Along the Merry Way....

Ski-Hill Mountain is another one of the most incredibly beautiful, yet unknown areas of the Rocky Mountains. A couple of Naomi's friends discovered the spot and began building a trail partway there. With one of them as a guide, we followed the trail as far as it went and then bushwacked for the rest of the way until we hit a green valley floor, far high above where we started from. In the center of the valley was a bright blue pool of water, surrounded by grass and flowers. It was clear and cold as ice. A waterfall flows down the side of the valley wall and eventually reaches the pool. We climbed up the grassy wall next to the waterfall, pulling ourselves up the nearly-vertical slope with the help of clods of grass. Then up over the lip at the top, we found ourselves on a rocky plateau, which also held a pool from which the waterfall flowed. Looking down you could see the pool in the valley, glowing like a blue diamond far below. We clambered higher and higher along the side of a j...

One of the most amazing places to climb on God's earth is McKirdy Mountain in BC. It's at the centre of three chains of mountains (can't remember which ones off the bat). But you climb up through forest before hitting an alpine valley about three hours later. The valley is like something from a fairytale. Waist-high grass and brilliant yellow and pink alpine flowers, little blue streams trickling here and there in between the hummocks. On the left is a steep saddle hill, while on the right is McKirdy peak--a barren, rocky place, another couple of hours climb to the top. In the hidden valley, is a shelter built by the McKirdy's where you can sleep, but up on the peak itself, the view of the Rockies is breath-taking. Deserted valleys surround the place, Mount Robson juts up several miles to the north, and the farmland valley around Valemount stretches out to the South. Streaking up to the top are great banks of snow, which still haven't melted by July, and they are ti...

Will has been speaking to Willie in Latin ever since he was born. When Willie was about four years old, his dad happened to look over in the middle of a conversation with Mary. Willie was sitting on the counter with wide eyes, staring at his dad with a look of shock. He said in a quiet, stunned little voice, "Pappa, you speak English!"

After crossing the Pacific Ocean, docking off in Hawaii, and spending years in the Cook islands, the Mehitabel has finally come to rest in New Zealand. The pilot house house is warm and sunny with Auntie Marie's bright, home-made cushions. The charts, maps and mugs, boxes of tea and jars of supplies all have their spots--neatly stowed. Even the stove has hinges so that you can cook in unruly seas without spilling. On Saturday, we held a fabulous music party in the ship with a group of local friends. Fiddles, guitars, and singing for hours. We sat chatting in the dimly-lit hold, a big pot of Auntie Marie's stew bubbling on the stove. We ate the stew and mopped it up with bread then munched our crisp and pie. What fun!

The bus broke down in the rainy countryside 1/2 hour from Whangarei. The other bus that was supposed to pick us up was blocked by an accident. The people got angry and hungry on the bus. It was pitch black because the bus driver wanted to conserve gas. We were all trapped there. Then a man called his daughter on the bus's speaker phone, so we (and his daughter) could hear everything. "Are you hungry dad? Do you want me to leave you some food?" "YES!" yelled everyone on the bus. Another girl and I ran outside and up a neighboring hill, and we had to race back as vehicles finally got going again. We leapt onto the bus in the nick of time. It was a horrendous collision that had blocked traffic on the treacherously steep roads. The cars looked like little crumpled up balls of paper.

Theresa and I and some other New Zealanders danced that night in the racecourse to the wild Irish music of Scythian. The police watched (helpless but chuckling somewhat) as hundreds of excited young people jumped the race-course barriers to get closer to the music. Whirling shadows in the chaos of lights. Everyone slept in a field of jumbled bodies, wrapped in silver heat sheets to protect against the freezing cold. The massive fields of sleeping lumps were merely marked by each country's flags.

It was my last night in Comayagua, and I was chatting with two Missionary friars. Says one, "We have to go pick up some goods from our friend Sam the Slinger. He's just back from Nicaragua. Want to come, Liz?" I jumped into the friar-jeep with them, completely forgetting to ask for leave, and we headed off, driving deep into the heart of the eerie darkness of an enormous, poverty-stricken city: the black of night splashed with city lights, strange faces in the corners of streets, the oozing yellow of dying lights glinting off coils and coils of razor wires, streets filled with the flitting ghosts and shadows of the days' people, vehicles, and animals, all melting back to the safety of home for the night. "Yep," says Friar 1, "The USA is too small for Sam the Slinger." We pull up to a tall building surrounded by walls and wire. Out saunters Sam the Slinger. He looks like some type of special forces soldier. We climb up narrow stone stairways and in...