Upper Bassi

Upper Bassi before the barn fell down

In 1967, my parents teamed up with my mother’s sister Traute and her husband Toby, to search for land in the Sierra Nevadas of California.  My aunt Heide was newly widowed, her husband Royce killed just 10 days before he was due to leave Vietnam.  Grieving, Heide still decided to join in the effort to find a tract of land to found an off-the-grid getaway.  It became part of the legend, that GRK (that stands for Grether-Rico-Kingsbury, the name of each family) was to be our hideout when Armageddon came. 

Todd's pride: how we still heat our cabin

My uncle Toby knew of a small road off of Highway 50 that had some prospects.  The summer I turned 4, Toby brought his horses from Southern California to Wentworth Springs, a camp of sorts 30 miles up Ice House Road.  We rode around on horseback down logging roads and into hidden valleys, looking at various pieces of property.  I got to ride Charley, the donkey, who was awesome except when he decided to roll over.

A donkey just like Charlie!

Rufus Swift was an old Swiss gentleman whose family had homesteaded several large parcels of land just above Union Valley Reservoir.  The Swift family owned Black Meadow, a swampy narrow creek valley with a logging road for an entrance.  They were delighted when my uncle Toby declared it perfect—or at least the price was right.  We bought it, put up a 30-man army tent with cots, and GRK was born.

Just like our first home at GRK

We remained friends with the Swifts while building the cabins in Black Meadow, now renamed GRK Valley.  Fred and Sam Angelou would come visiting our campground, and once I remember them skinny-dipping in our special waterfall on Tells Creek.

Our private skinny-dipping pool

But the best part of being friends with the Swifts was visiting their homestead about 10 miles north of us, called Upper Bassi.  Bassi Creek ran through a granite wonderland, and the original Swift homesteader must have felt right at home—the mountains look a lot like the Swiss Alps. 

California Alps

Upper Bassi was accessible only by foot or horseback, and occasionally my dad drove his 1948 Willys Jeep, scaring us with his daring climbs over the massive granite boulders.  I learned the route by heart, and Suzi and I would ride Star and Buttercup, our favorite horses, up there by ourselves before we were even teenagers.  THAT is freedom!

Upper cascades of Upper Bassi

Upper Bassi is still magical.  I can still find my way up the original route, but a faster, more direct trail runs from the Van Vleck Ranch.  We hiked the trail last week with Austrian friends Martin and Yvonne.  The water was high from the drought-busting record snow pack, and COLD! 

Todd loves it here, and always swims, no matter how cold the water (and it's COLD!)

We swam through the pools, the currents so strong we had to plan our entry and exit.  The cascades were in their full glory, the water stepping down over multiple granite ledges.   But the hidden gem of Upper Bassi, the holes where you can duck down into one and come up in the second, were too full to swim through.

Martin and Yvonne were impressed

The old homestead house was still standing after all these years, although the barn had succumbed to the force of gravity.  I remembered writing my name on the door back in 1972, next to other Swift guest signatures dating back to the 1860s. 

Still heartbreakingly beautiful

I was dismayed at the graffiti scrawled across the house front, other hikers and backpackers apparently feeling free to scratch their names in large letters into the ancient wood.  But the serenity and simple beauty of the place still remained unphased, the large pond where the creek opened up and where Suzi and I had swum our horses still open and inviting. 

Inviting pond

We hiked back with our Austrian friends, passing several groups of horse-folks and mules packing chainsaws to open the trails again after the hard winter’s tree-fall.  The signs marking Upper Bassi had all been removed, an indication that the Swift family wanted to curtail the trespassing that had repeatedly damaged their cabin.  But I was grateful that I still knew—and could find—the secrets of this charming place. 

One enormous granite slab, scraped clean by glaciers

 

Tia and Sasha rebel against home schooling

A Hebertian Adventure in Kayaks

Todd and I met Dan and Liz Hebert early on during Todd’s first year of medical school in 1988.  When I threw a surprise party for Todd’s 26th birthday, I invited people from all parts of his life: his brother Mark, elementary and high school friends from Springfield, Virginia, folks from St. John’s College, and a few new military friends.  “Wow,” said Liz to me the next day.  “Todd has some…interesting?  buddies.” 

Todd in wilder days

Maybe it was the 6’5” guy dressed in all-black leather with studded bracelets that provoked this comment, or maybe the pal who ran around shouting and doing shots all night, but Dan and Liz hung in there as our friends, proving to be just as…interesting?  as Todd’s other friends.  

At the Hebert's Halloween party, circa 1990

Dan went on to become an orthopedic surgeon and big-game hunter, and Liz worked for the CIA (unbeknownst to us), showing up one year in her Christmas letter wearing camouflage and packing multiple weapons.  Their idea of an awesome vacation include dogsledding in the far north of Sweden breaking up sleddogfights and keeping an eye out for polar bears.

Does this look fun to you?

So when we learned that they were moving to Northport, Maine, the same small town where Suzi and Ethan had a house, we planned an adventure on kayaks, a paddle to the islands of Muscongus Bay.  Although there was a lodge on the island, Liz turned it down.  “No, no,”  she said.  “We sleep in tents.  With the bugs.  In the rain.  Otherwise it’s not a Hebertian adventure.”

Heading out

Rain was in the forecast for that weekend, along with dense fog and drizzle, perfect for making a dangerous channel crossing.  Suzi and Ethan wisely declined the invitation to join us, so it was just the four of us, plus their daughter Grace and boyfriend Tim.  Off we set into the foggy dew.

Wait for me!

It was classic Maine.  The shoreline rose, ghostly, off our bow, as our guide Emily prepped us to cross the channel.  “Stay together, not like ducklings,” she warned us.   “That way we’re less likely to get run over by a lobster boat.” 

Heading over

We made it across the channel and into the shallows between islands, where small barges piled high with lobster traps competed with countless buoys marking the set traps.  How people figure out whose is whose is beyond me.

Traps piled high

Lobstermen

On Gay Island (named for the original settler, Eleazer Gay, who first came here with his family in 1776), we unloaded our kayaks and pitched tents on recently-built platforms.  Rose, the caretaker, had weed-whacked a path, but still, I was on the lookout for ticks. 

Deep in the heart of Tickville

We tromped around the island while Emily prepared dinner on a butane stove.  Luckily she hung a tarp, as the rain started during dinner. But no matter, we were dry, the chicken-and-vegetable tortellini were delicious, and we all had enough DEET on to scare off the army of mosquitoes hovering. 

The only two houses on the island

Canoe vs. kayak

It rained all night, but we awoke to a crystal morning with a stiff breeze.  Off we went around the islands, headed towards the port of Friendship.   The weather was great, but the ocean tricky, with swells and chop.  Liz got the short end of the paddle when her kayak insisted on turning left continually after lunch, but we made it to Friendship with no mishaps.

Abandoned

Friends in fog

And so ended one adventure.  We’re looking forward to the next when we return in December:  an old Mainer sport called curling!

They can't wait for curling...

Maine-ly Friends and Family (#belikePaige)

 We said goodbye again to GRK Valley after nearly three weeks that passed much too quickly.  The meadow was a verdant green, with wildflowers just coming into bloom.  Tia and Sasha will not miss cutting the alder in the meadow-clearing project.   GRK = WORK, my aunt Heide always says, and it’s true, there’s a ton of maintenance, always.  But the silence and solitude, along with the closeness it provided us cousins, is well worth it.

 

Pristine beauty

Off to DC we flew, touching down in a little piece of Spain.  Friends Angeline and Montse, the core of our friend group in El Puerto, along with husbands Trev and Matt, had migrated to the DC area, along with Ebru and Greg Pekari.  Lynn and Brent Neubauer were just a few hours south, in Virginia Beach.  Montse threw a late-night dinner party, Spanish-style, complete with black paella and chorizo.  Suddenly I was home in Spain, in the middle of the Bethesda woods.

¡Que buenas amigas!

We kidnapped Narisa, Angeline and Trev’s youngest daughter, who, together with Tia and Sasha, comprise The Three Amigas.  We invited ourselves to Christina’s house in Queens, just outside of Manhattan.  Christina, whom I had met through Donna, Ethan’s mother, had graciously invited us to stay with her, despite not being there!  She arranged air mattresses in her charming brownstone, and her daughter Ashley set us up with a perfect day touring New York City.

Watch out, New York!

We took the ferry to Brooklyn, biked over the Brooklyn Bridge, and walked through the 9/11 memorial.  Then up through Soho to shop, stopping for a Ramenburger along the way.  We admired the Empire State Building from below and from afar, but couldn’t bring ourselves to cough up the $170 elevator ride to the top.  Then more biking to Times Square, which has been charmingly transformed from a busy honking thoroughfare to a pedestrian zone in the heart of the theater district.

Perfect for biking!

We ended up biking through Central Park, and then hitting the candy store at Dylan’s Candy Bar, where the kids went nuts:  Sasha $20 worth of candy, Narisa and Tia $26 each, and the biggest kid of all, Todd, with $36 of cotton candy, Jujubees, rock candy, and Pop Rocks.  We took the train home to Queens, tired but content and ready for bed after the sugar high.

Country and City

Then off to Maine to see Aunt Simone, who was visiting, along with Tante Traute and Tante Heide, my mom’s two sisters.  We had a whirlwind visit with them all.  My mid-eighties tantes were in full clean-up mode, helping reorganize Suzi’s cottage Little Bohemia, where they were staying, and getting the garden into ship-shape.  Their energy and can-do humor continue to inspire me. 

My heroes

We love Aunt Simone

Our family-and-friends whirlwind tour continued in Boston, where we spent a couple nights with Todd’s brother Mark and his family, always fun with the five blonde-haired, blue-eyed cousins!  It’s impressive to see Tia and Sasha with them, the seven kids so Nordic it hurts.  Our friends Thais and John came to dinner, another piece of Spain showing up on the East Coast. 

So nordic it hurts

And then we zipped back to Maine, heading to Bangor to pick up Lynn and Brent Neubauer.  Our reunion with them helped us deeply appreciate both friends and family.  Brent and Lynn lost their middle daughter, Paige, in a car accident on the last day of March.  The shock rippled out through their strong circles of friends; Paige had left deep impressions everywhere she lived, and her love of Spain at least matched, if not exceeded, my own deep embrace of the land and culture. 

One of Paige's many project to help others.  She is sorely missed.

Lynn and Brent drew support from so many.  It was a testimony both to Paige’s ability to reach out as well as evidence of how loved the Neubauer family is:  Paige’s memorial service was attended by hundreds of people, some coming all the way from Spain.  Montse and Matt, Angeline and Trev, and friends Ebru and Greg, along with Thais and John, and Annette Ortiz flying in from Madrid, enveloped the family in communal arms and helped arrange a beautiful service, both in Virginia Beach and at their lake house in North Carolina. 

Paige's memorial garden

Friends

We were fortunate to have Lynn and Brent in Maine with us.  They shared the details of their loss, and helped us all cope with such enormity.  As Lynn says, there are no words.  But there are actions, and I am proud and grateful to be part of a community that has given them so much support. 

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We shared their stories, and bought lobsters to crack on the big dining table overlooking the water.  We dug through the cobwebbed antiques barns that sit on Route 1, and took advantage of a perfect June day to explore Acadia National Park.  

Sunny day at Acadia National Park

Rock hopping

We relaxed on the porch eating crab rolls and playing cards.  Angeline and Trev joined us, and we sat around the campfire while Lynn and Brent showed us how to make hobo pies with the hobo-pie iron.  The kids were fascinated; Ado wanted hobo pies for breakfast the next day!

Lost Tides

Friends and family

We all miss Paige.  A death is painful, no matter the circumstances, and a child’s death jars us to the bone—it’s not supposed to happen that way, in these modern times.  Paige’s absence leaves a hollowness that will never be filled.  But the grace, openness and yes, even humor of Lynn and Brent’s approach to their loss is a model for us all.  It reminds us of the importance of family, and the gift of friendship.  And as well, the importance of sharing.  Lynn and Brent helped us by sharing how they were learning to cope with such tragedy, and we were honored to share this little slice of Maine beauty with them, and to take the time to be grateful for what we have, despite such loss.  Thank you, Lynn and Brent.  And thank you to our friends and their friends, for being there.

#belikePaige