Baigli

I'm rather proud of my first baigli, thanks to Shari's help because I am no baker.

It's an Austro-Hungarian recipe for which Pozsony (Bratislava) is famous, hence the name Pozsonyi mákos tekeres (Pozsony poppy seed roulade). All I know is that Mum used to make the roulades — two kinds, poppy seed filled and walnut filled — in quantity on festive occasions. Like Christmas.

Our neighbor, who learned the recipe from her Jewish mother-in-law, has been bringing over a couple of rolls the last few Christmases. Her baigli (she calls them something else) is excellent and it brings back chromosomal memories of growing up in Sydney.

This year, thinking about how we used to devour baigli at Christmas, I was inspired to make some myself. We shopped for the necessary poppy seed grinder and ended up buying a Czech-made device. The poppy seeds came from Caravan, our local Middle Eastern food market. Grind them little black-grey seeds and oh my, what flavor!

Of course, anything with as much butter and sugar as this dough can't possibly be other than delicious. With poppy seed or ground pecan fillings, each with a hint of lemon, I mean, how bad can that be?

October, 2013, Road Trip

We spent three weeks on the road this October. We drove with our two pets some 2,200 miles to get to Freeland, Washington, on beautiful Whidbey Island, from Tucson, via California, and about 1,700 miles on the return trip via the Great Basin Highway in Nevada.

The latter route, the Great Basin Highway, is our our favorite. When done directly and taking a little known shortcut using Vulture Mine Road from Wickenburg to get to the Peenix bypass, it works out to 1,600 miles.

We took ten days for the drive up and two and a half days on the way down. We were visiting family and friends on the way up, and mostly anxious to get home on the way back, putting in a couple of days of eleven hours on the road.

As I often intelligently observe from my own personal experience, traveling — in addition to lots of other things — is work. The older I get, the more work it is. I feel like I'm getting old.

Jasmine, our older furry child of twelve dog years (equivalent to 84 for people), would agree with me. She got very sick by the time we reached Whidbey — Shari made three trips to the vet. Jasmine recovered only after our return home.

Redwood Highway.

Smoke (pronounced "Smokay," as in Danish for good looking) Ganesha, our trusty 2003 Ford Explorer cruising towards its first hundred thousand miles, also displayed a little age. Nothing that replacing the front brakes and a wheel bearing couldn't fix.

We've done the Whidbey-Tucson drive before. Eighteen times, counting each vehicle and each Whidbey-Tucson and Tucson-Whibey trip separately. We've gone south on I-5 to Los Angeles and made a left, passing through Blythe and Quartzite. We've gone east from Eugene in Oregon over Mackenzie Pass to connect with I-84 near Ontario. We've done the route to Bakersfield via Tehachapi. We've gone through Peenix and we've used several bypass routes. From I-10 to Needles we've done at least three variants. We've driven through Utah and Salt Lake City several times using different routes through Panguich and the canyon lands to end up in Flagstaff. One time we even went via Denver, Colorado, which is a story by itself.

There's still one route through Nevada we haven't tried.

Eleven Nights, Ten Beds

We are on vacation!

For me, it's a busman's holiday because I'm set up with mobile telephone (a clamshell), briefcase, laptop, and USB wireless connection. But what the heck - enjoy what you have, eh?

We drove from Tucson to Bakersfield in one stretch, then up I-5 to Sacramento, then the Coast Range in northern California, Ashland and Portland in Oregon, then Bellevue and beautiful Whidbey Island in the Salish Sea. We were loaded with suitcases big and small, and dog food for our two furry kids; enough baggage to spill over into our Thule roof container

Santa Bella, I-5, home of
Anderson's Pea Soup and Motel.

Nine different beds in ten nights.

It becomes a habit. After only one night on the Island, I was restless and anxious to press on. I returned to Seattle and stayed with my downtown sister. Ten beds in eleven nights. I was running out of new places where I could sleep.

We had to spend two nights in this bed.

The only place where we slept a second night was with dear friends whose house was on the market. Sure enough, they had a showing the day we were there so we had to pack and clean up our DNA.

Actually, we were delighted about the showing and only regretted that the show-ees made no offer. Without doubt, that was our nicest bed of all!

Venues for our sleep included a La Quinta on Buck Owens Boulevard in Bakersfield. We'd stayed there before and enjoyed it, but the owners hadn't done any refurbishing over the years and it won our award for least desirable. Even Jasmine the wonder dog was anxious to leave the industrial cleaner infused room.

The most colorful was our good friends' houseboat on the Willamette River. Supremely peaceful and quiet, our hosts did warn us not to fret about the thumping noises we were certain to hear. No, not ghosts. Beavers. No, not Oregon State alumni. The kind that like to eat willow branches.

The fog of Lower Alaska.

The house floats on logs and the little critters had at least three caches of food under the house. They were particularly active in the wee hours of the morning. Sure enough, we heard loud thumping as the beavers did whatever they do under houseboats.

We are very grateful of the good weather we've enjoyed here in Lower Alaska. There has been no rain. There's been little sun, either. The morning fog is so thick it doesn't burn off. Last time I saw sunshine was a couple of days ago. We are reminded why we moved to the Sonoran Desert.

Happy Century

It's been a century, one hundred years today, on August 21 of 1913, since Jozsa Irén was born in the small Hungarian town with a long name, Kiskunfélegyháza.

A year later, the First World War broke out and an uncle Stephen was among the first to fall in action near Belgrade.

She left her home in Szentes to attend university in Szeged, taught school, married, and became a high school principal. She survived the Soviet siege of Budapest in the Second World War, then with three children she fled Hungary to join her husband, then emigrated to Australia where she raised five children.

At age 53, she moved to the United States, to Seattle, where she was prepared to send her son Géza to Canada to avoid having him drafted for Vietnam. She had seen enough war. She had sacrificed much for her five children, and when they became adults, she had left little for herself.

August 21 is a busy day. Irén's 28th birthday was also her wedding day. Born and wed on the same day of the year.

Irén's granddaughter, Emese, was also born on August 21. I think both Irén and young Emese were a little jealous of that birthday date.

[Oddly enough, August 21 is also the birthday of a mother-in-law and her wedding day, and it's also the birthday of a dear guru-brother.]

My mother was 93 when she passed away in 2007. She had a long life full of accomplishments, hard work, simple pleasures, hardships, and more than her share of disappointments. There are many who owe her a great deal, the kind of debt that can only be repaid with gratitude, love and kindness.

Happy birthday, Anyu.

Evergreen Forest, Sky Islands

The Sonoran Desert has lots of sky islands; about forty of them. They are isolated mountain ranges that protrude from the desert floor at one or two thousand feet to heights of over five or even nine thousand feet.

Tucson itself is nestled next to several. We live in the foothills of a large one, the Santa Catalina Mountains. The Tohono O'Odham called them Babad Do'ag, Frog Mountain. Father Kino christened them after St. Catherine.

There's a road that goes to the top, Mount Lemmon, which is over nine thousand feet elevation. As you ascend, the road passes through saguaro forest dotted with agaves and ocotillo, then open areas with grass and oak trees, then spectacular granite rock with hoodoo formations and ponderosa pines, until the highest elevations where there are flowing creeks and slopes with ferns and fungus, and dense stands of pine, aspen, and douglas fir.

Doug fir? Yep. And all the sights, smells and chills of an evergreen forest by the Salish Sea -- except hemlocks and cedars.

The sky islands are part of the diversity of the Sonoran Desert. Where in Seattle can you drive an hour and see giant cactus forests? Yet we can drive an hour and see large stands of Douglas fir. Granted, there are no glaciers here, and snow fields last only part of the year.

Hiking on the top of Mt. Lemmon, about an hour drive from home, is being in a different world. Deer graze in the meadows, and warning signs suggest the presence of bears. It's a soothing respite from the humid heat of the Sonoran monsoon season.

No wonder people think of mountains as the home of the gods. They are.

The sacred heights of the Santa Catalinas are blessed with about three telephone or some other communications towers and auxiliary buildings, each compound surrounded by barbed wire fencing that forces hikers to the rocky edges of precipitous slopes.

There's a university telescope observatory with bunk buildings, also protected by barbed wire.

We also have a chairlift that serves the ski area, little ski and tourist shops, and a restaurant across the parking lot.

Then there is the small community of Summerhaven on top of the mountains, regular population of about forty.

Not an altar in sight.

It would be a place to express some silent gratitude and awe before such beautiful, unexpected creation.

Sometimes fire is a medium of offering thanks.

The Aspen Fire burned for a month in summer of 2003 and scorched about 134 square miles. It destroyed 340 homes and business. The evidence is still there in the meadows, but Summerhaven is rebuilt.

I suppose the mountains are their own altars. The effect they have on people can be that profound. You see it as you exchange "Good morning" with fellow hikers, and perhaps engage in light conversation about the invigorating mountain air.

After a few morning hours in the forest, the return to the Tucson basin is a bit shocking. But the soul has been inspired.

From our backyard, we can see the Santa Catalinas, this time of year usually decorated with stunning displays of dark and fluffy white clouds, all framed in an enormously huge sky. Nice.

Oh Oh, Six Oh

Tucson Tom turned the big six-oh a few weeks ago. It didn't hurt very much.

My surprise gift was a "This Is Your Life" (remember that TV show?) appearance by Jeff Day. Shari disappeared one day mumbling something about doing errands, and when she returned (from the airport), there was Jeff -- fresh from his year in Nanjing, China.

To help celebrate, Shari organized a small party. The themes were good friends, good food (I think we are all foodies), and come as you are. This time of year people in Tucson live in their underwear, so shorts or a dhotie actually meant we were dressed up.

Shari danced for us. She made a new costume for the occasion, and put together music for a solo followed by another lively song for others to join in.

The dancing was a big hit and a few of us did join in for the second song. Of course, I had to, but then I like dancing.

I think we all had fun -- I know I did. Thanks, Shari and friends.

------

A couple of weeks later, reality crept in. I got a 60th birthday present from our health insurance company. A $520+ increase in our monthly insurance premiums.  Yes, monthly. And $520 is only the increase. The reason? I turned 60.

I didn't intend to get political, but I will. We pay over $27,000 a year in health insurance premiums. No wonder we can't afford travel. God bless America and the the right to make a business out of anything and everything. Nutters, fed by crazies who make a good living indoctrinating nutters, elect politicians with an agenda to preserve business interests, an agenda that's disguised as patriotic, God-fearing flag-waving.

We forbid the government from competing with insurance companies. People argue about the actual percentages, but studies regularly show that Medicare overhead is far less than that of private insurers. We also make it illegal to buy prescription drugs from Canada. Why? "It's unsafe," say the drug companies who sell their wares in Canada.

Google it. Amidst our economic downturn, banks,
brokers, insurers and Wall Street have been making a fortune.

It's the government's job to protect the people who suck a fortune out of the economy, especially the really wealthy on top who buy politicians and media like you and I buy groceries. We have government by the wealthy for the wealthy.

What next? Give tax cuts to the wealthy? Wage endless wars overseas and privatize war support services? Wage endless wars on drugs and immigrants and privatize the prisons? Force college students to borrow money from banks so when they graduate, they become an indentured class that turns over its income to banks that had borrowed their money from the government for nothing? Make it so student debt can't be discharged in bankruptcy?

Oh, we've already done all this.

Well, how about privatizing Social Security, or just plain eliminating Medicare? Let's protect the right of entrepreneurs to exploit. Let's outlaw unions. Let's streamline efficiency and eliminate costly workplace safety regulations. Hey, a building collapses in Dacca killing hundreds of workers. No biggie. The free market will take care of it. Let's bring back the glory days of free enterprise: debtor prisons, child labor and the six-and-a-half day work week.

I can hardly wait to see if there is any Medicare when I turn sixty-five. God bless America.

You Know You're Getting Old When . . .

. . . it's heaven having reading glasses scattered in all rooms of the house.

Like the Cyclops sharing their single eye, Shari and I share reading glasses. I had two and she had a couple. We often forget our age and have to share a pair in order to read restaurant menus. It's less obvious than one of us reading the menu out loud.  ("Huh? Can you repeat that again, louder?")

Any more, I need glasses to peel hard boiled eggs and to play solitaire on my mini-tablet. It has become safer for me to wear glasses wielding a French knife doing food prep. I can't tell a phillips from a straight slot screw, so I need glasses for most fix-it jobs. And I can't search for songs on my ittie-bittie MP3 music device without glasses.

Fortunately, I can still bathe, brush my teeth, and drive motor cars (but not read maps) without wearing glasses.

The worst part is reading tiny 10 or even 8 point fonts in legal documents. That's when I pull the document to my sunny office window and use my trusty Oxford Dictionary magnifying glass to distinguish a 6 from an 8.

Heck. I can't even read my own tiny handwriting from years ago.

For a while I was thinking of croakies -- the elasticky thingie that clasps onto eyeglasses so you can wear them around your neck -- like jewelry or a spinster librarian. But that didn't work out.

I like to wear T-Shirts with a pocket. Some people use the pocket to store a pack of cigarettes (instead of rolling the pack in the shirt sleeve). If you are in India, that shirt pocket is used for an assortment of pens, scraps of paper, notebooks, and money. Like high school geeks, engineers and pocket-protectors, prestige is measured by the number of items bulging from the pocket. I like the pocket for my reading glasses.

Admittedly, they fall out when leaning over, and I've had to fish my glasses from the bottom of the swimming pool, but it's better than shoving glasses in a back pocket and having that sickening, crunch feeling and noise when you sit on them.

What did work out was Shari buying some reading glasses in bulk. We just leave them strategically scattered about the house in places where we might need them.

So heaven is being able to flop down in an armchair, or pick up a kitchen knife, or reach for the iSong iPlayer knowing that reading glasses are somewhere nearby.

Swimming with Critters

Swimming, sort of

Scorpions and flies do not swim very well. Either that, or they can't climb out of a swimming pool very well. Or maybe the ones around the desert never learned how to swim. In any case, this scorpion drowned and it's the time of year when flies get stuck in the pool.

We've been keeping the pool covered, especially overnight when the temperatures drop. Sometimes there's a little surprise when we uncover.

Usually it's a horde of flies. The silly critters like to drink; odd, eh? Trouble is, once they dip, they're stuck. I wonder if they ever figure out about surface tension.

Oh well. No need to mourn too many of them. Once they are skimmed out with my trusty swimming pool skimmer-net, they revive in a few tens of minutes. Happy, but none the smarter.

Drying out, sort of

Couple of mornings ago, we had a nice surprise. Well, it was a lot less nice for the scorpion on the bottom of the pool. Looks like it gave up the ghost while in a ready-to-sting posture. Dead. Defunct.

So far I've seen two kinds of scorpions around here. This is the big, kinda orange colored. The other kind is small and dark. They say it's the sting of the small ones that are more nasty. I don't have the experiences to compare, but the sting I got from one of the small guys was only a nuisance.

This guy was about three inches long. I can't be sure because it was stuck in the ready-to-sting position. It may have been defunct, but I didn't want to unwind its tail.

Good thing we shocked the pool a couple three weeks ago. ("Shock" in the world of swimming pool maintenance means overdosing on chlorine.) Our water is nice and clear. I can spot a small pebble on the deep bottom. So it's not like there is any risk of swimming with critters.

When monsoon season comes, we'll be fishing frogs out of the pool. Meanwhile, Shari has taken to swimming in the cool mornings when the water is only 92 degrees.

.

Sewing Projects

The shade cover over the garden is nicely tailored, thanks to Shari's hard work. And the plastic sheet that came with the gazebo has been replaced with sun-shade cloth, again thanks to Shari's skill with her sewing machine.

Meanwhile, through the use of a solar blanket, cut to shape by seamstress Shari so that it fits within the pool perfectly, the water in the cement pond is about 90 degrees. Nice.

Twenty laps; that's twenty times back and forth, forty times the forty-five foot length of the pool.

It's not the English Channel, but it would drown me. That's what Shari will swim, given some warm water, a sunny afternoon, and only a little wind.

I just dip, maybe do a couple of laps, float with the styrofoam noodles, maybe do a couple of laps, then get out and water some plants.

Outdoor Projects

What are our new projects? Maybe you didn't ask, but you could.

I can't write for Shari. She's busy sewing shade fabric for the vegetable garden and making beautiful jewelry out of pieces of silver, argentium, solder and gold foil.

But Tucson Tom has a few things to boast about. Like the new driveway. It's been paved with new asphalt and -- no extra charge -- dusted with Portland cement. The benefit is a lighter color that absorbs less heat. The downside is that it looks like it's been dusted with Portland cement.

There is not much that I like about the light grey-green shade of pure Portland cement.

Not to worry. We've etched cement before and we still had some of the iron-laced acid that we had used. Washed it on and the color changed. A bit too rusy-yellow instead of rusty-red, but still an improvement. We are actually getting used to it.

We had only half of the driveway surfaced. The gravel by the house is too important a rest area for the furry kids to be paved. Given how -- shall we say -- unusual the etched/cement/asphalt looks, I think we will complete the rest with something more conventional, like crushed Yavapai coral rock with its rosy-red color.

Speaking of the driveway, I've been clearing on the other side of it from the house. This is the little gully below our house, on the south side, where most of our acre lot is located. It's actually a very pretty gully with several palo verde, acacia and mesquite trees.

The clearing opens up the area so it's easier to walk through. I've been planting extra blue and green agaves there, some of the many agaves I have been thinning and transplanting elsewhere in the yard. Now I am moving rocks to help define paths. Actually, moving rocks and stray gravel is one of my favorite outdoor activities.

Parking-out the yard on the other side of the driveway wasn't enough. I didn't like the low, stuccoed cinder-block wall that seems to act as an energetic barrier (bad feng shui or vastu). It discouraged stepping over it to explore beyond the driveway where quail, rabbits, lizards, cactus wrens, ground squirrels and chipmunks make their homes. And the view is nice, too.

Well, it was nothing that a sledge hammer couldn't fix. And a little stucco patch, a couple of bags of mortar mix, and some red clay bricks to create a little area on the other side.

Out with the meyer lemon tree . . .

There's at least one other part of the driveway boundary wall that I'd like to punch out. That would entice walking to the area where I transplanted the meyer lemon tree.

The origin of the transplanting is an increasing recognition that our queen palms and climate change don't mix. The cold snaps in winter are getting more frequent and severe, and there may come a time when the two big queen palms by the pool give up the ghost.

Mexican fan palms are supposed to tolerate frost a bit better, so we decided to start planting them as a contingency.

. . . in with the Mexican palm.

The meyer lemon tree by the pool really wasn't doing much. So Tucson Tom dug it out and that's where we planted our new Mexican palm.

Rather than chopping up the citrus tree, we transplanted it. Yep, you guessed it. On the other side of the driveway. If it survives the shock -- odds are not in its favor -- it will be the anchor for the new vegetable garden that Tucson Tom will build for his honey -- maybe next year.

For now, the small vegetable garden by the pool will serve for another season.

Last year, little critters munching on last year's produce made me build a frame and wrap it in wire mesh. Trouble is, we kept forgetting about the low cross-braces and we kept bashing out heads. So Saturday, Tucson Tom screwed on some strips scrap plywood to raise the braces, and therefore the roof.

Which is why the structure is now entirely covered with brand new and architecturally soothing shade fabric. It hides the Rio slum, favela-style extension. Give Shari a little time; she'll have it hemmed properly. Meanwhile, the new little veggie plants are thriving under the semi-shade. That's all Shari's work. I clear vegetation. She makes stuff grow.

I have to admit, I love being outside.

From Winter into Summer

View of Lake Washington from our nephew's house in Seattle.

Somehow we missed Spring. Before we left for a short, three-night trip to Seattle, we were wearing sweaters in the morning. Come back, and it's warm in the mornings, hot in the afternoon, and we are wearing shorts 24/7.

We did enjoy the weather by the Salish Sea: dark, grey, cold and wet. Our enjoyment of that weather was greatly enhanced by the knowledge that we were shortly returning to the Sonoran Desert.

Still, we had just been getting used to wearing warmer clothes when all of a sudden, they look strangely out-of-place in our closet. Why would anyone have thick pants and sweaters?

Yesterday was Easter Sunday. I have lots of nice memories of Easter Sundays, particularly one sunny Spring day at the U-District house in Seattle: the huge tree that almost touched my bedroom window was loaded with cherry blossoms. Yesterday's Easter Sunday memory was swimming my first laps of the year in the cement pond.

Time to change my "gum tree" photo for something more seasonal.

Underlying Phoenix

Phoenix basin, view from South Mountain.

Phoenix is confirmation that we made the right choice to live in Tucson.

Some 4.2 million people live in a huge sprawl of houses, six-lane streets, freeways, shopping centers, industrial sites, and office buildings variously called Phoenix, Tempe, Glendale, Peoria, Mesa, Chandler and Scottsdale. As some Tucsonans have described it to us, it's like living in L.A.

When we were migrating between Whidbey and Tucson, we either avoided Peenix or drove through and past it. I had some curiosity about the place, but Shari wouldn't let me get off the freeway. From its many freeways, there wasn't much to see that was inviting.

Park of the Canals, Mesa.

When a sister needed a ride back to Mesa, I got to see tragically sad developments: impressive entrance gates, blocks and blocks of little houses, all pretty much the same shape, compressed together, driveways and garage doors, tiny manicured gravel yards with an occasional cactus. The most nightmarish feature was that every house was painted with the identical color.

A friend flew into Phoenix to attend a conference in Scottsdale. I drove up to bring her back home. So I can say I've also been to Scottsdale. But I don't think I really have been because Scottsdale is supposed to be impressive and I was not impressed driving its main street.

Then a few weeks back, another sister flew into Peenix to attend spring graining in Peoria. I finally got my chance to explore for a couple of days. Peenix has its attractions. The ones that interested me the most were the remaining Hohokam sites.

The platform mound at Pueblo Grande.

There was a time -- before the Corps of Engineers, commercial cotton and citrus farming, and climate change -- when the Salt and Gila Rivers flowed through the Phoenix basin year round. The Hohokam excelled in creating extensive irrigation canal systems that supported agriculture, fishing, water fowl, and the largest concentration of Hohokam settlements.

In the Park of the Canals, a somewhat shabby looking place in Mesa, one can see a remnant of the Hohokam canals. When the Merkins replaced Mexicans and O'odham to settle and farm, engineers laid out irrigation lines using the ancient Hohokam canals.

The ball court at Pueblo Grande.

The Pueblo Grande Museum, just east of downtown Phoenix, is the site of one of the largest Hohokam settlements, one that probably controlled access to the Salt River waters and therefore grew politically. It has a partially restored ball court and a large platform mound.

The museum itself is well worth the visit. Now the area is desert scrub scattered with industrial buildings, and the nearby Phoenix Sky Harbor airport looks barren and ugly. But the museum can excite the imagination to wonder how the small Hohokam city flourished among water streams and irrigated fields.

Which is what my sister's companion remarked taking in the view of the Phoenix basin from the top of South Mountain: Imagine what this vast area looked like when water flowed and it was farmed by the Hohokam.

Typical Desert Botanical Garden sculpture (on the left).

There are things to see in Peenix. Driving around trying to find Park of the Canals and then Pueblo Grande, then the motel in Glendale, I got to see downtown Tempe and Phoenix. I can see why ASU is a popular party school. Downtown Tempe is impressive. There's money in serving beer and pizza to college kids.

My sister, her friend, and I spent a wonderful couple of hours at the Desert Botanical Garden, beautifully laid out and maintained. Gourmet food in its main restaurant, an $18 admission, and a pleasant Sunday, it was crowded with better heeled sorts. The metal sculptures in the park were silly, perhaps reflecting the tastes and personal friendships of the museum's trustees. But the succulent gardens are spectacular.

There remain plenty of other sights I would like to see in Peenix, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Blog for Blog's Sake

Writing, like anything else well done in life, is a craft and an art.

For those who like to write, posts on a blog can become a personal expression of thoughts. Ideas or inspirations come and I get in the mood. I play with the ideas, thinking about what and how I want to express, and then the words flow out with a pattern of their own.

The work takes on a life of its own. More ideas come: metaphors, examples and tangents; symbols within symbols.

My favorite part, perhaps the most important, is the editing. The best editing is to take out the extraneous. Ideas become clear and a gift is made to the patient reader.

Readers may be few. Still, the satisfaction remains of writing; hopefully well. We garden, sing, cook, sew, play and paint with the slightly selfish hope that others may admire. But if others' admiration is the reason for what we do, we surely will be disappointed. I think it's good to have some consideration for how others might take in what we have done. The quality of our work is raised. But I think the practical and the ultimate realities are that we work for work's own sake.

Recently two good friends have been inspired to blog, and they in turn have inspired me. So let's all blog for blog's sake.

A fundamental tenet in most spiritual traditions is the attitude memorialized in MGM's lion-roaring motto: Ars Gratia Artis (Art for the Sake of Art). Therefore, bloggers who craft their posts can honestly consider themselves performing a religious duty.

Snow in Tucson

That big winter storm from Alaska that's sweeping across the Midwest had its effect on Baja Arizona yesterday.

Yesterday's low in Tucson itself -- a smidgeon warmer than us in the Foothills -- was 33 degrees with a high of 52. More impressive, we got about a third of an inch of precipitation, much of it in the form of wet snow.

Where we live, local rainloggers logged over a half an inch.

We spent yesterday in a gray snow-clouds, but as I like to say, if you don't like the weather here, wait a few hours.

It's still early morning and the clouds over the Santa Catalina Mountains are just beginning to clear. The big payoff is seeing sunlight playing over the snow-clad mountains.

For local skiers, the pay-off is skiing on top of Mount Lemmon (9157 feet elevation) or, as the Tohona O'odham call it, Frog Mountain (Babad Doʼag). It's the summit of the Catalinas. There's a chairlift there among the aspens, but the slope really only merits a rope tow.

It will take a few days for all the snow to melt. The forecast is for increasingly warmer and sunnier days -- today some clouds; then all clear by mañana.

The nearby Rillito River should be flowing with the runoff. It's not like monsoon rains when we can get several inches of wet in a day, but there will be a pretty decent flow moving debris towards the Santa Cruz River (the main river by which Tucson was founded) and helping replenish our underground aquifers.

All in all, very nice weather for us -- it's the ornamental plants and trees that can't take frost that take a beating.

Snow-Clad Mountains

Last couple of nights, temperatures have again dipped below freezing. It began with some winter rain, so there was ice everywhere. The clouds on the Catalina Mountains hung low, revealing the snow on the higher elevations.

This isn't Salt Lake City, Denver or Vancouver B.C. with snow-covered mountains reaching down to the city limits, but it's still beautiful.