Solar-Powered Villain

In which our Heroine/Villain returns.

A week ago I returned from visiting family in Idaho and Utah.  The visit—lasting 22 days total—was just long enough that I walked off the plane and into the Ted Stephens Airport here in Anchorage at what was 2 am Mountain Standard Time with a broad smile on my face.  What can I say?  I’m a sap and I missed my husband enough that I’m willing to take all that airport-related exhaustion as well as the tons of snow that awaited me outside with a smile.  Lovely family visit—but it feels great to be home.  Many of you out there did not even know I was flying out.  I kept it that way on purpose.  Mums the word. Literally.  As in, the purpose of my visit was mostly to spend time with my mother.  Therefore I didn’t hare off into any wild adventures with old friends or exotic locales, etc…

But—I did manage to get a sun-burn one Saturday afternoon in Idaho (oh excitement).  The sun was really shining my first week there and with temperatures in the 40s, it felt nearly tropical to me.  (Anchorage has had a really cold, snowy, gray winter—far worse than usual).  Anyway, every time I went outside, I bent my neck and turned my shoulders like a flower so I could get the sun on my preternaturally pale face.  I’ve noticed that non-fake-baker Alaskans all have the white glow to their faces.  Seriously—we stand out in photos.  Of course, I have the Alaskan pale mixed with my usual pastiness vs. burnt-crispy cycle with which to contend.  So, I ended up with a really hot face for about 2 days and nothing to show for it afterward.  It was glorious. 

And now I am sure of the truth: It turns out that I am solar-powered.  Despite sleep deprivation and a feverishly hot face, I found myself FULL of energy.  Any time the sun shone, I felt like I could move mountains!  It’s just possible that I am actually a superhero in a sadly successful disguise.  All that remains is to identify my super abilities.  They’ve got to have something to do with fantastically warped brain cells that are somehow fueled by UV rays…  Wait…um…well… now that I’ve written it down, it’s fairly clear that I’m not meant for any league of heroes.  I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that mutation of brain cells and inability to tan properly actually puts me in the villain category.  My seizure medication: odd chemicals purposefully put into my body twice a day.  (Just drop me in a vat of toxic waste!!!) Long torso, short legs: the opposite of Wonder Woman’s figure.  Difficulty using left hand: unbalanced, clearly.  Well, rats.  There goes my future in wearing underwear on the outside of my skin-tight neon colored suit, billowy capes, go-go boots, and the pushiest-up of all push-up bras.  I’m really going to have to rework my résumé .

The Results Are In

In which our Heroine feels a Palpable Relief.

Apparently, seizures are a fairly normal phenomenon in the neurological world—mundane enough when combined with a clean MRI, anyway.  Yes, that’s right.  After once again going through a total freak-out session before getting the results of my tests back (I’m beginning to see a pattern here), I have been given a clean(ish) bill of health.  I will go back to the doctor in six months (not three!).  My MRI scans are good.  Also, my medical history indicates that I am not really that prone to seizures.  This fact, combined with my forgetfulness at taking my medication on time, etc… means that I don’t even have to change my medication right now.  HOWEVER, if I have another seizure in the next 6 months of any kind, then I will call my doc immediately and increase my Keppra dosage.  But if I don’t, then I may be able to go completely off of any anti-convulsants in six months!  Please do keep your fingers crossed on my behalf! 

The relief, as stated above, is palpable.  And I have hope—which is such a good thing.  The only thing I’m wondering now is how I’ll really be if/when I go completely off brain-altering drugs.  You think I jest.  Because really, there aren’t many excuses left for me at that point.  Here’s a snapshot of my life in six months:

Memory? Present and accounted for, if I remember correctly. 

Personality issues? Functioning well.  You be the judge.  

Forgetfulness? I am like the proverbial elephant.

Fatigue? Must be based on other reasons entirely.

Lack of coordination? Did I ever really have a hope with this?

Fine motor skills? Good penmanship is overvalued by third grade teachers everywhere.

General weakness in limbs? Opening jars is severely overrated.

 Confused? Who isn’t, these days? 

Upset stomach from taking Keppra without food?  Gone, hopefully.  And the sooner, the better. 

Difficulties

In which our Heroine goes off the Deep-end.

A week and a half ago—on Wednesday, January fourth at about 11:30 A.M., to be exact—I had what I believe is a tonic-clonic seizure.  I have avoided writing about the incident, because I am frankly so bummed about it.  The day it happened ended up being a bad, bad day because I could only focus on the worst of all the reasons it might have happened.  In other words, I thought for sure that I had some nasty tumor growing back.  

The fear was compounded by the fact that I have been tired lately.  This could be for any number of reasons: Christmas stress, bad sleep patterns, my child—who has stopped taking naps, meaning that I get no rest during the day, unhealthy foods that always seem to creep into my house, the 4 pieces of delicious See’s candy I ate the night before…etc…

In retrospect, I believe my somewhat hysterical reaction a symptom of my nearly complete lack of knowledge about seizures.  Other than a few weird, little eye-twitches that occasionally reached down to the mouth on the left side of my face, my first seizure was the biggie that sent me to the ER.  Naturally, I have no recollection of this event, and so cannot compare it with my latest.  After surgery, I had some odd numbing and loss of feeling that extended down the left side of my body.  That’s what landed me with a prescription for the anti-convulsant Keppra (aka Levetiracetum).  But this seizure—oh, it was different.

So, there I was, doing leg-lifts in time with the most grandma of all work-out videos (seriously, I have scoured our local library’s collection in search of the workout that I can do at home even on the yuckiest-feeling days).  I was on the beginning marches of the cool-down phase (barely sweaty at all) when my muscles tensed oddly.  The perky woman with big hair on screen changed to a new set of steps, and I tried too, but the muscles on either sides of my body wouldn’t obey.  For a couple of counts, my limbs were following the old routine.  That’s when I knew something was wrong.  My thoughts were incredibly slow.  I had to deliberately try to stop lifting my arms in the air (my legs were already down).  Now I was shaking uncontrollably—huge jerky movements that made no sense to my slow-as-molasses thoughts. 

In normal circumstances, what would I do if interrupted?  Why, push the stop button on the blue-ray of course.  So that’s what I tried to do.  Do you know how hard it is to press a finger to a tiny touch-screen symbol when you’re jerking all over the place?  Just use your imagination.  My whole body was racking with spasms, my legs shaking under me when I finally realized that this goal of mine was useless and I needed to do something else.  Ironically, it was the downward motion of being done that got the work-out video turned off.  I turned around and found myself in a slow-minded struggle between looking at the clock and realizing I’d forgotten to take the Keppra, and also knowing that the couch would be a good place to ride this thing out—whatever it was.  It was like one of those I-can’t-run-fast-and-get-away nightmares.

It took me a really long time to get to the door of the kitchen—too long.  But by then I had learned that my mind could only handle one simple task at a time.  So I focused on the water glass by the sink.  Then on my right hand picking it up.  Then shuffling sideways two small steps to the faucet.  That’s when I had the crystal- clear thought that if I took a deep breath, I would be able to calm down enough to stop shaking and take my medicine.  It worked, and by the time I was fishing my medicine bottle out of the cupboard, I was down to only a slight shakiness.    Then I went to lay on the couch. 

In answer to the questions, no I did not call the doctor.  I already had appointments set up for an MRI (last week) and on Wednesday the 18^th, the neurosurgeon’s PA.  I felt good about the decision at the time and still do.

All things considered, I think I handled myself very, very well.  Knowing my personality as drama queen extraordinaire, and the extreme depression I tend to feel whenever I think of my chronically cancerous self—I am quite certain that I had a little extra help from God.  He calmed me and put thoughts in my nearly-useless mind that got me where I needed to go.   Directly afterward, I had a hard time recognizing this, and really lost it for the rest of the day.  I have also had my down moments on occasion since then.  The only thing that shakes me out of this is listening to good old MOTAB and reading my scriptures and patriarchal blessing. 

Mainly, I have been depressed about the idea of dealing with any kind of possible future treatment.  Why can’t the miracle of being kind-of-well just continue, I think to myself.  But there may be other reasons.  I read online about how sometimes Keppra induces tonic-clonic seizures when taken over a course of time.  Could this be it?  I hope so, even though it brings up a host of new issues (especially since I want to have another child someday soon).  Medication + pregnancy = suckiness.  I have a friend who took “safe” anti-convulsants when pregnant and now has children with learning disabilities.  I would really like to not have ANY weird chemicals in my system.  Well.  Another goal I have no real control over.

Thankfully, I have largely regained my composure over the last week—finally remembering what I had to learn back when I was first diagnosed with cancer: that what happens, happens—and all I can do is deal with it with patience and grace (in such small amounts as I have).

The Christmas Shovel

In which our Heroine makes a Mistake, and then gets Another Chance.

This year for Christmas Jon and I decided we would like to do the “Twelve Days of Christmas” thing for a family in our church ward.  Long story short: we had trouble finding the address and then wondered if maybe they were leaving town anyway (because this couple’s children are in another state right now—and although I don’t know the situation, I thought they might be able to go see them).  Laziness took over from there.  On Christmas Eve, I wondered if they’d had enough money to buy each other gifts.  I considered dropping off some cash or something—just a card even.  But I forgot.  When I saw one of the people in the family on Sunday at church, I could have kicked myself hard.  I had failed to follow through on a prompting to help someone.  So much for surviving cancer because I had a purpose in life.  Gharrrgh!  I made a resolution to do better next time.

Fortunately, God is merciful.

Not twenty minutes ago, a family of four came to my door and asked to shovel my driveway.  They said they would take any donation at all, even small, as they were losing their house soon.  Here’s the thing.  I never let any of the neighbor kids shovel our driveway.  They ask for a whopping 20 bucks and I’ve learned that they do a substandard job most of the time.  It’s not like Jon and I are rolling in the dough.  But tonight, as stood at my chilly front door (13 degrees Fahrenheit), I looked behind the father I saw a little girl bundled up in a pink snow suit with a shovel, and this time I couldn’t say no. 

I wandered into the kitchen to the sound of shovels banging and snow being crunched outside my house.  What would I pay them?  I took down our supply of “just in case” cash.  I kept it in a poinsettia-decorated card/money folder from a 2009 Christmas present from my brother Mike.  I spread the money out on the counter-top.  My initial plan was to go with a 20, but then I thought, “I’ll pray about it.”  Along with the prayer, I had the duel thought of: “I need this money.  What if they use it unwisely? Or what if they’re not even telling me the truth?” 

I did not get a sure answer from my prayer.  But I did have the thought that generosity never goes awry for the giver, regardless of what these unknowns would use the money for.  I remembered that last year, someone very anonymous generously gave my family some cash, and I felt so loved.  Surely, I could do the same? 

I pulled the twenty in front of me—no, not enough.  I made it thirty.  (Sigh)  Fifty. Fifty-eight.  Yikes.  In one quick motion I grabbed the hundred (with Ben Franklin smirking at me on the front) and threw another fifty into my brother’s old Christmas envelope.  It still had his handwriting on it: “This packs better for the plane! LOL”

“It’s okay,” I told myself, “You still have a few minutes to decide whether to really do this.” Hah.  The doorbell rang almost as soon as I had the thought.  So I went with it.  I gave the guy the envelope and he left.  But I didn’t.  I closed the door and crouched on the bench by the skinny front window.  When the huge snow bank got between my view and their car, I stood on the bench.  Then I had to leap off really fast because all at once the whole family came running out of their sedan and back to my front door. 

They were all smiles when I nonchalantly answered a while later.  They told me I really made a difference.  Wow, I felt so good as I learned their names (Tyler, Lila, etc, and etc), and let them know that I wished them well.  

Ooooh (shiver-happy).  Warm and fuzzy.  I still feel so warm and fuzzy!  Somebody wipe this idiot grin off my face.  I’m telling you, these people gave me the Christmas gift of all time.  Now wish me luck explaining what I’ve done to my husband when he gets home from Scouts.    

The Winter Garden

In which our Heroine turns Greenwitch.

Here are a few photos of the indoor garden I’ve been working on, along with a little history in story-book format.  Once upon a time, I had this crazy idea that I could grow some fresh greens and herbs during the fall and winter in Alaska.  “What brilliance!” I thought to myself. “I’m sure I’ll save scads of money on lettuce (which tends to look wilted and slimy in most stores at winter), plus I’ll have a fun hobby, all season long!” I also thought of the perk of being able to start seeds in the early spring to get a jump on those short Alaskan summers.  I thought of the awesomeness of starting something brand new and of doing yet another crazy experiment—an occupation much loved by moi, except for all those times when such experiment fails. 

To continue to tale:  Once upon a time, a beautiful maiden began growing lettuce, parsley, and other such wonders inside her snug cottage.  This mythical maiden was known far and wide for her green thumb.  But she soon found that light was needed as fall faded into winter, and the girl was poor.  Turning to her magic mirror, she cried, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, can you give me sunlight at all?”  Much to her surprise, the beautiful girl was taken up in a cloud of fairy dust and magically whisked into her local Home Depot, where stood a vast assortment of fluorescent lighting as well as some inexpensive shop lights, which she duly set up on wire shelving in a sunny spare bedroom.  But would these cheap lights work?  Only time would tell…

The second day, early in the morning, the maiden arose to check on her seeds and the wondrous new lights.  A miracle had happened!  The dry, hard seeds had been replaced by small seedlings.  How magical.  But in the afternoon, an evil sorcerer sent a plague of locusts (whiteflies and aphids) and the seedlings withered and died.  The maiden would have liked to feel morose and to have a tantrum, but she was too innocent and sweet for such nonsense.  Instead, the lovely girl scattered new seeds and went to bed. 

In the morning, she looked into her little kingdom of flora, and—once again, she found that elves had come in the night and replaced the seeds with tiny plants!  This time, the maiden found a secret potion to keep the evil sorcerer and his demonic minions at bay.  The plants grew and grew until they were large enough to serve in many a magical dish.  And the maiden, her prince Charming, and small fry lived happily ever after. 

Translation of magical objects in the fairy tale and other things of note:

1. The Potion: Brammer’s Peppermint Soap will keep just about any pest away, whether indoor or out in the garden.  I have since learned that my grandmother poured the dregs of her dishwater over her garden plants every morning way back in the day.

2. Magical lights: plain old fluorescent bulbs stuck in 4 ft long shop lights.  It is probable that the really expensive “grow” lights work better, but these work too, as long as the top of the plants stay within 2-4 inches of the bulb.  I use a simple, and pretty ugly system of boxes to put the shorter plants up higher when needed. 

3.Elvin-grown seedlings: I have experimented with romaine, butterhead, Greenleaf, and redleaf lettuces.  The redleaf is best so far.  All herbs seem to work.  Both lettuce and herb get leggy.  My banana sweet pepper is a surprise success, and my bok choi is a steady hit.  Spinach is a fail—I don’t know why—but three tries and its out.  Someday, I will get seeds for carrot, radish, summer squash, etc and will try those out.  I’m really only in the beginning stages of an all-consuming project here.  We’ll see what happens next.

4. “Poor” maiden: Not as cost effective as I would have liked, and the vegetables grow slowly—but it is one of my favorite random experiments to date.  And there’s nothing like having fresh parsley and basil whenever I want it.  I also look forward to having an early start on spring in a few months.  I am hoping that seeding everything myself will save a lot of money!

Say Nothing

In which our Heroine begins again.

When I quit writing my blog in June, I determined that I would only let it lie for the duration of summer because I was so busy learning how to garden (among other things).  When fall came, I found that my “summer projects” could be taken indoors.  I continued the autumnal bliss of harvesting, and even seed-planting, near sunny windows for several months.  When my enormous tomato plants somehow got outdoor bugs while inside the house, I threw them out.  I thought to myself: “is it time to blog again?” But then I bought some shop-lights and began lettuce and herbs beneath them.  At this juncture, I told myself that I would surely begin writing again soon.  Goals notwithstanding, the blog dwindled into near-nothingness.  Christmas began to creep closer, and—literally—that’s all she wrote.  At least for a good long while.

But today, I finally logged in and checked my stats.  To my surprise, people are still reading—not too often or regularly—but still.  I got a handful of nice comments on past posts, and even a request for further contact from a person in like situation.  I notice too that my most popular post is the one on the anti-convulsant that I take called Keppra.  I hope to write more on this at a later date.  Besides my continued readership, I do want to continue writing because there are times when I am fairly bursting with literary energy.  I have a lot to say.

 In addition to the nice comments of which I spoke earlier, I am also the privileged recipient of a few very nasty ones, which were obviously meant to hurt me personally.  For a few moments after reading these, I felt my heart as a bloody cut of red meat served on a spiked platter.  I had written what I thought were—and still believe to be—truthful memories.  I am sorry that some disagree.  I did not mean to hurt anyone.  These “anonymous” comments are now deleted.  I respectfully ask that those commentators keep their cutting remarks to themselves in the future.  Please do not soil my efforts at creative therapy.  In return, I will make an effort at increased discretion.  I have removed these two apparently controversial posts.  For those of you who liked the posts and wanted to see more, I apologize and thank you for your support.  To all of you, both friend and foe: I don't consider this a defeat.  I merely do not want these meanies and all their small-hearted friends coming to my blog for any reason.  Moral of the story: Sometimes its best to say nothing at all. 

Saying “nothing at all” is really hard for me.  But in the unenviable choice between dishonesty and silence, I choose to shut-my-mouth/delete-some-of-my-blog.  I guess I’ll have to replace it with some other stuff.  May the scar tissue on my  heart be infinately smaller than that located on my head.  Sticks and stones, baby.  Sticks. And. Stones.  So, with a bit of an emotional hiccup, my saga continues…

I'm Still Here, World

In which Stuff Happens, and i don’t write much about it.

              Just reporting in to let you know I’m still alive.  With the warmth and green of summer beckoning me outdoors so constantly, I find that I have little inclination to sit down and write.  I am busy cooking, cleaning, and mothering.  I have begun many new adventures in the art of bread/pasta/yoghurt/rice milk making.  Successes all.  Additionally, I have finally mastered—no, conquered—the art of the seed sprout, after many failed attempts.  It turns out that my wheat berries were bad, or unsproutable anyway.  If any of you out there are interested in such random acts of healthiness, I highly suggest you look into this.  They don’t take a lot of effort once you get the hang of it.  And they are so tasty and healthy—way better than a multi-vitamin.  If I remember, I’ll come back to this topic in later days.

              In my gardening adventures I find myself wondering more and more why I felt the need to try this tomato thing so much—they aren’t happy being almost rained to death here in good old Anchorage.  Part of the problem may be that as I ruminate on the immanent failure of my tomatoes, I end up looking right over their unhappy shaggy shoulders and my glance falls directly on the most beautiful spinach, bok choy, kale, and broccoli leaves.  They are lush, full, healthy, and thriving.  Thank goodness.  It does make me feel better about the whole nearly-dead tomato thing.

              And, my child is suddenly a playground prodigy.  Today she managed a ladder, went down a tall curly slide, and climbed up the side of a jungle gym, all while wearing the girly dress she insisted on today.  When I caught her (gently) dumping rocks onto the head of the little boy who taught her all of these impressive moves, I was almost proud.  She’s actually acting like a normal 2 year old at the playground!  Maybe—just maybe—her days of whiny, tantrum, hold onto Mom’s legs days are over!  Not that I want her to throw rocks at other kids, exactly.

              Also, here are some more impressive photos of the wildlife at Denali:

Tolkat bears: the only place where they come as  true blondes.  Notice that spring had only just arrived by the end of May.

 I know.  Bad joke.

How to NOT Potty-train Your Child

In which our Heroine’s Child defecates in her Bathwater. 

              Over the past month I have gotten into the lamentable habit of letting my child sit in the bathtub every morning for 30-40 minutes.  During these coveted few moments I turn into a whirlwind of motion.  I start laundry, do the dishes, make bread, sweep, vacuum, or any number of activities that are easier without Eva’s help.  This works for me because Eva greatly dislikes getting her head wet, so I can trust that drowning won’t come easily.  Besides, I stay nearby.  During my convalescence last fall, my mother taught me the free-babysitting bathtub trick, to which I have directed many a grateful thought. 

              Or, maybe not so “free.”  Moral: there is always a price to pay. 

              I was happily folding laundry when my child began screaming “Poopy, poopy, poopy,” at the top of her lungs.  Sudden visions of the worst burst into my mind as I sprinted up the steep half-flight of stairs.  Sure enough, it was everywhere.  Well, everywhere in the water anyway.  First thought: “That’s a lot of poop.  Does she do this normally?  How does it all fit in her diaper?”  Second thought: “I hate cleaning the tub.”  And then, surely one of the most ironic dilemmas in the history of mankind: Where do I put my unsanitary child while I sanitize the unsanitary bathtub that should be used to (you guessed it) sanitize said child.  Later I would wonder which toys were actually in the tub at the time of defecation, and which she tried to save and put away in the basket herself (because she is the kind of child who would). 

              Eva was fascinated by actually seeing her poop in action for once.  She was also (thankfully) repulsed by it and understood that playing with it was NOT desirable.  Perhaps she noticed the putrid smell emanating from the warm waters.  I certainly did.  My sense of smell is particularly acute due to the whole tumor-in-head thing.  Eva’s been interested in toilets for a long time.  The signs are there—I need to get going on this potty-training excercise.  There’s a problem, though.  I have no idea how to actually do it.  Also, I have a lot of diapers still (darn Costco box!)  Oh—and the under-developed, adolescent part of myself has manifested, and I don’t want to.  Of course, another part of me is reminded that I’ll be cleaning up a lot more excrement in the end if I don’t suffer the inevitable. 

              Hats off to my sister-in-law Michelle, who once tried to bathe her three children all at the same time in my puny college apartment’s bathtub.  My terrible memory may be embellishing a few details, but here’s what I remember.  Eli’s tattle-tale voice: “Mom! McKinley just pooped in the bathtub!” and Logan’s accompanying “Eww!”  And from small McKinley, a giggle.  Poor Michelle.  She has recently written on Facebook that she is finally done with diapers, after a combined total of ten and a half years.  Again, the moral: There is always a price to pay.

Birthday Girl

In which our Heroine turns Thirty. 

              I will confess that most of the time, the wishes I make as I blow out the candles are quickly made up, ill-thought out, and fairly useless.  They are split-second decisions that will probably have no bearing on my life, so I just go through the motions.  This year, as I focused on the single candle aglow atop my sprinkled cupcake, I decided to make a real wish.  I wanted it to be one that mattered and that would have some kind of magical power in changing my life for the better.  Perhaps it was the 15 primary-aged children who surrounded me at our ward’s park day that brought on my sudden belief in the enduring magical powers of a cheap candle, perhaps it was the bright sun, or maybe it was the kindness of my friends in providing me with a sugary reason to celebrate.  Whatever the case, I threw my birthday wish out into the wind, “Let this year be full of good health and happy moments.”  Well, more or less, since I was thinking less in words and more in emotions: a big bubble of happiness rising around me and my cupcake.

Dear Self,

Good job on making it through a rough year.  It was tough at times, but you're a trooper. 

Love,

Me

P.S. I think you’re swell.

Food and a View

In which our Lady finally continues her Account of Denali. 

              Ah, Denali.  I find myself thinking of you here in Anchorage on this cold cloudy day…

              Jon’s dad, Clyde, was good enough to do the driving and provide the camping gear.  Camping is pretty cheap if you can mooch off of someone with bigger, better stuff than you’ve ever before seen.  I had a real eyeful on this trip.  And by the way, my side of the family’s idea of camping involves bringing an inadequate sleeping bag, a small tent, and a fishing pole.  Feeling cold in the middle of the night?  Tough.  Need food?  Go catch it!  Bait’s bad?  Guess you’ll have to starve.  Okay, I’m exaggerating a little—although the near starvation thing did happen that one time in what I can only assume was someone’s badly timed bait joke.  But Clyde has the works: cots, cooking utensils of all sizes and shapes, a travel size bag of spices, a little gas heater for your tent, etc…  Before Alaska I didn’t even know that people had special hiking shoes just to keep out water, and that they sold special pants just for camping—although I had figured out by that point that camping in jeans could be a miserably wet experience.  I am a creature of comfort, after all. 

              So anyway, I am starting to get into this over-the-top camping thing.  I packed like a refugee, especially when it came to food.  I bought some thinly sliced steaks and marinated them in a sauce made from ranch dressing, 2 tomatillos, and a bunch of cilantro, all blended up together before we left home.  I also sautéed some onions and green peppers to lay on top of said exquisite steak.  Here are a couple of photos:

              But the grand finale was my banana s’more:

              Getting back to Clyde: he’s also handy as a tour guide as he’s one of those few people who have actually climbed Mt. McKinley.  It’s interesting to see that white part of the mountain as “glacier that we had to climb up, roped to each other…”  Although, in my opinion, a few more “I almost died right there on that ridge!” sentences might really spice up the story of the great McKinley boy scout trip—legendary in our Stake here in Anchorage.  Apparently, though, Clyde didn’t know you could see the side of McKinley from where we were in Denali park, because it’s usually so cloudy on the peak.  Here’s McKinley with at least a few of the usual clouds from the usual viewing area:

And one from the back:

              For being a point and shoot camera, my zoom is awesome.  Too bad I don’t really know how to use the thing to get the lighting right…