Rebecca Hom - BackRoads Teller

Brown Bluff Landing

2012-01-26T06:41:00.000-08:00

Thursday, January, 26 2012 –

Today was actually the first foot steps onto the Antarctic Continent. We landed at a spot named Brown Bluff. There is a large adelie penguin colony there, and a few gentoos mixed in. The rimrock cliffs were amazing, not at all what I expected in Antarctica, since they looked more like the rimrock along the Crooked River in Crook County, Oregon. Just a reminder that Antarctica IS the world’s largest desert.

It was a wonderful, leisurely, sunlit three hours ashore. We were able to walk at will among the penguins, or sit on the lee side of a sheltering rock, soak up the sun’s heat and watch the antics of these tuxedoed clowns. They were so hesitant to enter the surf, passing en masse along the shore until one would suddenly enter the water and there would follow a small penguin avalanche into the waves. They were out again soon.

The most exhilarating portion of the trip though was the zodiac ride back to the ship. The winds had begun to kick up, and you could spot little williwaw’s dancing out across the open water. Nine of us boarded into Brett’s boat and headed to the ship. While out in the open, the winds really began to kick up and we had a bit of a rodeo ride, and a brisk saltwater shower as we neared the gangway. Brilliant spray soaked us well through. I would gladly buy another ticket for THAT rodeo ride. Yeeeeeehaa! Back aboard, Cheli, or expedition leader announced that they had readings of winds at 97 knots during the return. I am in awe of this crew and staff.

Out At Sea

2012-01-18T16:34:00.001-08:00

January17, 2012
Today was spent aboard the Clipper Adventurer. It was our first full day out at open sea. The fog has come in, and the water is rougher than yesterday. Some people are feeling a little seasick. I am actually enjoying the roll of the ship. I have found the safest way of walking is to have a very wide stance and keep your knees very loose. It is easier to keep your balance that way, even if it doesn't look very graceful.

Today we saw imperial and wandering albatross, and white-chinned petrels. Since we left Ushuaia, Argentina we have also seen dusky, hourglass and peer's dolphins in the waters near our ship. The dusky dolphins actually played at the bow of our ship for more than a half-hour as we came through the Beagle Channel and into open waters towards the Falkland Islands.

Yesterday we had two landings off-board. We used large rubber boats, called Zodiacs, to travel from the ship to the shore. They carry eight people and the helmsman. The morning trip was to Beeker Island. We hiked from the sandy shore all the way across the island. Along the way we saw sheep and herford cows. Yes, there are people who live there year-round, and actually try to farm. (It was a 56-degrees. How warm was it where you are? Don't forget, it is summer here south of the equator.) While walking, we saw upland and ruddy-headed geese. There were also black-necked swans, skuas with chicks and magellanic penguins. After crossing the pasture we came into tussock grass, over 5-feet high. One of the guides, a botantist from Homer, Alaska, pulled up a stem of the grass and let us sample the crunchy stem. It tasted a little like celery, but no strings. Actually I think it would be really tasty in a salad. Conrad, the guide, said he prefers the South Georgia tussock and we will have to try a taste comparison when we arrive there.

There, just beyond the tussock, we came to a rock hopper penquin colony, high on a cliff top above the water. There were hundreds of rock hoppers. Do you know why they are called that? Right, they actually hop from rocks to rocks. All the way across a cliff, over the edge, down the face and plunge into the ocean. It was really noisy. (I am now working on perfecting my rock hopper call.) The chicks were molting, loosing there soft downy feathers and growing sleeker, warmer feathers to get ready for swimming in the ocean and feeding themselves. It was a wonderful hike. Well worth the 5am wake-up call to be able to go on it.

Back to the ship for brunch, then lunch and a lecture. The ship cruised around Beeker Island and into Port Stanley. There we went on another hike along the coastline through a native vegetation preserve. We saw an abundance of birds, and were able to walk right through the burrow-nest area of the magellanic penguins. They would pop their heads out of the burrow holes, with no fear of us passing by. At a cliff overlook, above Gypsy Cove, we were able to view a beautiful night heron on its nest and several striking, red-headed turkey vultures. Every thing has a place.

There is much more to tell you, but it is difficult to pull away from what I am doing to write about what I am doing. I feel like I don't want to miss a thing! There is so much to learn, to experience, to consider. I am struck by the vastness of the ocean, the smallness of our ship, and the beauty of our planet. I promise to keep soaking it all in and bring back as many stories for you as I can.
BAU

Easy Landings

2012-01-14T09:09:00.000-08:00

Buenos Aires.

When I was a 14-year old Iowa farm kid, laying out in hot summer sun, I would read stories of such places. Just the sound of such names, the strangeness of them against mid-western horizons conjured images of the world's most exotic places. Buenos Aires. The name rolled around my teeth and over my lips. I would read of such places and dream. Dream of one day walking there. Dream of one day saying "Oh, yes, Buenos Aires" with a sophisticated worldliness.

Now, today, I am IN Buenos Aires. Today the name still rolls beautifully around my teeth and over my lips. The sights of tile-roofed houses and sounds of this city's life fill me. The laughter and bustle of the people enriches me.

I'm not dreaming; but after 24 hours of travel to get here, I do need a nap. Look out, Buenos Aires, the farm kid is here! Not sophisticated or worldly, but mighty, mighty grateful.

Prepping for deParting

2012-01-09T19:32:00.000-08:00

Friends gathered round a warm fireplace. The dark night gathered beyond the cedar walls. Lights danced outside on the black water's mirror. And within, laughter rose to the rafters.

What a way to celebrate adventure! To have friends gather in good cheer and filled with shared excitement. With good words signed on my expedition jacket, I am becoming ready for the parting. I'll carry all of you along with me now. And I promise, I'll bring back stories!

With so much encouragement and excitement in support, you all make me feel like a can soar!

The Measure of Time

2011-06-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

I want to live in a place
where life is measured by the world that surrounds.
Where distances are measured in days of walking.
Where time is measured by the evening flight of crows,
or by the turning of the moon, or snowfalls in a winter.

Where years are measured in the rings of fallen trees,
Where hours are measured by daylight
and sleep not measured at all.

To exist in a cylical rhythm rather than in miles per hour.

How much futher can we segment time?

from EONS
to ERAS
to MILLENIA
to Century
to Decade
Year
Month
Week
Day
Hour
Minute
second
nano
.
.
.

And where
is the measure of a lifetime in that?

Hitting the Road

2010-08-18T12:42:00.000-07:00

CLIMBING GOLD MOUNTAIN "GUM SAN"
Wow! I have been rostered for Inquiring Minds, Humanities Washington's speakers series. I am so excited to travel out around the state, see the landscape, meet people and share the untold stories of early Chinese pioneers in the western frontier. I am really enthused about this project. The premiere of this program will be on September 9, 2010 at the Haller Lake Community Center, Seattle, with the Seattle Storytellers' Guild.

The July 'Heritage Tour of the American West', sponsored by the Wing Luke Asian Museum and the US Forest Service, certainly offered a wealth of cultural insights and firmly grounded information (yes, pun intended) into the immigration experience of early Chinese settlers; and I have been doing mountaineous amounts of reading and pondering to take in all the history and experiences. Through this I am shaping a listenable story program that will engage folks as well as inform. It is exciting to come at history from the "story" portion. There are so many "life stories" to share.

The most exciting thing for me is making the connection between immigration needs and fears in the 19th century, while the United States was in a huge developmental push to grow from coast to coast, and the needs and fears the country is experiencing in the 21st century, facing challenges and growth of a different sort. The question swirls through my thinking: "What does it mean to be American?" How do we live up to our ideals of possiblity and our responsibilities of citizenship?

I have more questions than answers, that's for sure. That is also why I find this opportunity so exciting. I look forward to travelling around Washington state to share conversations with folks.

Heading Home

2010-07-26T06:38:00.000-07:00

Virginia City, Nevada - The hills fall away in layers from this place and the rising sun dries the mists in the valley pockets. Sage brush and ridges to the endless horizon. This is our last stop before we head home. It's hard to leave. Instead of heading home, it feels like leaving home.

We came together as strangers; now we leave as friends and family. We have spent hours travelling over hot, dusty trails; scrambled over walls of stones; and enjoyed the shade under sun-baked pine. When the way was rugged, we offered our hands. When spirits sagged, we lifted one another. We have wept over shared sorrows and roared with laughter at each others joys. We have told our stories. AND we have listened to our stories. Together, we honored the sprits that brought us together. It truly has been a historic journey.

Now, we are disbanding, spreading out to homes in Washington, or California, or DC and points between. We say it's heading home. But, in some way, I think we have been "home" this entire week. If home is the place where you are comfortable, where you are understood and valued, if home is a place where you have a sense of belonging, then we have found that our "home" is much larger than we had ever thought. We have been home all along.

for more about the Chinese Heritage Tour of the American West go to www.db.wingluke.org/tourblog/

Do I Need to Prove It?

2009-04-17T13:58:00.000-07:00

I love to work. Really I do. Didn't love it so much as a kid, but the older I get the more I seem to enjoy knowing that my body is strong; that I can tackle a physically challenging job and accomplish it. To me, there is a joy in strong work. Not grueling, backbreaking, punishing work. Just strong work that lets me feel tired for good reason at the end of the day.

So Saturday was one of those days. We were hauling firewood. Actually more than hauling. We were yarding large rounds, I mean LARGE rounds, of wood to an open area for splitting. We divided the labor, each to our best abilities. I was doing the moving and DH Dale was doing the splitting, since my attempts with the maul were nearly fultile. But skid, I could do with determination. So I would roll the heavy rounds into place and Dale would split them into six neat pieces, or eight for the especially big ones, like segments of a brittle orange.

We had found the rhythm of our work, like a reliable team of draft horses, pacing with each other, pulling evenly. As I would roll a hefty round, Dale would study the piece. "Reading the wood" he calls it. He would judge the checked cracks that mark where a round might split with deceptive ease. He'd choose the best end and hoist the heavy maul. Adhering to woods-wise protocol, the splitter has final say. The "choker setter", in this case "me", just does the yarding, bringing the log into place.

We had already hauled one pickup load and were more than halfway through our second. It was looking like the possibility of a three load day. We were making big progress on this long-standing job. The day was shining, full of Spring. It was just the right temperature for heavy work, and just enough breeze to keep the air fresh.

"Which one next?", I asked.
Dale made his selection and studied the piece as I struggled to roll it the few feet to our splitting area. We commented on a nice crack going right through the center of the end.

"This end?" I smirked as it fell onto a flat side.

"Yeah, that's the one with the crack," Dale said.

"Well, actually it was the other side," I replied.

"No, it was this end."

"Naw. It's the other one," I maintained. "Do I need to flip it over to prove it to you?" All in good spirits of course. No animosity between such a finely matched pair.

He shrugged. With a smile. He simply shrugged, as in "Suit yourself". That was it - the challenge was on.

I bent my knees, and stretched my arms over the top of the round, that Paul Bunyun-sized pancake of sorts. I put all my strength into turning the thing, flipping it toward me, straining to reveal the side I was sure had the better checking. The side I was sure Dale had chosen in the first place.

As I pulled, concentrating on the effort, my hands slipped from the freshly-barked, wet, slippery wood. I fell backwards and landed on my butt. Now, I have plenty of padding on my posterior and the ground in the area was soft with deep mulch. There was plenty of cushioning all around to absorb the impact without any major damage. Except.... except for a small stick on the ground under my left hand. Just enough to create a wrist-cracking angle. Funny how small things can cause such big problems so quickly.

Dale finished for the day by splitting that controversial round while I sat on a stump practicing my transcendental breathing. He loaded the pieces and drove us home. After an hour, when ice and elevation and Advil had no effect, we headed to the ER. Yep. My arm now is in a chic black cast, palm to elbow. And Dale has his inscription in mind, as soon as we get a silver marking pen. It will proudly read "One Tough Mother". I'm glad he thinks so.

Open Air

2009-02-18T15:04:00.000-08:00

It really wasn't all that difficult to get to the end of the road. It was a drive, yes. Snowy roads, yes. But plowed and plenty wide. After all, I grew up on snowpacked gravel roads. And they seem more familiar to me than the road-hazed, white-knuckle terror of navigating I-5. So after 26 miles out the gravel, and only major, road on Mitkof Island, I strapped on my snowshoes and started off.

Glorious day, blue sky, white snow and gleaming mountains; life distilled to its essentials, with no thoughts other than those of the immediate moment. The roadbed had not been plowed after the snows of the last few days. There were tracks made by snowmobilers, probably the day before. Right now there was no sight or sound of any other people out this way. Alongside the machine tracks were the largest canine tracks I had ever seen. "Huge dog," I thought, but didn't pay them much more mind.

Then came the REAL end of the road. A four-foot berm marked where early season plowing had stopped. The road would not open past this point again until spring rains melted the snow. A small trail veered off to the right. In summer it leads to a remote camping area with an open view of the Wrangell Narrows. But in winter it is a barely discernable path. Rather than staying out on the open road grade I decided to follow the narrow path. The snow machines had made the same choice. But it wasn't long before the snow became too spotty for machines, and frustratingly thin even for snowshoes. I removed mine and walked in booted feet for another hundred yards or so. The snow thickened again to a point where I needed the gear again to make my way through or sink knee-deep. Ahead lay virgin snow on the trail, leaving all other tracks behind. Except for...

those "huge dog" tracks that I had seen early on as I started out. They ran ahead of me, the only marks on the white blanket of snow. Now those tracks grabbed my attention. Definitely they were canine tracks and definitely huge. They stayed straight on line, cutting the curve of the snowed-over road, never deviating or distracting off course. I bent to admire them even closer and put my hand beside one for comparison. Straightening, I eyeballed the path of the prints as they ran to the distance. It was then I noticed the other tracks about three feet off to the right. But where the huge tracks were clear and untrampled the tracks to the right were less distinct. Scrutinizing them, I realized these were tracks of more than one animal walking along in a line, one's steps following on top of the previous animal's trail.

I was following a small pack of wolves. The leader was obviously on the left, walking a bit removed, while the other animals trailed to the side. I followed the tracks for a little over a mile where they cut up into the timber. There I turned for my return.

Following my own meandering tracks back to the truck, I arrived just as solid dark was falling. Those other tracks had never doubled back, had never turned aside or drifted. I had stopped and started, turned and returned while they had kept on some compass-straight course that I could never comprehend. They had kept moving forward into places where I didn't follow.

Somehow, holding the memory of all that, reflecting while I sit now in a small town coffee shop, I feel both freer and more confined for the awareness of their passing.

A Long Line of Tellers

2008-11-21T14:43:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow night is Tellebration! On this one evening, in fifteen countries, on six continents, all around the world, people gather in towns and cities, cafes and auditoriums, to hear stories. They gather to be comforted and cajoled, entertained and entranced. They gather to feel the human beat, to know that this life has been much the same in emotional content since the beginning of time. They gather simply to be together, just as people have done on dark evenings for thousands of years. We are joined together. Across continents and time zones, across boundaries and barriers, we share the instinctive knowledge of the truth, the connection, of stories.

On this night, even more certainly than at any other performances, we tellers stand in front of our listening audiences and know we are not alone. We are honored to stand in a long line of tellers. On one side are all those who have come before us. And on the other side are the tellers yet to come. We have joined with one another, commited to breathing life into the words; passing the stories on, one to the next, to the next, so they won't be forgotten.

I dream. My life goal is to share stories on all seven continents. I dream that one year, on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, I will be standing before a group of listeners in Antarctica. I dream that to my left and right are all the tellers that have been and all the tellers that will come. I dream that, if only for that one evening, stories will cover the globe.

Old Wisdoms for Modern Times

2008-09-03T18:00:00.000-07:00

Entering into the blog sphere. It is a strange place for the Back Roads Teller to be. Strange country to explore, and I gotta tell you, I have some trepidations at the moment. But hoping to get more comfortable as time goes on, and the terrain gets more familiar.

So, this new blog spot is a place to connect, share and explore. I am a performance artist in the style of a traditional storyteller. I love the small towns, the end of the road places, and open vistas. I share stories new as last week, and old as the hills I hike. I see stories as a way of sharing our human heart; knowing that we are not so different one from another. Across time and place what has moved us, troubled or inspired us has stayed much the same.

So I hope to explore ways that the old wisdoms can guide us in these challenging times. Ways for us to be comforted, strengthened, challenged and connected.

Come be a travelling companion along with me. There's a world to explore.....