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Outdoors:
Brittle
Lives
We cook from cans now in my house. We eat soups and chili, fruit cocktail, tuna fish. Our recycling bin is filling up with the jagged edges of our indifference. It's survivalist eating, and what is surviving is us. My live-in lover and I have not cooked together in months. This didn't use to bother me, back when our excuse was star-crossed schedules. And anyway, we needed a break from the intense list compiling, menu making and grocery shopping that marked a more, shall we say, creative era in our eating. But lately I, who used to delight in feeding her, have not been able to cook for her without feeling that I am somehow doing penance. Guilt is a highly effective appetite suppressant, and when you're not that hungry, convenience food is the most efficient fuel. So it surprised me the other morning to find us both in the kitchen. I felt suddenly awkward, as though we were two strangers in an elevator going all the way to the top of the building. But we both had a rare day off, and we came to an agreement: we would make candy, a homemade version of Almond Roca, to be precise, with a brittle layer of toffee slathered with milk chocolate and coated with almond bits. She had a recipe from one of her work parties and I had a confectionery book culled from the teetering piles. We had our issues, but we also had our mission, and somehow, together, we had to make this work. Turns out that candy is a slightly scary substance to work with, deceptively simple in its composition, but requiring a great deal of attention, being essentially sugar on a controlled burn. The cookbook says you can interrupt melted sugar at any of five temperatures and get five different sorts of candy. We were going for extreme confectionery. We were playing hard-ball, literally, going for the far side of the candy thermometer where it looks as though the mercury might shoot out the end in a minute. As soon as the sugar melted and began to thicken and bubble, I was entranced by the obvious alchemy of it (which is a good thing, because at temperatures like that, you can't look away for a second). I stirred incessantly at the pale glutinous mass that formed in our little pan. My lover roamed around our small kitchen, putting away dishes, looking over my shoulder. I kept peering into the pan, my mind whirling with doubts. What if I burn myself? How do I know when it's enough? This feels as though it's taking forever. Is this how it's supposed to be? I was tired of searching for answers in a sugary swirl that was as inscrutable as a broken Magic 8-ball. Will you stir? She took the wooden spoon and cautiously began stirring. I watched at first, not sure that she wouldn't spill on herself, but then I relaxed a little. I drank down a glass of orange juice (it was morning, did I mention this?), and then gently took the spoon back from her and continued to stir, scraping carefully along the bottom and the sides. The changes happened almost imperceptibly at first, with the pale sludge getting more unctuous, roiling with thick creamy strands that showed golden along the edges. The color deepened, and I stirred, hypnotized. It was starting to look promising. Then suddenly the magic broke. The candy turned chaotic and ugly, all curds of mahogany bubbling fiercely in nothing more mystical than burning butter. The stuff had de-emulsified, broken apart. I stirred harder, but there was no going back. Silently I showed the pan to her, and shrugged my shoulders. Maybe this was a lost cause. Almost hopelessly, I dropped a bit into a glass of cold water, and fished out the result. The droplet crunched between my teeth, sweet and buttery rich with promise. Holding my breath, I carefully emptied the liquid onto the waxed paper pan, and watched the substance spread in muddy currents across the pan, leaving hissing, curled-up edges in its wake. My lover, too, eyed the pan dubiously, then we went back to our desultory conversation while we waited for the stuff to cool. The minutes passed, and the surface of the candy dulled. I tapped tentatively on the greasy surface. It had solidified according to plan. But still, it could not be good enough, I thought, poking at the edges. One shard came free, and I nervously put it in my mouth after offering my lover a piece. We both smiled at once. Yes. The toffee melted on my tongue, its hard edges crumbling away to a luscious chewy mouthful. Still grinning, I lifted the waxed paper from the pan. The toffee came away in one stiff sheet. If we dropped it, it would break into a hundred little pieces. Marina Wolf lives in San Francisco and teaches dance classes for "people of all sizes" (www.bigmoves.org).
South
Sister Ascent
The Three Sisters — the closely bunched trio of snowcapped peaks that dominate the eastern end of Lane County — were born many years apart. It's been 100,000 and 20,000 years respectively since either the North or Middle Sister expelled volcanic material that shaped the flanks of these mountains. Both of them show their age. The bulldozer-like action of giant glaciers have left behind steep, jagged and difficult to climb peaks. But the South Sister, shaped by lava flows just 2,000 years ago, still retains much of its original rounded profile. The hike to the top is challenging, but manageable for people of all ages who are reasonably fit. Many hikers backpack into Green Lakes or Moraine Lake, spend the night, and tackle the path to the top in the morning. There is, however, one day-hike from Eugene that can get you to the top, although it involves a two and half hour drive and a grueling 11-mile roundtrip hike. Directions: Take I-5 south from Eugene for approximately three miles. Take the Oakridge/Klamath Falls exit (Exit 188A). Stay to the left onto Hwy. 58 and drive east for 72 miles (road construction is causing long delays along Salt Creek). A couple miles past the turnoff for Crescent Lake, 37 miles east of Oakridge, take a left onto Route 61 towards Davis Lake and Crane Prairie and Wickiup Reservoirs. In three miles, turn north (left) on Cascade Lakes Hwy. (FS 46). Drive the Cascade Lakes Highway. for 41 miles, and turn right at the Devils Lake trailhead. Drive almost a quarter of a mile to the very end of the last parking area, and take the trail marked "South Sister Ascent." After less than 100 yards the trail crosses the highway (and a wide gravel parking area where you should have parked), and climbs steeply through a viewless forest. After a mile and a half, you'll crest a ridge onto a flat plain with spectacular views of the South Sister. Another couple hundred yards brings you to a four-way trail junction. If the mountain looks too daunting, consider taking the right hand turn and making the half-mile stroll to Moraine Lake, a gorgeous blue-green alpine pool. The loop trail that heads north from the lake and connects back to the mail trail 1.7 miles above the junction is currently closed for restoration. If you're still up for the summit, go straight at the junction. The first mile and a half is easy going along a ledge overlooking Moraine Lake and the jagged talcum white and rust red spires of Broken Top, an extinct stratovolcano. From the base of the mountain, the trail gains more than 3,000 feet of elevation in less than two and half miles to the top. A good resting spot is at the base of the Lewis Glacier, where the trail passes above an ice-cold tarn, a mountain pool fed by glaciers. The trail from here follows the western lip of the glacier. At the summit rim, follow the path along the eastern edge of the South Sister's snow filled crater to the mountain's highest point, with spectacular views north to the Middle and North Sister, Three-Fingered Jack, Mount Jefferson and Mount Hood. Be sure and bring lots of water, snacks, sunscreen and a map for this trip. And don't forget a camera. You'll need it for what has got to be the best views in Oregon.
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