Featured Stories in Travel

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

Forget April in Paris; December in Paris is best. There are lights strung between buildings down the lengths of narrow streets. Tartiflette and vin chaud are consumed in large quantities at outdoor holiday gift markets. The frosty air makes stopping at a crepe stand for a hot oozy Nutella crepe all the more magical.

In December, French people wrap even larger and more intricately tied scarves around their entire heads. Many slip and fall on the sidewalks, partly because the sidewalks are icy and partly because the people insist on wearing fashionable footwear year round. When it snows, all the notorious mounds of dog poo are covered; this leads to unwanted holiday surprises as you stumble down the icy street with lots of shopping bags and a giant scarf completely blocking your field of vision.  

As much as I love the melée of Paris in December, we’re off to Quebec for the holidays. Before I go wrap myself in bear and moose skins in my husband’s homeland, I’m going to share a story from last year’s holiday season. The story happened here in Paris, though it could have happened anywhere parents insist on acting crazy in the name of Christmas.  

I have a friend, Hilary the London mum, who has a five-year old son, Harry. Hilary and her husband bought Harry a very large pirate ship bed for Christmas last year. After Harry fell asleep Christmas Eve, Hilary, her husband, and Hilary's family visiting from England started building the bed.

Large pirate ship beds being what they are, assembly took hours. Around 2 a.m. the bed was assembled and an argument had broken out between Hillary and her husband. Hilary's husband wanted to push the bed into Harry's room so he saw it first thing when he woke up. Hilary wanted to leave it in the dining room, where it had been assembled, because she wanted to see his face when he saw it. She was also afraid moving the bed would wake Harry, thus shaking his belief in Santa Claus at the too-young age of four.... (more)

Pro tip: A laptop aids in the pounds-per-hour to kilograms, and Fahrenheit to Celcius conversion.

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

Holidays abroad can be lonely. When a holiday rolls around, we ache a little and talk about home a lot. We put on happy smiles for the Skype session involving every relative we have, plus a few we didn't know existed, all of them crammed into one room chatting and laughing and having drunken angry fistfights while we suffer the family togetherness from too far away. Then we crawl into the corner to cry and drink wine.

Thanksgiving, especially, can be bleak because it's a non-event here in pilgrim-free France. Christmas and New Year's are happy times because the city is full of fellow revelers but for Thanksgiving, you're on your own. You still have to go to work and you don't get the long weekend to eat cold turkey sandwiches and buy bigger pants.

Last year, determined to make Thanksgiving happen in the middle of Paris, we banded together with a group of fellow American ex-pats. New York Mom was in charge of procuring and cooking the bird. The butcher's eyes widened when she said she wanted to purchase the grandest turkey in all of France. He frowned and said the turkey she wanted was way too big for seven adults and a handful of children. She said, Duh, that was the point. He unhappily sold her the bird, probably assuming most of it would go to waste, but he doesn't know Americans like we know Americans. 

I was in charge of my specialty, midwestern cheesy potatoes--"midwestern" because the recipe calls for a can of cream of mushroom soup and a crunchy corn flake topping. I was also responsible for tracking down a jar of cranberry sauce. No one in our group liked cranberry sauce but we agreed it should still be present on the table, preferably plopped into a bowl and still in the shape of the can like mama used to make.... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

Seattle has a fine aquarium. We’ve spent many hours of family fun on Pier 59 and we were happy to hear we wouldn't have to give up the fish when we moved to Paris; Paris has an aquarium, too. It wasn't long before we jumped on the metro to go visit, joking that the Paris aquarium was probably full of deformed creatures snagged out of the Seine.

Of course that's not true. They have nice fish. But there are other issues.

It was a strange visit from the get-go. We saw a large "Tickets!" sign in the entry. Under the sign were several touchscreen machines. We assumed, I don’t think irrationally, that we were supposed to buy our tickets at the machines.

Alex put a credit card in the card reader but no menu appeared.  Instead, we got either pictures of fish or trivia questions about fish, which we dutifully answered assuming we had to prove some knowledge of fish in order to be worthy of admission. After answering a few questions and watching some fish swim by, we eyed each other and suspected we were doing something wrong.... (more)

Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years with her husband and two kids. Her daily life does not include romantic walks along the Seine, champagne picnics on the Pont des Arts, or five-star gourmet dinners. For a realistic take on life in a fantasy place, visit her blog, An American Mom in Paris.

France is mad as hell and blah blah blah something about not putting up with this crap anymore. The country known for its strike culture is knocking itself out with daily manifestations and ongoing disruptions in metro/bus/plane/boat/hot-air-balloon/bobsled service. Walking service will be reduced next; two out of three people will have to slither around on their bellies.

The main issue sparking the unrest is the upping of the retirement age from 60 to 62. It's pissed off a whole bunch of people (who may or may not understand math) and they are expressing their discontent by refusing to do many things. There are gas shortages because no one's working the refineries and rumored food shortages in the near future.

Just work your extra two years, dammit, French people. I need my corn flakes.

Strikes are a regular part of life here and we've gotten used to disrupted transportation service and canceled school days. Last year, however, going on strike surfaced in the most unlikely of places.

We'd been in Paris about six months when we went to our son's end-of-year preschool play. For the record, watching three-year-olds mill around onstage is as awkwardly entertaining here as it is anywhere. The confused wandering, the blank stares, the teachers whispering loudly and gesturing madly from the wings--the cluelessness of the three-year old is the same despite all our cultural differences.

The theme of the show was "The Sea." Our son was dressed as a windmill and helped demonstrate why the ocean is salty. I think it was something about a magic, salty windmill. Those precocious kids were speaking French so the subtleties, or even the generalities, of the tale were lost on me.... (more)

View from atop Mt. Catherine: That's Granite Mountain to the left, and the Kaleetan and Chair Peaks to the right.

Special to The SunBreak by Mt. Catherine correspondent John Hieger

Back in the '80s, when Blizzard of Oz was the coolest extreme skiing influence on the planet, my friend's snow patrol dad would regal us with stories of the Pass's off-trail downhill couloirs. Mt. Catherine's name often surfaced as the rumored higher step on the Hyak Ski Area expansion. Backcountry wild men had been skiing it for decades and it was just a matter of time before permits cleared and chairlifts went up.

But some 30 years later, Mt. Catherine is as pristine as ever and the only extreme skiers who bag her summit still come the hard way, on foot.

Making the most of the unseasonably blue skies afforded this autumn, I made my way back to Mt. Catherine. It's a modest day hike by Snoqualmie Pass standards that looks down over the Hyak ski area, and features an impressive display of alpine peaks from the typical cast of Snoqualmie Pass big shots that come out with the sun.

Mt. Catherine comes via five solid miles of rocky Forest Road 9070 that winds from the Summit East parking area off Exit 54. Your dying Civic might not make it. Like any hike that's kind of a bitch to get to it gives you a little extra altitude for free. It's a booster seat for your legs while a potential tire-killer for your car.... (more)

The elation over the extension of the second daily Amtrak run between Seattle and Vancouver is shared north and south of the border, despite the contretemps being instigated by the Canadian Border Services Agency (CBSA), who wanted someone on the U.S. side to pay some $550,000 per year to defray customs inspection costs.

Washington's Governor Gregoire was "vexed" by the CBSA's original move, and U.S. Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano and U.S. ambassador to Canada David Jacobson eventually bent ministerial ears in Canada as well.

Crosscut broke down those costs as $1,500 per train, which the Washington State Department of Transportation, which sponsors the route, was unwilling to pay itself, or try to extract from passengers in the form of higher ticket prices. WSDOT Secretary Paula Hammond estimated the economic benefit to Vancouver at almost $12 million. (The CBSA, in turn, argued that they'd only agreed to waive the staffing costs for a pilot project lasting the duration of the Olympics, and weren't sure the post-Olympics tourism would bring the same economic boost.)

The potential economic benefit played a large part in the announcement Canada's Federal Public Safety Minister Vic Toews that "the border services agency has reallocated about $800,000 to cover the cost of the second U.S. Amtrak train into Vancouver per day," as CTV News reports. Essentially, the train has a year to prove that it's a net money-maker for the province. Vancouver Mayor Gregor Robertson hailed the decision as a "no-brainer."

Through the rest of October, by the way, train passengers can snap up promotional offers from twelve different Vancouver attractions.

Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years with her husband and two kids. Her daily life does not include romantic walks along the Seine, champagne picnics on the Pont des Arts, or five-star gourmet dinners. For a realistic take on life in a fantasy place, visit her blog, An American Mom in Paris.

Our troubles enrolling in the French health care system happened at the same time the health care reform bill was being angrily debated at home. If anyone from the States asked us how that dang socialist health care was treating us, we responded, "Fine."

We didn’t want to bemoan a system that, while not flawless, is certainly better than most. We were also afraid our frustrations would be used as ammunition at one of those town hall meetings where everyone yelled a lot.

French people are very happy with their health care system. They were therefore confused when an Obama is Hitler! poster made the front page of a French magazine. The French knew Hitler up close and personal and the French know universal health care. I don't think they got the connection. (I told as many who would listen that I don't know any Americans who got the connection, either.) 

But this isn’t a diatribe on health care reform, or a serious article on how to construct a perfect health care system with a few rubber bands and a can-do attitude. It's also a waste of time if you're looking for a comprehensive overview of the French system, or really any type of insight whatsoever. It's just what happened to us. 

We hadn’t even gotten our cable hooked up yet when I discovered I was pregnant. Getting pregnant moments after landing in Paris hadn’t been the plan but sometimes a bottle of celebratory French wine contributes to the complete forgetting of the plan.  

I was suddenly, miserably afflicted with intense nausea and sensitivity to smells in the land of stinky cheese, cigarette smoke and open-air fish markets. I attempted to speak French but mid-sentence decided I didn’t care and laid down on the floor to sleep. Harshest of all, just a few weeks into our lives in France, I could no longer partake in two of my favorite French activities: eating odiferous unpasteurized French cheeses and drinking the very French wine that had been complicit in my becoming unable to drink it. Is that irony? I’ve never admitted this to anyone but I don’t know the difference between "irony" and "a big bummer."... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris. Previously in Reluctant Parisienne posts.

We were stunned and slightly embarrassed. Considering my familiarity with Paris, Alex’s first language being French, and our hilarious overconfidence in our abilities, we assumed we would handle our move to France with enviable grace and flexibility. We knew it would not be effortless, of course, but we thought it would be effort-not-bad, and perhaps even effort-fun.

False. No matter who you are and where you go, an international move is like being a newborn baby without a mommy. Your surroundings are new and confusing, no one makes any sense  and you cry easily and often, without shame. Thankfully the need for diapers doesn’t creep back in, which was surprising in our case considering public toilets in Paris are as elusive as berets on native French speakers.

After the first painful month, the haze lifted just a tiny bit. I learned to accept the sinking heart feeling when I tried to speak French and got only forehead creases and blank faces in response. My jaw stopped dropping when I saw how much I owed for groceries. I made a new friend when I accidentally told our building maintenance man I loved him. “Je t’aime” is one of the phrases that comes easily to me in French and thus slips out at inopportune times, especially when I’m flustered.

Big personality!

There were bigger things that were more intense. Lucien got scary sick and I didn’t know who to call for help. (I’ve since tattooed the French emergency numbers on my phone-dialing finger.)

Alex’s job turned out to be more demanding than he’d anticipated and he worked longer hours than in Seattle.  When we asked a French friend about the much ballyhooed French 35-hour work week, she laughed and told us that only applies to jobs that “do not matter.” Alex did not take comfort in the fact that he mattered, and apparently mattered a lot.

We moved into our permanent apartment, an apartment for which we’d fought desperately a few months earlier on our pre-move apartment scouting trip.

Apartment hunting in Paris is a competitive, tedious and humbling process. Even with a relocation company advocate by our side and Alex’s employer paying the rent, our dossier was rejected a couple dozen times before we were tossed a bone. But what a bone. She’s small but what she lacks in size, she makes up in personality.  ... (more)

Every time I visit Victoria BC, it's a different city. A different, yet still completely crazy city. A constantly evolving kind of crazy, so that I am never able to get my bearings, to feel comfortable or oriented, despite a mostly shared culture and language. I've felt more at home in Tokyo than I do in Victoria.

My last visit to Victoria was among the most depressing holidays of my life. We saw a show at a club that shall remain nameless to protect the pathetic, a Stygian hole featuring the musical stylings of the clinically depressed bartender, who sang about his part-time job working in a retirement home in a manner that was neither funny, nor plangent. It was the most horrifying exhibition of talentless narcissism I have ever had the misfortune to witness. I cringed on his behalf, even as I longed for him to slit his wrists on stage, in order to put us all out of his misery.

This visit was better, for the most part. I had a poutine of duck confit over truffle fries at The Office (the fries were tasty enough, but there was too much duck in the confit and the curds were more like half-melted cubes of bland mozzarella), and Hermann's Jazz Club, self-billed as "suitable for ladies without escorts," is a terrific venue.... (more)

My companion and I hit Courtenay, BC, around mid-day Thursday and Courtenay, much like the singer of similar name, hit back. I have to admit, I should have seen it coming.

On the ferry to Nanaimo, I got into the most cordial throw-down of all time with a lovely woman who was herself going to Courtenay. The woman asked to buy a cigarette from me. I offered her the cigarette free of charge. She insisted that she couldn't possibly. I protested that as I was not a licensed tobacco vendor, it would be illegal, as well as unethical, for me to accept her money...et cetera.

Eventually, my nameless new friend took the cigarette and kept her money, and I spent the next ten minutes hearing about her various offspring. Mixed in there somewhere was a brief mention of something called the Seniors Games. We parted on good terms, but I should have Googled "Seniors Games."

The BC Seniors Games are an annual competition in which members of the hip-replacement set come together to compete in events ranging from archery to Whist. (My ferry friend was competing in the Bridge tournament.) The games are held in a different location each year. This year, the silvered thousands descended on Courtenay for the weekend, vehicles circling downtown in a Miltonian search for free parking. Belligerent old men were knocking people over to get first into queue for restaurant tables (I have the bruises to prove it), and every hotel, motel, B&B, guesthouse, and RV park in the Comox/Campbell River Valley was reported to be booked solid.

So, of course, the B&B we'd booked (and confirmed twice) had been double-booked by the flaky reflexologist (is that redundant?) who owns the place, and the other couple had arrived first. Vera greeted us with a blank stare, followed quickly by horror, a rapid search for alternate accommodations, and the offer to pay for said accommodations. This time, I accepted an offer to pay without hesitation. I have no idea what our very nice room in a chain hotel ended up costing, nor do I particularly care. By the time we settled in, we were tired, cranky, stinky, hungry, and feeling very, very ugly-American, though trying hard not to show it.... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

This is a photo to let you know that Mindy is really in Paris.

Welcome to the next chapter of our wind-swept saga of love, life, partial nudity, and toilet paper in Paris.

The immigration people summoned us. Alex and I needed official medical exams before we could receive our carte de sejours. We arrived at the austere government building prepared for our delousing, or whatever they were going to do to ensure we didn’t infect the French with terrible things, and were ushered into a waiting room full of sweaty and nervous people.

Lucien was with us, of course, which is always a challenge in any waiting room scenario. Our kid was born with an intense desire to entertain those who do not wish to be entertained.

I was led into a tiny changing room and instructed to take everything off from the waist up and "wait." I did this and while I'm no puritan, I looked around the room wildly like, "Are you kidding me? No GOWN?" Then a second door flew open and I was faced with a large room full of people. They were people in white coats, but still, people in white coats I hadn’t invited to a private sexy dance.  

I walked across the room to the lung x-ray machine. I was nervous so I walked fast with shoulders hunched and forgot to swing my arms. I may or may not have looked like an ape. After the x-ray I tried to saunter more casually back to the changing room, to prove America’s totally cool with nudity and not uptight at all, but my true feelings betrayed me and I quickly became a prudish American blur. I hate playing into stereotype.  

They asked if I wanted to keep my lung x-ray. I said no. Everybody says no except for Alex, who came walking down the hall, grinning and waving a super-sized manila envelope over his head. “You took it?” I asked in disbelief. Al responded, a bit defensively, “I may need it someday,” and clutched it possessively to his lungs. We came home and hung it in our window. It’s a creepy piece of art but it was free.  ... (more)

We headed out early Tuesday morning, bound for beautiful BC. Shrouded by fog, we crawled through Seattle rush hour traffic, stopping and starting until King County receded in the rear view mirror. Just north of Bellingham, the clouds parted, the fog lifted and there were only blue skies ahead.

My longtime companion and I are on our semi-annual trip to see Danny Michel, the Kitchener-Waterloo based musician whom a coterie of devoted fans consider to be the best contemporary English-language songwriter in North America. My companion, a tri-lingual former radio DJ and classically trained pianist and organist, is actually much better qualified to judge these things than I am: she considers Danny Michel to be the best all-around contemporary musician working today, period, end-of-story, talk to the hand. Our individual personal opinions aside, Danny Michel only tours the west coast about every other year, so when he's nearby we drop everything and drive north. Well, she drives. I ride.

The first stop on this year's tour is Duncan, BC, nestled in the Cowichan (pronounced "coe-w'-chin") Valley. Cowichan means "the Warmlands" and is an apt description of the area. Cowichan is the warmest place in Canada, the northern equivalent of the Napa Valley. Wineries flourish, and oeniphiles looking for a fix scorn California in favor of this little-known gem on Vancouver Island. Lodging is relatively cheap, the food is wonderful, Canadians are always delightful hosts, and Vancouver Island is so fantastically beautiful that I would move here in a smokin' hot second.... (more)

Lake Ann is not a big lake, but what she lacks in size she more than makes up for with her grace and charm. She's also a calming force and an escape of sorts, from the surrounding drama of our main star, Mount Shuksan. When Shuksan is not fogged in it seems to spread itself across the entire sky. When it begins to feel like too much, one can simply turn around. Ann is there.

Fairly popular among day-hikers, you'll see everyone on this trail from hardened mountain lovers to families and even white-haired grannies. That said, it's not exactly an easy hike. At 8.2 miles and 1,900 feet of elevation gain (both round trip), Lake Ann is a bit more of a day hike than I'm usually up for, so, to those grannies who actually get there and back in a day, much respect.

As for my friends and me, we decided to backpack in and stay two nights at the lake so we could do a day-hike to the Lower Curtis Glacier on Mount Shuksan.

We began our hike on Friday afternoon, Labor Day weekend. The sun was shining and the sky was clear. A more perfect day simply could not exist for hiking in the North Cascades, where everywhere you look there are craggy, snow-capped peaks vying for your attention. As we set off on the trail with our heavy packs, we were almost giddy with excitement. Unlike a lot of trails you'll find, this one actually drops in elevation by about 900 feet from the trail head, winding its way through lush forest and eventually landing in a gorgeous little valley where dogs and humans alike may cool off in the many creek crossings. Views of Mount Baker and the surrounding mountains kept us stopping often for photos.

Another crossing and the trail then moves back into the trees, winding its way along the toe of the Shuksan Arm before bottoming out again at a junction where one may choose to go straight for Lake Ann, or turn right for a trail down the Swift Creek Valley to Baker Lake. From this junction, the trail climbs and climbs and climbs. We navigated switchbacks, scree fields, and the seemingly never-ending 1,000-foot slog up an exposed ridge, sucking water like crazy from our CamelBaks.... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

When we last heard from the Reluctant Parisienne, she was jet-lagged, befuddled by her appliances, and eating baguettes while spying on rich people. This time, she encounters what is to become her nemesis throughout her time in France--the French grocery store.

The inevitable day came when Alex went to work. I did not enjoy watching my French-speaking husband walk out the door, but I forced myself to feel optimistic. My French was decent, right? I’d studied it in high school and college and could still sing the French alphabet song. How badly could I screw up? (See below.)

Lucien and I began our first solo day by taking a long walk around our neighborhood. I was quickly intoxicated by the undeniable charm and beauty of Paris. The French people we passed on the narrow sidewalks smiled at Lucien and nodded at me with polite "Bonjours." I was feeling quite good about the whole thing.

We entered the grocery store. My Paris-drunk buzz faded to confusion as I scanned the shelves and didn’t recognize a single item. I started putting things in my basket just because I knew what they were. I didn’t need laundry detergent and I don’t like yogurt, but the Tide box was so cheery and the Yoplait suddenly so maternal and comforting.  

I set my basket on the belt at checkout and smiled brightly at the checkout girl. She looked briefly at my basket then said something in rapid-fire French. I totally froze, FROZE. And despite all my super productive years of French instruction, do you know what I said back to her? "Trois." That's right, I SAID "THREE."

She stared at me blankly. I desperately wanted to salvage our relationship so I threw out another gem--"Moi." Let’s recap. I said "trois," then "moi," and then I stood there smiling at her like goddamn Carol Channing. I knew I was dangerously close to singing the French alphabet song.... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

The view window

We left Seattle New Year's Eve, 2008 and arrived in Paris New Year's Day, 2009. New year, new life. Isn't it just so damn poetic.

We packed up our Seattle things, rented our Seattle house, sold our Seattle cars, and passionately kissed our Seattle friends goodbye (we have boundary issues) to follow my French-Canadian husband's dream of living in Europe. It was indeed his dream, not mine. I'd been to Europe; it was neat.

I'd even been to Paris a couple times; it was pretty. But not once while visiting was I struck with the desire to throw my arms around the person next to me at a cafe and say, "Be my NEIGHBOR, Frenchie!"

I was content being a tourist. My husband, my Alex, was not. His job fortuitously offered him a relocation opportunity--Luxembourg or Paris for two years--and Alex stared at me with pleading eyes. I agreed, but only if we chose Paris over Luxembourg because, well, come on it's obvious. (No offense to Luxembourg; it's a helluva grand duchy.)

I also made Alex pinkie swear we would return to Seattle in NO MORE THAN TWO YEARS. He swore. On his pinkie.

(We're going to be here longer than two years.)

It's been a wild ride. Here's the story, parts of it anyway, from the beginning:

The 10-hour flight went as well as can be expected considering our almost-three-year-old son, Lucien, never stops moving and never stops using his "outdoor" voice. Benadryl got him through. (Ativan got his mama through.)

Then we were in Paris, jetlagged and stuck in a car with a driver who got a giggly thrill from trying to kill pedestrians. Al and I mouthed, "Oh my God!" to each other, eyes wide, all the way to our new 'hood in the 6th arrondissement.... (more)

This might be a good place to mention that Amtrak is offering a 25 percent discount on Seattle to Vancouver tickets this September. The new "second train" to Vancouver that leaves Seattle at 6:50 p.m. had 25,000 passengers in July alone. (The original Amtrak Cascades train leaves at 7:40 a.m.)

The discount September fare will hopefully boost ridership even more--the second train is a pilot program, and the more people who ride it, the better chance it has of becoming a permanent addition to the schedule. Visit Vancouver Attractions for more discounts. Here are even more travel offers, courtesy of the B.C. Ministry of Tourism.

The view from higher ground

Special to The SunBreak by John Hieger

Generally the Margaret Lake trail takes you right there--which is fine if lakes are your thing--but on a clear day, the vistas from a summit always trump the scene from the shore.

If there's a loose philosophy to employ when selecting a hike, it makes sense to save summits for clear days and lakes for those less so. There are people who argue that dipping in a mountain lake is the ultimate payoff on a hot day: I don't agree, for the following reasons:

a) Mountain water, even in the peak of summer is painfully cold. Like jumping in Puget Sound, you get in because swimming sounds fun, you get out to keep your muscles from seizing.

b) Lake hikes aren't without their charms, but since it's cloudy more often than not in these climes, try to preserve view hikes for days when views are actually possible. Put another way, the window for summit views is far shorter, increasing their value (if you want to be a nerd about it).

Instead of hiking the ridge and dropping down the reverse side to the lake below, I decided to keep gaining elevation once reaching the ridgeline and bag the 5,459-foot summit instead, which is actually less work than getting to the lake basin itself.

The real leg work of Mount Margaret is a steady climb through old clearcuts now reclaimed by wild flowers and replanted saplings. The glass half-full crowd marvels over the vegetation and huckleberries on display in this phase, but I tend to think of it as a hot, exposed trudge through a rebounding, butchered forest, all too common along the I-90 corridor.... (more)

Special to The SunBreak by John Hieger

Guye Peak is that first rocky spire that shoots up to the left of I-90 right as you reach the summit at Snoqualmie. It's easy to get to, but that's where the easy ends.

The entrance is literally twenty feet from Snow Lake's trailhead in the Alpental Ski Area parking lot. Guye Peak, unlike Snow Lake, is far from a popular stroll. I didn't see a single person the entire day, which can be good for solitude snobs, but sometimes it's nice to know that if you roll an ankle somebody will find you before the cougars do.

The first mile of trail is the type of vertical rock scramble that turns tepid hikers into lifetime haters. If you have a Marlboro habit, this trail isn't for you. While it's a relatively short distance roundtrip, the 2,000-foot elevation gain means you're climbing vertically almost the entire time. I was in hell for the first 45 minutes, I won't lie.

Like any good summit hike, the pain-gain cliché applies. All the good views require some gut-wrenching, vertical misery; Guye Peak is no different.

After a brutal first mile of climbing, a ridge comes into focus that offers climbers the option to head left to Snoqualmie Mountain (bigger, longer) or the other direction towards Guye Peak. Since I didn't hit the trailhead until one in the afternoon, I opted for the "easier" route to Guye Peak.... (more)

[Ed: Besides taking pictures of major area wildfires on his way to AppleSox games, Seth also turned his attention to old signs while in Wenatchee.]

Perhaps because Wenatchee's main export never goes out of style, the apple orchard-ringed community has enjoyed stable prosperity. No mining busts or plant closings have led to inner city disintegration. Yet no new economy booms have led to inner city revitalization. Thus, many of the city's cool old signs have stuck around, like the guy in your neighborhood with a state pension. Have a look-see!

Special to The SunBreak by John Hieger

So last Monday I'm hiking to Wallace Falls, and hear a commotion coming down the trail towards me.

"Did you hit your sister?" asks a heavy-breathing lady as they rumble around a stump wearing a fern like a mohawk.

"But she hit me first." The indignant five-year-old protests, appalled that his retributive justice is being called into question.

It’s good to know the Code of Hammurabi still has its adherents in the foothills of Stevens Pass, and that the annual rite of passage that sees parents marching tired, unappreciative children up mountain slopes continues to bring the same chorus of whining and sibling infighting that's plagued these very hills since yours truly was once himself an ingrate hiker.

Some people associate Walden Pond-like solitude with the ideal outdoorsy experience and while that kind of trip has its place, popular attractions like Wallace Falls shouldn't be missed simply because the kid-and-hyper-dog-to-hiker ratio is higher than Ron Artest.

Hiking is a great people-watching--sometimes a crowd means more eye candy to check out. It's always fun to see the look the partner shoots you as you check out their better half in passing.... (more)

Iceland's mind-blowing Blue Lagoon

"Inspired by Iceland" is the big social media push that's launching to reassure travelers that Iceland isn't one big volcano. Technically it sort of is, but the point is that most of the rest of the country is not erupting, it's perfectly safe, and just as wildly beautiful as always. If you're at all worried, what with the volcano being at the south end, all you have to do is drive north.

If you've already been, they're soliciting traveler's stories to get the word out--you can submit your own at the site, or just listen to Viggo Mortensen's.

Another Icelandic roadside attraction

We at The SunBreak are big Iceland boosters, even though it is obvious to most of you that Iceland doesn't lie precisely within Seattle city limits. But observe our geometric logic: First of all, it is as if Iceland and Seattle are contiguous because you can take light rail there (granted, there's a moment where you get off the light rail at Sea-Tac and onto an Icelandair plane, but that's a blink of an eye.)

Second of all, what would be miserable Icelandic weather to most tourists makes the Seattleite feel right at home. Mid-50s and rain? Heavenly. So you can't lose.... (more)

Special to The SunBreak by John Hieger.

For all of the natural beauty surrounding the Suncadia Resort compound outside Roslyn it was a little disheartening to learn the golf course is the recommended tromping grounds for snowshoeing winter enthusiasts looking to tackle the "pristine" mountain charm hands on.

Some golfers may confuse a golf course for "nature," but in this region of Cascade pride a golf course is about as natural an escape as the grain elevators of Ellensburg. Suncadia sits on 1,200 acres--some of which is still waiting to be developed--that, at this juncture, feels underutilized in trail recreation, given the resort's function as an outdoors escape.

The resort presently offers a single "real" trail the "activities" people could recommend: It descends from the main lodge down the valley wall, to the Cle Elum River, which is the featured view from the lodge itself. The trail seems easy enough but in this season of unpredictable snowfalls, the downward trek consists of numerous icy patches that don’t necessarily justify snow shoes, but present multiple slipping opportunities regardless.

There’s no good way to go down ice that we know of sans crampons and in several places the bare earth was the best non-slipping option. Once the vertical descent ends a simple creek crossing is required and prettier, heavy snow becomes more commonplace as the jaunt to the river levels out. The thick forest canopy opens up to little clearings between strands of mid-sized pine as the sound of the river’s flow becomes audible and the comforts of the lodge are quickly forgotten.  ... (more)

Special to The SunBreak by John Hieger.

The crunchy first step of the trailblazer is serious work; being the slouch who pulls up the rear is usually preferable unless you're in it for the glory. While the movement feels somewhat robotic at first, the good news is the superhuman abilities snowshoes provide in the face of steep grades.

The traction of my cheap rentals gripped the heavy Cascade snow like a cat to a scratching post, enabling my buddy and I to tackle steep slopes with a sense of performance-enhancing momentum.  

After a half-hour of steady climbing and uncomfortable sweat--you assume snowshoeing is going to be an ass-freezing ordeal, but in this muggiest of El Niños, a vertical gain is a sweatshop--we reached an impressive vista that opened the Icicle Creek Canyon up to the east. The "creek" coursed below the jagged peaks on each side, giving a postcard view over the cold valley below. Winter imagery in Central Washington is the stuff of marketing campaigns.

We proceeded upward, until reaching a friendly local who informed us of the trail’s name and length which ignited a spirit of retreat. Eightmile Lake in winter is the stuff of early risers, and learning this fact after a late start and a healthy investment in the trail itself would have been devastating in uglier conditions.... (more)

It's true, I mention this mainly because it gives me a chance to use my picture of the Zaandam. But on the off chance that any of you were looking outside and thinking, "It's cold as Alaska out there," now you can take a boat up and compare, at a significant savings.

The cruise doesn't leave until May, which may not be a fair comparison, but a 7-day Alaskan cruise on the Zaandam starts at $629. That sounds like a pretty good deal, doesn't it? (No, I'm asking.)

You actually don't even have to go that far. Take the train up to Vancouver, and you can take the Zaandam back down to Seattle (a 1-day cruise) for just $79. It looks like the Victoria Clipper is $85, one way. And the Clipper doesn't have a Baroque-style Dutch pipe organ, does it? No, it does not.

The sale ends this Friday, December 11.

Photo courtesy of WSDOT

I just read over at the WSDOT blog that the Amtrak Cascades line is getting a makeover, scheduled for March 2010, once the Winter Olympics are done with.

Besides Wi-Fi and an upgraded video system (the existing video set-up has a charming Soviet-era quality)--hold back the tears, business travelers!--there will be an complete renovation of the bistro and lounge cars. Above is the proposed new look for the bistro car, sort of a Jetsons-meets-the-Rialto-concession-stand vibe.

WSDOT invites you to leave comments and suggestions on their post. Apparently they have some sway with Amtrak. I don't know that I'd put the water fountain at what looks like the entrance to the car. Seems like you turn around with your cup and BLAM! the guy in a hurry smacks you on his way past.