
Now I know you folks all think you can tell the difference between a man and a woman. But mathematically speaking, there isn't any difference. Now the people on my mailing list for this blog are pretty smart, so stay with me on this. If you look at men and women from a topological point of view,  they are identical. Topology is the mathematical study of surfaces -- connectedness, proximity, boundaries, and other properties that are maintained even with deformities such as stretching and bending.

It's topology that allows you to pull up a map on your computer, and  navigate through the convoluted streets of Seattle's Queen Anne Hill and get from one side to the other in time for that hot date.

Cup = donut = man = woman
Topologically speaking, the cup pictured below is identical to the donut. They both have a loop. The fact that the cup has a depression that holds coffee is interesting, but not relevant. So it shouldn't surprise you when I say that men and women are both built like donuts. There's a hole that goes right through them. You put food in one side, and it gets processed and discarded out the other. All the other details are just deformations.

OK, I want the doughnut, but technically, they are the same.

So, how do you tell if Wilson is a man or a woman? Well, how about what's in your heart, and between your ears? Is there a difference there? Does the ability to take a trouncin' and keep on bouncin' make Wilson a man? (Keep in mind that the female of the species is more dangerous than the male.) Does a real man have a soft spot for kids all over the world, and would he help them if he could?

And what about women? If they are the ones who produce children and nurture them, are they the only ones who care the most about children?

The contest
What do you say about that? How would you describe Wilson? If you can tell me better than anyone else why Wilson is a woman, you get that box of chocolates. Maybe even a hug and smooch on the cheek. Persuade me Wilson is a man, and I'll donate a futbol in your honor--and a hug and a smooch, if you're a woman. (Unlike Wilson, I can tell the difference.)

Meanwhile, Happy Valentine's Day. You folks have already delivered love to 2,010 children around the world.

Wilson and I would like to thank you for that.

Love,
and Happy Valentine's day
Robert,
and Wilson

The 40,000-foot milestone

Wilson and I made another milestone today, passing 40,000 feet of elevation gain by 131 feet. This puts us more than halfway toward the objective of 70,000 feet ascended by the time we take on Mount Adams next summer. We did it by once again ascending Mount Si, the prominent mountain by I-90 at North Bend, WA,  that draws between 80,000 and 100,000 hikers every year. It rained all the way up and down. If we hike one more Mount Si, we also will have earned our Third “Rainier,”  (3 x 14,409-foot elevation of Rainier = 43,227 feet.)

And at this time, 65 One World Futbols have been purchased, putting us just shy of two-thirds of our goal of 100 balls purchased by next July. While we were in Maui for our Haleakala hike, the most recent five balls were purchased.

We’d like to thank the donors who have supported our effort to date. So here goes: Thank you! Thank you very much.

One of the first things we noticed on the hike is that some trees have been toppling during the winter months. Wilson checked out this particular log, which broke off from the top of a nearby tree,  and then snapped in two when it hit the ground. 

This reminds me of a question that Click and Clack, the Tappet brothers, asked on the NPR public radio program, Car Talk: 

If a man is walking through a forest, and he says something, and his wife isn’t there to  hear him, is he still stupid? 

I don’t know whether this tree made a sound when it hit the ground, but I’m glad it didn’t hit me. As for Wilson, it obviously wouldn’t have phased him. But you knew that, didn’t you?

At the end of the day, on the way down, this log was being chain-sawed into sections by a couple of park employees. The sawdust was so bright it looked like there was sunlight on the trail. Silly me, the overcast never broke. Sorry, I forgot to shoot that photo.

To the right is another picture of a fallen tree that broke up into sections after it split off its trunk. You can see the surviving portion up the hill in the background.

You can’t see it clearly in the photo below, but there’s a thin sheet of water working its way over the steps where Wilson is resting and on down the trail. Following Wilson up the path was almost like hiking in a stream bed. On the way down the mountain, the water gathered into rivulets,  then into streams and finally into a pretty healthy brook by the time we got back to the parking lot.

The photo below shows Wilson taking a break at an area I call "the snack bar.” This is as far as I got the first time I tried Climbing Si. It's only about a third of the way to the top. It’s a good place to stop, swill some liquid and chow down on a snack.

I think of this log in the photo below as “the bannister.” The roots running along its length are handy to grab onto when you are climbing up or down the rocky steps there, which tend to get slick with mud and water at this time of year.

When Wilson reached this three-mile signpost, we had been hiking for about two and a half hours. That’s pretty slow. Part of the reason we were slow was stopping to take photos in the rain, and also talking to people along the path about our fund raiser. Several people showed interest. We’ll presume they followed up if we see the numbers go up.

At 3.5 hours we finally made it to what I believe is called the Haystack Basin – the part of the trail where many people stop, take a breather, congratulate themselves for “making it,” and then turn around and head back down. You can climb up those boulders in the photo below and gain a little more altitude. The really intrepid hikers climb the “Haystack” at the top, but it’s a bit dicey and you can injure yourself effortlessly if you’re not careful. Wilson opted to just get under a rock to avoid the rain. 

We made it back down in 2.5 hours. I think we would have made better time, but I slowed Wilson down a bit because of a bit of pain in my left knee. I felt a cramp coming on in my left quad during the ascent, so I found the part that hurt and did some heavy massage. That prevented the cramp, but I think it freed up the muscle to aggravate its connection to my knee on the way down. Is that arthritis? The same knee hurt a couple years ago and cleared up, so we’ll see.

When we got back to the car, I was thoroughly soaked (why did I wear a cotton hoodie, along with a cotton sweatshirt?) and so was the interior of my backpack, and the kerchiefs and sweatbands and other materials inside. The good news was that it was a warm rainy day. 

Even the kid from Idaho who was hiking up the trail with only a wet T-shirt on his torso was probably going to do all right – although I asked someone farther down the trail to take him one of my extra emergency lightweight survival blankets, just in case.

The better news is that getting to 70,000 feet is going to be easy as cake. Or should I say it will be a piece of pie? 30,000 feet more is only 10 more Mount Si’s. I could do Si once a week and meet goal. But that’s a little too boring. Wilson and I are going to have to dream up something else.

Till next time,

Robert, and
Wilson

Reflections on Desolation Valley and other parts of Maui

In my misspent youth, when I read comic books, I came across a joke that middle age is when it takes you longer to get over a good time than it took you to have it. A joke like that is wasted on the young. And sometimes it's also wasted on the old. This week it took me three days to fully recover from my eight-hour jaunt into Haleakala's crater. I really don’t remember growing older.

Why was it so damned difficult? A month earlier I walked more than a half-marathon – 14.3 miles, gaining 1,500 feet of elevation and packing a 20-pound weight vest. And I maintained a speed of 3 miles per hour. On Tuesday I hiked 11.2 miles and averaged about 1.4 miles per hour packing 30 pounds (mostly the bare essentials for survival to prepare for the unlikely possibility of a freak winter storm). The statistics don’t tell the whole story – coming back from the valley probably took six of those eight hours. Most of the last half of the hike required trekking poles. That slope was so gradual--why would I need trekking poles?

Well, OK, silly me. The half-marathon took place on Seattle’s Madison Street corridor, walking back and forth between Alaskan Way and Lake Washington and the highest elevation is under 450 feet. Hiking Haleakala involved descending 2,400 feet from an initial elevation of 9,740 feet and then using the last half of the hike to climb out of that hole – with all the eight hours of hiking taking place at more than 7,300 feet. Even descending was a slog.

Well, Duh! Not only does less oxygen make you more exhausted, it also makes you stupid. For example, it took me three days to figure out the obvious. Now that I think about it, I done good.

Maui is more of an organism than a paradise. It encompasses a set of systems that are vital and dynamic. (Maybe vital and dynamic are the same thing.)

Little shards are just itchin' to chip off this rock.

Take a look at this rock, for example. There are rocks like this over the entire island – iron-rich rocks that were full of compressed gas before the volcano tossed them out. The gas expanded and the rocks cooled, creating lapidary filigree just itchin’ to disintegrate as moisture, the sun’s heat and oxygen converted its iron atoms to rust. The sand in Haleakala was not like grains of worn silica, but more like soft shards that you don’t want your bare feet to get too acquainted with.

In many places Maui is composed of jagged, pocked, bubbleacious igneous rocks that will crumble when put to the test. In kind of a nice way, you can think of it as a rotten little island.

Imagine the fillings in your teeth. You drink warm liquids and the enamel and the fillings expand, but not quite at the same rate. Then you drink something icy and they contract, but not precisely at the same rate. That’s why fillings loosen up in a few years. That’s why Maui’s rocks become earth over time.

The "needle" in Iao Valley of West Maui. If you're a rope-up kind of a person, don't bet your life on the integrity of the rocks.

On a larger scale, imagine climbing “the needle” in the Iao Valley of West Maui. Imagine, but don’t try it. The cliffs there aren’t meant for scaling. They are too intent on becoming earth.

And it has its own special idiosyncracies. Like the bicyclists I passed on the way to the crater. They were peddling virtually from sea level to 10,000 feet in a single ride. Without trekking poles! Like a snake, the road curved, banked and twisted up the mountain, helping as much as possible to navigate those places where shoulders were replaced by drop-offs. It is made for a sports car, until you go over an edge and land on those rocks.

A mild example of Haleakala's curvacious highway.

 There’s an elevation where all of a sudden I came across some of the biggest aloe vera plants I’ve ever laid eyes on. They seemed to be situated just at a particular elevation up the mountain. As I climbed, the nature of the trees changed, and then there weren’t any.

Steam rose from the valley, likely carried by updrafts to places where the air was dry enough that it ate the steam. (At elevation, the air can be really dry, and that contributes to dehydration, one of the serious considerations for high-altitude hiking. You breathe out your moisture, but don’t breathe moisture back in.) On my last drive down, you couldn’t see the lowlands because of a cloud bank that surrounded the mountain like a coral atoll.  But I don’t remember driving through it.

Clouds around the old gal's hips, but clear air at the top.

Here are a couple of photos that might remind you what hikers face in that crater:

This is just a little way down from the top. It was about here that I saw a bride hiking back up in a frilly dress and her groom in a suit. What a place for a wedding photo.

It doesn't show in the photo, but these folks were walking reeeeaaaaallly slowly.

Here’s where I think the clouds come from:

About 40 miles from the crater, a steady sea breeze insistently nuzzles the coconut palms and wafts moisture to the highlands.

You don’t see any clouds here, because the air is warm and has a lot of carrying capacity, but every 1,000 feet of elevation gain is about 4 degrees cooler on a clear day, so by the time you go up 6,000 feet, the temperature has dropped 24 degrees and the moisture can become mist.

And there’s plenty of wind to carry that moisture inland. Check out these wind and kite surfers:

You can't see his kite, but the tautness of those lines display the wind's power. . .

. . . as does this leap, which takes him at least eight feet above his wake.

Without lines to tangle, wind surfers can team up.

Here's a few more shots, just to wind up my final dispatch for Maui and Haleakala:

For reasons that should be obvious, I call this milestone on the Sliding Sands Trail "Turkey Rock."

The Ahinahina (also called "Silversword") thrives in the god-forsaken, windblown dry environment of Haleakala. It probably is descended from the California tarweed, and over a few millions of years had the good sense to evolve. But even though it can live up to 50 years, it never learned the dangers of unprotected sex. It gets laid just once in its life,  and then dies, scattering up to 50,000 seeds that are dispersed by the winds that buffet the mountain. Let that be a lesson to you.

Ah, it's great to be young and pretty. You can shoot a selfie instead of doing the heavy lifting by hiking down into the crater.

My final view of West Maui, from the airport.

Here's a tip of my hat to Diana, the acquaintance who operates the palatial Baker B&B where I holed up for 10 days while visiting Maui. This is what she has to endure every day.

Love,
Robert,
and Wilson

Haleakala: You might as well be walking on the moon

Haleakala moonscape, Maui, Jan 27

At one time or another many of you may have heard the song by Smash Mouth, which has the unforgettable phrase, "you might as well be walking on the sun."

Well, for Wilson and Me, hiking 2,400 feet down into the maw of Haleakala, and then back out again. was somewhat like walking on the moon -- visually, at least. And I couldn't have done it without doping.

Fortunately, it was winter Tuesday. If it had been summer, I don't think I would have made it back, even with the dope. A couple months ago, in Costa Rica, at 11,000 feet, I felt dizzy. So this time I came prepared for one of Hawaii's tallest volcanoes. I brought altitude medications prescribed by Group Health. I am an unabashed doper.

 Coincident to my visit, I ran into old friends from Peru, Lynn and Chuck Morrison. Chuck is a doctor who takes public service health vacations, which is how we met almost four years ago. He is on contract in Maui, and when we had dinner together, he explained that altitude medication acidifies your blood and helps it deliver more oxygen. It seems to have worked.

But enough talk.Here's the photos to tell the tale:

At the top of the volcano, observatories take advantage of the frequently clear skies.

Right from the start, the Haleakala crater showed its otherworldly appearance.

In the distance, the destination lay before us. That crater floor is miles away.

Part way down we ran into a zone where Silverswords, one of Haleakala's unique plants, flourish--tenuously.Wilson took a moment to get acquainted.

Split rocks marked the halfway point for the 11.2 mile hike. We had descended 1,200 feet from a starting point of 9,740 feet. The rocks are in the foreground. That very tiny speck in the center of the photo that appears to be next to the rock is actually someone a bit farther down the trail, maybe a half mile away.

Shade: Time to stop for lunch and gaze at the peak on the opposite side of the volcano.

In the crack of the shade  rock, a plant found the moisture to grow and survive.

Wilson met people along the way. Ellen Ritt from Denver used him to give a ride to her traveling companions: Gumby and Pokey.

Wind appears to have carved this gully, which was part of the pathway down.

The dark patches are not shadows, but seeps, proving that the moon has water.

That's a dune of some sort--an enormous dune.

The horse-hitching post marked my destination and turnaround point. I call the bush facing it George W. It wasn't skill or good genes that allowed it to thrive. It was just dumb luck that it took root there.

This photo proves that Wilson made it to the floor of the crater.

A solitary Silversword looks fat and happy among a field of rocks.

This glance backward provides a reminder of where we had been and what we accomplished.

6 p.m. The sun is close to setting, the crater rim is only a few hundred feet away, and I had water to spare.

It was an exhausting day. When I got back to my lodging all I wanted to do was bathe and sleep. Thanks for coming along.

Love,
Robert
And Wilson