So it was my (pleasant? gruesome?) surprise yesterday to stumble upon this new film Grizzly Night, which is based on a true story, famously recounted in Jack Olsen’s nonfiction book Night of the Grizzlies (1971). I’m a sucker for a bear-attack story. This one is actually quite good.
Is that poster an homage of sorts to the Jaws (1975) poster, with its impossibly gigantic Great White Shark being replaced with an impossibly gigantic Grizzly Bear? I think so. Both creatures have jaws agape, about to devour a comely young maiden. And why not? Jaws is one of the great, seminal animal-attack movies of all time.
I first encountered Night of the Grizzlies in 1980 while backpacking in the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area of central Montana, south of Glacier National Park. I was with a group of cavers exploring the ice caves there and had sprained my ankle, which took a week or so to heal. While sitting around I discovered the Night of the Grizzlies paperback in their little stash of reading material. (Cavers visited that area for several summers in the late Seventies and early Eighties exploring the ice caves; people would leave books they brought for others to read.)
Paperback reprint cover.
It freaked me out. One night I ate some hard candy in my tent and later heard a loud snorting/snuffling outside and was convinced a griz was coming to eat me. I was clutching a fistful of watermelon-flavored Jolly Ranchers like a dowager whose pearls were about to be snatched. The book and movie tell the tragic story of how two young women were attacked on August 12, 1967 by two different grizzlies. Although it’s been all these years since I read it, I remember it as a balanced, sober account of the tragedy, not exploitative or cheesy. Its narrative spans the entire summer, establishing the woeful policies that led to the attacks: Grizzlies were fed garbage nightly at one of the nearby chalet hotels and garbage dumps that were supposed to have been closed were allowed to operate. The movie, on the other hand, focuses just on the night of the attack and the day after.
As opposed to The Salt Path (see posts below)—now infamous for its allegations of fraud—this “Based on a True Story” appears to be quite trustworthy. The attacks were of course investigated at the time and were a major news story. While the film version may have fudged some of the personal interactions of the characters based on real people, the particulars and logistics of the night of the attacks seem accurate and aligned with the historical record.
As gruesome as bear attack/mauling stories can be, I hardly think it’s a reason to avoid the backcountry of such gorgeous parks as Yellowstone, Glacier, and the Tetons. Grizzlies rarely attack people. But when they do, it makes the news. Or the paperbacks.
[Note: This is satire. In the spirit of the New Yorker’s “Shouts and Murmurs” satirical op-ed slot.]
New bombshells revealed after the recent release of the shocking documentary The Age of Disclosure, detailing U.S. government’s possession of recovered UFO craft and “biologics.”
When the Sandblasters from Alpha Centauri first invaded we all panicked, of course: They’re zapping innocent citizens into ash-puffs all over the parking lot of Texas Roadhouse and IHOP, so who wouldn’t? Conventional weapons seemed to have no effect on the many tentacled, green-lipped creatures. So our fearless POTUS came up with a capital idea: Why waste the murderous talents of the Hunting Wives on suspiciously “pregnant” high-school sweethearts and troublesome methhead brothers? Point them in the direction of said alien menace and give ‘em a good swat on the keister, problem solved, right? Kristi Noem of Homeland Security chimed in enthusiastically, “I’m a hunting wife myself, and these gals ain’t just shootin’ puppies.”
After being deputized as official border patrol agents, the indefatigable crew of Margo (aka Mandy from little ole Alba, Texas), “Boston” Sophie (uppity Yankee but a killer behind the wheel), “Longjaw” Callie and “Bible-thumper” Jill played along. During a shooting hiatus of Season Two they got in the mood by having a Guns-for-Gals afternoon at the local semi-automatic shop. Lunch began with Cadillac Margaritas and footsies beneath the table. Halfway through a plate of nachos Margo got a text and excused herself for a moment, saying she’d forgotten something in her Lexus. “You mean ‘Sexus,’” said Callie, grinning. When Margo returned a half-hour later her dress was covered in green goo and her hair was a bit mussed. Time for bizness. “Let’s not get our panties in a wad over these E.T.’s,” she began. “They may shoot all kinds of laser gizmos but I tell you what they ain’t resisting the girls,” and here she cupped her fulsome breasts in their push-ups and gave them a boost.
Even so, the gals decided to add some heat to their weapons portfolio. At the mini-mall gunshop Jill went with a Ruger 10/22 for being easy on the shoulder while Margo preferred the no-nonsense AR-15 for blasting some extraterrestrial ass to Jupiter and back. Margo said they probably didn’t need all that firepower. “Really, they’re not so bad. I had a little look-see of their mother ship and it’s like the set of Yellowstone, with lots of wooden beams and Navaho rugs, stuffed grizzly bears and expensive whiskey. The big kahuna is a teddy bear if you ask me. Got a funny name like Crabmonkeyprawn or something, so let’s just call him Crabcakes. He showed me their shuttle bay and let me fire the photon blasters at some illegals, getting cheeky with his tentacles if you know what I’m sayin’.” She added that she didn’t like the smell of so much ammonia in their spacecraft AC. “I told him to go terraform France if you want a wreck an atmosphere. They’ll lie down like dogs for a piece of cheese.”
At press time President Trump proposed a ceasefire while taking a “drone tour” of the smoldering ruins of Los Angeles. “It will be beautiful,” said Trump. “I’ve met with Emporer Crabcakes and he’s apologized for wiping out most of the blue cities, explaining the Samsonites are really color-blind, so whatever. Not like it was on purpose! I didn’t know a thing about it. Really. Crabcakes is a great leader, a true arthropod slash cephalopod with silicon-based armor, and such a kind man! Or being I guess. His gift of a solid-gold statue of myself was truly heart-warming.”
When a reporter from the Associated Press tried to derail the joyous news of the Hunting Wives being unleased on the Samsonites (Trump got the name wrong, true, but the luggage corporation is thankful for the press and has promised a 15% stake in stock options, class A) by noting that the so-called “Hunting Wives” aren’t “real,” but actresses playing . . . . The press secretary cut her off and frowned, saying, “That’s loser talk. Why don’t you take your chubby woke ass out into the hallway and vape or whatever it is libtard losers do when you’re fuming for attention.” The AP reporter tried to speak but no one could hear her for all the laughing. “What does that mean, anywho?” said the press secretary. “‘Associated’? Like you know someone in the media or something?” She pressed a button that made a mwah-mwah-mwah sound. The press secretary’s staff assistant (daughter of a wealthy donor) giggled and took an iphone shot of the AP reporter looking gobsmacked. Within moments a squad of masked agents entered the briefing room and muscled the reporter. When she tried to resist they pinned her right arm behind her back and rushed her into the hallway. “Bye bye now, Pastor Pete!” called the secretary. “Who are you to decide what’s real or not, anyway?” she added. “Perception is reality, dogface. Don’t forget it.”
So as not to be considered too “elite” I have actually watched not only the original Greenland (2020) film, starring Gerard Butler, but have also watched Greenland: Migration (2026), the sequel, to boot. And I’m thinking either Trump or one of his minions watched it and didn’t quite understand the idea of “fiction.” They want that island. It’s where we’ll all go when the comet hits! Or “comets,” in the movie anyway. I liked Greenland: Migration the best. Some good footage of London (the comet-destruction version), including the English Channel as a landfill/canyon. Next up: Disaster movie titled America in Flames: The Trump Years. Actually the tagline on poster below is good for both movies: “Hope is uncharted territory.”
So last Spring when I was arranging a week-long kayaking trip on Shoshone Lake in Yellowstone National Park I read a number of Trip Reports, on various blogs and backcountry-travel sites. They were helpful. Some of them were kooky, such as the group who did a Shoshone Lake trip on paddleboards. (They looked like they had fun, though I think it’s a little crazy.) I’ll repay the favor by offering my own trip report. There were some surprises.
Morning launch from Lewis Lake boat dock
First off, Shoshone Lake is defined as the largest backcountry lake in the Lower 48. It’s “backcountry” in that you can’t access it from any road. You can hike to it via various trails (it’s a big lake) but if you want a paddle trip most people access the lake via the Lewis Channel, which is essentially a small river flowing out of Shoshone Lake and into Lewis Lake. We launched kayaks from the Lewis Lake boat dock and paddled the 4 miles across it to the channel, then about 3 miles paddling upstream the channel to the lake. From there our first campsite (site 8Q9) was less than a mile away, so our first day was probably less than or around 8 miles.
On Lewis Lake nearing the mouth of Lewis Channel
Wildlife: A common complaint or observation from other trip reports was the lack of wildlife sightings on Shoshone Lake. Our trip was in early September. While we saw no grizzlies (thank god) or black bear, we did see mule deer, elk, beaver (close to bank), Sandhill cranes, Bald Eagles, Mergansers, Swans, and other waterfowl.
Bull elk on shores of Yellowstone Lake
That first day there were numerous Mergansers in the Lewis Channel, as well as Trumpeter Swans.
.Mergansers in the Lewis Channel
When we reached Shoshone Lake I saw a stately bull elk with huge antlers trotting in the line of trees off the eastern shore. Eagles perched high in the spruce trees near every one of our campsites. (And for those wanting bear sightings, we did see both Blacks and Grizzlies in the park, just not at Shoshone Lake.) At night we heard wolf howls and the deep hoots of a Great Gray Owl. And a word of caution: While we didn’t see any grizzlies a ranger told us one had been sighted on the banks of the Lewis Channel. It’s a narrow river with often a relatively thin strip of bank/shoreline before a line of forest and hills on either side, so if you saw a grizzly it would probably be relatively close to you. The first half of the Lewis Channel you paddle upstream (against weak current) until the “Rock Garden,” where the river gets shallow. At that point you line the kayaks upriver.
Lining the kayaks up the Channel
Campsite quality: I’ve kayaked and backpacked from Alaska to Mexico and Shoshone Lake had some of the finest backcountry sites I’ve ever visited. They even have pit toilets! Know that most of the lake shore is steep cliffs, so the campsites tend to be either in flat areas close to shore, like Moose Creek sites (3 of them), or, more commonly, on plateaus above the lake accessed by short, steep hikes.
Shore view from first campsite
The views from the cliff sites were fantastic. We ate lunch and dinner on cliffs watching the beautiful blue lake, completely devoid of people. Which leads me to a surprise:
View from a cliff camp
They aren’t kidding about “backcountry”: We were shocked and pleasantly surprised at how isolated it was. People complain about crowds in Yellowstone? When we launched we saw one other paddler, a solitary guy in an aluminum canoe. He launched before us and once we reached the Lewis Channel we never saw him again. (Think he was a day-tripper.) That was Monday. From then until Friday we had the entire lake to ourselves! We didn’t see any other people, until the weekend, when a few groups did show up. Even then I don’t think there were more than 10 people on the lake, total, during our visit.
Alone on Shoshone Lake
It was spectacular: A big, cold lake surrounded by forest. With no people. It was like having Lake Tahoe all to ourselves.
Western end of the lake, near the geyser basin
Geyser Basin: The western end of the lake is maybe 10-12 miles southeast of Old Faithful Geyser Basin and other thermal sites like the Firehole River. It has its own Shoshone Lake Geyser Basin there, quite large and spread out, with no crowds. Our afternoon there we met two hikers leaving the basin and two park-ranger hydrologists studying the geysers. That’s it. The coolest sound we heard on the whole trip occurred in the marshes on the lake side of the Geyser Basin: A loud warbling call, haunting and resonant—the call of Sandhill Cranes. They were feeding in the marshy grasslands near the shore. Huge birds closely related to Whooping Cranes. We had seen them before in Yellowstone and were thrilled to hear the call and see their blue-gray plumage with a red dash on their heads.
Shoshone Lake Geyser Basin
The biggest danger that ranger-folk warn you about on Shoshone Lake is the weather, mainly fast-developing storms popping up and roiling the lake, wind-generated waves that can easily capsize canoes. We read about three deaths and took the recommendations seriously. (We had also already spent a week kayaking Yellowstone Lake the year before, so we knew how strong the wind could be.) That affected our daily paddles: Our kayaks were two Aire Lynx II tandem inflatables, self-bailing, packed tightly. With the weight of enough food and gear for a week we were definitely slower in the water.
Aire Lynx II tandem kayak
Each day we wanted to launch as early as possible—for us that meant 9:30-10—and arrive at camp before 1 p.m., when the storms would start popping up. They did, too. Almost every day there was a storm with wind and rain, often short-lived, often developing quickly. So we usually paddled 5-6 miles a day. When we reached the far western side of the lake, near the Shoshone Lake Geyser Basin, we made camp and had lunch, then paddled our empty kayaks over to the banks near the Geyser Basin.
Lake shore near the geyser basin
The Last Day: Woke up to freezing temps, ice on the kayaks.
Iced kayak
All week long we had dodged the weather successfully, launching early to beat the wind and waves and hunkering in camp when the afternoon storms arrived.
The last morning, at Moose Creek campsite 8Q7
But the last day we paddled from Moose Creek (8Q7) to the Channel, then down the Channel to Lewis Lake, and the 4 miles across Lewis back to the boat dock. By the time we reached Lewis Lake we had to fight a stiff headwind all the way back to the dock. It was hard paddling, adding maybe an extra hour to the paddle-time. We reached the boat dock and were quickly surrounded by friendly people there to enjoy the view, asking questions about our trip. I went to move our Outback into position to load the gear and the battery was dead. No sooner did I mention that than the folks curious about our trip came to the rescue with a portable charger and we were up and running.
Paddling downstream in the Lewis Channel
My favorite moments: Having coffee and breakfast at our cliff camps, watching Mergansers and Eagles on the lake, listening to wolf howls from our cozy tent, watching a storm rise on the north side of the lake and come down on our Moose Creek camp with the whitecap waves crashing against shoreline not far from our tent. We loved our Lewis Lake kayak trip. Would gladly do it again. Although this year we have our sights set on the Boundary Waters in Minnesota.
So after a lot of pre-release buzz the Jennifer Lawrence film Die My Love fizzled at the box office and did not get much attention. (Note: Minor spoilers ahead.) That’s a bit unfortunate, as it has the terrific performance of Sissy Spacek as crazy J-Law’s mother-in-law, who is trying to help her overcome postpartum depression.
Sissy’s and Jennifer’s scenes are the glue that holds the fractured storyline (and structure) together. Sissy plays Pam, Jennifer Lawrence’s (as Grace) husband’s mother, with husband played by the feckless Robert Pattinson (as Jackson). I felt sorry for Jackson throughout, who seems harmless enough, except for bringing home a puppy to the much-addled and psychologically desperate Grace, not the right move. Grace descends into madness as the new dog barks and barks.
After a while you see this is not going to end pleasantly. Ultimately she channels her inner Kristi Noem, famous for bragging about how tough she was to shoot a dog that bothered her. (It’s a short step from shooting a troublesome dog to shooting troublesome people, as Kristi’s ICE goons are doing now in Minnesota. No. Correction: It’s not a short step. It’s no step. It just shooting living things you don’t like.)
Looming in the background of Die My Love is the topic of postpartum depression. I hesitate to say that’s what it’s “about,” which would be reductive and dismissive. It’s not a Lifetime Channel movie or an ABC After School Special. It has a great cast (including Nick Nolte as Harry, Jackson’s dementia-cursed father), an artsy sensitivity, and a fragmented structure—much is elliptical and unstated. Jackson works but it never really shows what he does. We never know much about him. He’s the Boyfriend, the Young Father, then after their (ill-advised) marriage he’s the Husband. The guy we can feel sorry for.
Then there’s Grace, the Mother, who starts out like a firecracker—in vintage, sassy Jennifer Lawrence mode—and fizzles into a basket case. She creates a tragic, believable character, although at times it seems the director told her, “Just act crazy.” She crawls around on the ground a lot. She barks a lot. She pleasures herself . . . a lot. She takes care of her baby a lot—until the madness sets in, and then it’s like “Baby? What baby?” Ostensibly she’s a “writer,” although they never really mention anything she’s written. At one point Jackson asks her how she’s doing on writing The Great American Novel. He’s lucky he doesn’t get stabbed in the forehead with a fork.
One of the saddest scenes occurs late, when Jackson is driving Grace home after she’s had a hospital stay. They sing along with the great John Prine/Iris DeMent song “In Spite of Ourselves” as it plays on the radio. Poignant moment. When she finally confesses, “I can’t go back” it’s heartbreaking. We the audience don’t know exactly why she feels cornered and trapped, but we can guess. Good soundtrack. They also play the great Johnny Cash song “The Beast in Me.”
So my wife and I are inveterate backpackers—the seasoned, often bedraggled kind. We’ve backpacked in many locations from Denali National Park in Alaska (perhaps the “wildest” backcountry) to Yellowstone and the Wind Rivers in Wyoming and many others. But truth is we don’t enjoy carrying heavy packs on our back. That’s the hard part. Sometimes the miserable part. (Depends on how far you have to go.) The reward, however, is always worth it: We backpack to reach beautiful, untrammeled and uncrowded locales. (Yellowstone is our favorite, have done about a dozen pack trips there.)
En route to Alaska, the Saskatchewan River near Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada.
Shouldering the packs is always a chore. Sure, we try to pack lightweight and carry ultra-lightweight tent etc, but usually for a weeklong adventure my pack would be around fifty pounds. That’s a third of my weight and about as much as I want to lug. Most movies that depict backpacking are silly, fake, or foolish. You can always tell the actors don’t have much weight in their packs. They stand so straight! And when they stop they don’t drop their backpacks asap. I always suspect the packs are filled with Styrofoam peanuts. They often seem as if filmed by people who have never or very seldom carried a pack for miles. Which is where last year’s excellent film The Salt Path deserves a mention.
While I usually try to avoid spoilers, I should note this is most definitely not a thriller, murder-mystery, horror, scifi, or action-adventure flick. No demon strippers or flying monkeys either. It’s quiet, thoughtful, compassionate, and touching. There are some surprises I won’t reveal. But the core of the film, and the engine of its charm and emotional appeal, is an aging, late-Middle-Age couple (they have grown children) who embark on the “Salt Path”—a backpacking trail that follows the coast of England for several hundred miles.
Opposed to the fake backpacking films I rant about, the packing depicted in the film seems surprisingly realistic. For one thing, it looks hard. The husband is played by Jason Isaacs, of recent White Lotus fame, season three in Thailand. (He played the father who decides to kill his family due to financial collapse.) He struggles at backpacking more than I ever have, and he has to go miles and miles. I felt sorry for him from his first limping steps. The wife is played by Gillian Anderson of X-Files fame, although that seems dismissive: She’s been in many films and television since that Nineties show, including Sex Education and The Crown—in which she played Prime Minister Maggie Thatcher. She is remarkably stoic in their physical travels and travails. Anderson does a good job of not milking the difficulty, but not sugar-coating it either.
Yet the film is not only or even primarily about “backpacking.” As I’ve noted in my intro, I think of carrying heavy packs as just a means to an end. The film touches on our modern economic perils, on companionship, on honor and dignity, and on how to survive and even prevail when the going gets tough. It’s touching and heartfelt. A rare commodity these days. We watched this movie out of sheer chance, and I’ve remembered it more fondly than most films I saw last year. Here’s a comparison: One Battle After Another is being touted as this year’s Best Picture; The Salt Path is better.
UPDATE 2.2.26: I originally wrote, “Note this is a true story. That adds some zing to the suffering and the struggle of the couple. Based on the eponymous book by Raynor Winn, which is touted as an International Best Seller and the Best Book of 2019 by NPR’s Book Concierge.” But apparently Raynor Winn has been accused of fraud, for a number of reasons: I won’t go into all the details here but a friend mentioned it to me and a quick google search turned up the dirt. She’s been accused of embezzlement, lying about Moth’s (her husband’s) illness, and whether they ever even hiked The Salt Path at all. I’m not the judge in this case but the accusations sound convincing and damning. That doesn’t change my opinion about the movie. But it does undercut the “True Story” zing.
So last year my family got the itch to take an unplanned springtime beach vacation. Long story short: We had nothing booked, and only a vague notion of where we might want to go. Florida is nice enough, sure, but it’s . . . Florida. And in March/April, busy with Spring-breakers. We love Hawaii and have been several times, but our usual resort venues were all booked up.
Meanwhile we were watching the third season of White Lotus, set in Thailand. At one point a character said, “No wonder no one comes here.” Huh? (Which is definitely not true, but from my anecdotal experience could be amended to No wonder not many Americans come here.) That piqued my curiosity. I got to checking and found a resort and flights for reasonable cost, and in the blink of an eye, suddenly we (wife, myself, and eighteen-year-old daughter) were going to Thailand.
Mind you I pretty much knew nothing about Thailand. A good friend of mine years ago did psilocybin mushrooms on a Thai beach and said that I had to go there—which was alluring, but a distant memory. Most of what I knew at booking came from White Lotus. So I bought the Lonely Planet guide to Thailand. Although we stay at nice hotels/resorts, we wouldn’t be doing the Four Seasons—whose villas can run over four thousand dollars/night. Two weeks on the island of Phuket in mid-April here we go.
Beach sunset on first day
After the trip I discovered the term “Set-Jetters”—people who travel to places they have seen in movies/TV. We joined the club, so to speak. First surprise: our resort was adjacent to the Anantara resort at Mai Khao beach on Phuket Island. Like, right there. (White Lotus was shot in a variety of resort locations in Thailand. Anantara at Mai Khao was just the opening and closing scenes.) It immediately seemed like we were stepping into the HBO series. We stayed at the Mai Khao Marriott resort. From what I’d read about it, I guessed it would be somewhat loud, boisterous, and teeming with kids. (It was described as the “family” resort in the trio of Marriott resorts at that location.)
Resort view from terrace
Instead it was quiet and peaceful—serene, even. A twenty-foot-tall metal sculpture/contraption with a large brightly painted bucket filled with water constantly then tipped it over to dump it into a kiddy pool complex, filling the pool area with the pleasant sound of splashing water, even when no one was swimming. It seemed like stepping into the storyline of White Lotus—only without the incest and murderous, rich-bastard plotlines. Good restaurants were nearby, and we also ate at the famous open air markets in Phuket City. I liked the beach-side restaurants the most.
Elephant on beach in front of restaurant
Second surprise: at our local Turtle Mart (a kind of artistic mini-mall) there were high-end clothing boutiques, a small grocery mart, a Starbucks, and a cannabis dispensary. It’s legal in Thailand. Although the hotel complex is no-smoking, they allow smoking on the terraces (every room has one, as far as I could tell), so it was the first hotel I’ve ever visited where you could smoke cannabis legally, without having to stuff a towel beneath the bathroom door.
Third surprise: The snorkeling and sea-kayaking were great. We took tour boats to various locations, both east and west of Phuket island, cheaper than Hawaiian excursions.
Tour boat in Andaman Sea
Usually the tour boat maneuvered close to smaller islands and launched the sea kayaks for us to paddle through lagoons.
In some places we paddled through sea caves, way cool.
Sea cave from kayak
The snorkeling was fantastic. Better than Hawaii. Why: At least in March (when I’ve been to Hawaii) the Pacific is still pretty chilly when you go snorkeling. I’ve been shivering while snorkeling in Hawaii more than once. Thai ocean water is warm but not hot. Just right.
Lovely exotic fish near snorkeling reef
That’s perhaps our biggest difference between the mythical White Lotus family and our real-life vacay: We were active, went out and did things. We snorkeled at the Phi Phi Islands and the Similan Islands (at which many movies have been filmed, as our guide hilariously informed us, including by having us pose with fake guns at James Bond Island). My daughter tried jet-skiing and scuba-diving.
Andaman Sea snorkeling
There was more wildlife than I expected: monkeys, monitor lizards, elephants, exotic birdlife.
Monitor lizard in kayaking cove
The monkeys were a bit unsettling. On one “Monkey Island” (I had the sense that wasn’t its real name but what it was called by the tour-boat guides) they were scattered across the beach, and curious about our kayaks. A guide warned me to be careful: They like to steal tourists’ cameras and rush into the jungle and hide them.
Monkey coming for my camera on kayak
We arrived in late April, the start of monsoon season. After a 30+ hour flight from Colorado via Hong Kong we were a bit frazzled and discombobulated when we picked up the rental car. (Note: Skip it. You don’t need one.) When we walked outside to pick it up rain was pouring down in gray torrents. My glasses fogged. It was maybe 98 degrees with 100% humidity. It felt like a scene from Swimming to Cambodia.
Monsoons from our terrace
Our greatest drama? (Well, mine.) Driving on the left side of the road and trying to avoid running over the many mopeds. On the way to the resort, first day, my daughter was in front seat, saying, “Dad? Dad? You’re on the wrong side of the road again.” And I’m like, “Yeah . . . I know that,” while trying to suavely steer back in the correct lane without mangling any Thai people. Other drama: When daughter lost her passport, right before leaving for the airport to Bangkok. This instigated frantic searching, bickering (“I gave it to you!” “No, you didn’t!”) and general mayhem. Told she couldn’t fly without a passport, she moped back to the car in disgrace and disappointment . . . only to listen to her mother and (finally) check one more place, and there it was. She flew to Bangkok on another adventure while my wife and I had one final night at the resort, with final sunset splendor.
Andaman Sea sunset
Do I recommend “set-jetting”? Absolutely. Especially to Thailand. Food was great, people were friendly. I realize we have also done it twice: After the first White Lotus, set on Maui, Hawaii, we went to Maui. Apparently the next season takes place somewhere on the French Riviera: Ooh la la.
So I sleep with dogs. (You got a problem with that?) Actually that should be “dog,” singular, a particularly cantankerous Beagle-Terrier mutt named Swishy. Although in my head I think “dogs,” plural, because Swish is not the first dog I’ve ever slept with, and probably not the last. (Note I am not being “metaphorical.”) One mutt I slept with back in the Seventies was named Mozart. (I still miss him.) But why? It’s therapy. Who wouldn’t like a furry, warm, supremely loyal beast sleeping beside them in the night? One who would bark at and frighten any intruders? (Even though I can’t say I’m worried about intruders interrupting my sleep, but still.) There’s a kind of Zen calm you experience when waking in the middle of the night (like last night, when our house was shaken by tremendous mountain winds) and reaching over to pat your snoozing mutt. I pat her back, feel her furry ribcage, scratch her belly. Now Swish is an easy fit in bed: She weighs a little over twenty pounds and is on the Small side of a Medium. It is true, however, that if I nudge her accidentally with my foot at any time in the night she will growl or yelp out of all proportion with my gentle nudge. But . . . what can you do? A true dog lover doesn’t flinch at an occasional growl. Or quibble about size and poundage. I visited a friend in Austin, Texas a few years back and his guest room was his dogs’ room. So I had two oversized furry mutts, Luke & Tazz, as my bed companions. They were both long-haired beasts and it was shedding season. I was covered in so much fur in the morning I was an Honorary Dog. Here’s a photo of the Most Loyal Dog in the World (which is, like, every dog owner’s dog):
So here’s a story that hasn’t been featured much in the news media: The Southwest has had a pitiful winter so far—parched and warm. It’s drier than a tumbleweed here in south-central Colorado. And it’s worse elsewhere south and west of here. It’s like the flip side of the famous “Year Without a Summer” (1816) that is cited as an impetus for the creation of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein and is widely believed to have been caused by the eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia, circa 1815. What’s our warm winter cause? Most likely La Niña, which tends to cause the jet stream to veer farther north, making winters warmer and dryer in the Southwest. Whatever the cause, the result is very little snow and brown grasses in fields and hillsides usually white. Ski resorts in Colorado are panicking. I’ve owned a home in the Sangre de Cristo mountains since 2003. This is the worst snow drought I can remember.
Although there is some snow—as the photo above illustrates, showing the Wet Mountain Valley and the Sangre de Cristo mountains west of Pueblo, Colorado—it’s a pittance of what we usually have. Climate change likely has a role in this moisture decrease as well. At one point in climatologist Michael Mann’s excellent book The Hockey Stick and the Climate Wars (2012) he warns that La Niña winters could become common in the West, and exacerbate a mega-drought. It seems to be happening.
So I have to begin with a confession: I’m most definitely a fan of the much-acclaimed nonfiction writer Simon Winchester. One of my first Winchester reads and still one of his finest (and my favorite) was Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded (2003), his epic description of the eruption of Krakatoa in Indonesia, the final explosions of which are still recognized as the loudest sounds ever heard by humans, back in 1883. (The noise was heard over a thousand miles away.) It does a great job of bringing that (literally) earth-shaking event to life, and setting it in the context of the history of Indonesia, as well as the geography and vulcanology of the Pacific’s Ring of Fire. One image he describes has stayed with me: In the months before the final eruption the beaches of Krakatoa actually split apart and spewed lava into the ocean. It’s an amazing book of an amazing event.
Since then Winchester has given his readers a number of excellent works, including A Crack at the Edge of the World: America and the Great California Earthquake of 1906 (2005), Atlantic (2010), and many others. He’s perhaps the King of Fun Facts, but that seems a slight of sorts: Not only does he have a knack for the scintillating detail that makes a story come to life, but he also writes in a literary, approachable style. With books on such expansive topics such as Land: How the Hunger for Ownership Shaped the Modern World (2021), the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, he tends to grapple with Big Topics, usually with a geographical angle. His latest book is a daring addition to that tendency, about no less than the atmospheric phenomenon we all know as Wind—titled The Breath of the Gods: The History and the Future of the Wind (2025).
It’s one of my favorites of his recent books—not as exhaustive and exhausting as Land or Atlantic. As usual it’s full of Fun Facts, including terrific descriptions of why hurricanes rotate counter-clockwise in the northern hemisphere and clockwise in the southern. From the “singing” sound of wind on sand dunes (which happens at The Great Sand Dunes National Park near Alamosa, Colorado) to the derided racial theories of climate, Winchester examines the minutiae of wind from both a physical and a cultural viewpoint. He notes in the beginning the curious phenomenon called The Great Stilling, the diminishment of wind speeds over land in the decades between 1980-2010 (which has abated in some areas). Readers of a scientific bent will love it.
