"I won't be there Thursday night, but say hello to Victor for me," K. replies through e-mail and attaches a link to the Satori website for calendar and directions. K. had asked me to dance back in Portland between the edges of the live Tango orchestra and birthday Milonga festivities.
"Coeur d'Alene and Spokane have a growing and friendly Tango community. If you travel nearby, stop in to dance with us."
From Eastern Oregon, my pendulum swing had circled the state borders of Washington and Idaho, split the map between Spokane and Coeur d'Alene en route north into British Columbia. I swing to the west first, without a place to stay tonight, with the trust that the serendipitous will serve me once again.
I enter the dance studio on the heels of a beginners lesson and quietly sit at the end of a row of padded chairs. Here, I change my sandals to my heels, then push my purse and sandals under the chair for safekeeping.
Once the lesson ends, I am welcomed by those entering the space from the hustle of the city along the downtown streets of Spokane. A wine goblet arrives into my open hand.
"Water," he says.
"Are you Victor?" I ask.
And because he is, I mention a hello from K. He smiles back at me and asks me to dance. Without tanda formatting (those sets of three to five dances in a row expected with the same partner), dancers dance one or two, then rotate to another partner. This local tradition makes it easier for a new person to dance more, without the tedious wait for a tanda to end. And so I do, with those who have found their individual expression through this dance form, and those newly touching the passion.
Sometimes I wonder if life is just some kind of chess game. Not in the sense of "strategic aggression" towards capture and takeover, but in the strategic sense of specific paths crossing or experiences having opportunity. Some unnoticed whisper nudging a person farther along, down a different road, or connecting with a stranger at just the right time. Maybe I notice it more while so open out here on the road. Maybe it happens all the time and people are so hyper-focused on their agendas that these subtle nudgings slip through as missed potential or are not fully acknowledged or celebrated.
Every time one choice gets made over another, just maybe, the choice settled on IS the nudge, the whisper, the needed experience or potential being offered. As I drove north alongside Medicine and Rose Lakes, pulled into possible free camping spots, I became dissatisfied with the options. "No, not here." Unless I drove farther out of my way to find other spots, and farther away from my intended destination of Coeur d'Alene, I had less and less choice for non-city options for sleeping overnight in my truck.
I've started to entertain this idea of being nudged by dissatisfaction—to keep going until something else makes sense, or at least in the acceptance that something else may make sense sometime soon. And so it is that it made sense to drive past Coeur d'Alene towards my love of tango in Spokane just a half hour or so west along Highway I 90. I've already researched the less than desired fallback of a Walmart parking lot in Spokane Valley for sleeping tonight, and it wouldn't be the first time I've done so. It most likely won't be the last time either.
I watch G. dance with others, long hair wildly hanging around his shoulders, red sneakers shushing along the floor confidently in his choice of choreography. When he and I dance, he pulls his hair back over his right shoulder so I am not trying to breathe through his forest of locks. Another leader has driven down from northernmost Idaho for the evening, a chance to find a way of movement other than walking the ranch he inherited after leaving the military. Victor offers me his hands again to swoop me through more sophisticated moves, those moves having been honed in his leading and teaching over the years.
"You dance as if you are six feet tall," he says in delight, since his height can be challenging for short women. "It's refreshing. You should move here so we can dance more with you."
"K. mentioned that you would be here tonight, and wanted to me send greetings," one woman says as she offers me her hand and her name. I take her hand in a ritual of what brings people together in common experience.
Seth Godin, writer and blogger, in words spoken in interview and offered on page, has explained that we have "tribes" that we belong to. In writing, or blogging, our success in getting our messages and information out, is determined by how well we connect with our "tribe". We belong to many tribes, and tonight, I connect successfully with my tango tribe. Wherever I go, if there is Argentine Tango being danced, I have the possibility of connection into the embrace of those who understand the passion of the dance and the passion of those who want the dance to reach some emotional place deep within the heart and the body. Several dances with K. back in Portland opened this specific door here in Spokane, for instance.
There is a custom in the "tribe" — when it's someone's birthday, that person has the special experience of dancing a tango with all the other leaders or followers depending. A woman blows out the candle on the middle cupcake of a tray of cupcakes, takes her sung birthday song with her into the middle of the floor, and as the tango music starts, one leader after another scoops her up and out of the arms of the previous. This is our celebration of community, within the circles that we call home, or out on the road with strangers.
Later we chat, she and I, as it is with other women sitting out dances—nothing too deep since a glance from a leader will override words in mid-syllable. I find this refreshing, and within the conversational threads, I am offered a place to sleep. Trust and serendipity holding a close embrace on a wooden floor.
Angels in Heels
J. and I sit in the mottled sun squeezing its way through the umbrella of new spring leaves high on the branches of the tree near us. My turquoise Ukulele rests its tones now on the ground like Fall leaves gently floating along the current to land in a small pile, leaves having found their own "tribe". It is mid-afternoon, and I have plans to get back over to Coeur d'Alene by late afternoon to meet up with my Couchsurfing hostess #1 for two nights. I look into her eyes and now know why I could not find a camping spot yesterday.
She had lowered herself onto the chair next to me. Her long hair, pulled back and to one side behind her right ear, was secured with a black swirly hair tie, and she moved gracefully around the floor when dancing. She and I are both not young. We have the markings of life lived. Maybe it's the lines in our faces, maybe the looks in our eyes. We talk differently, as if whatever words are interrupted by the "glance" cannot be just dropped. We will pick them up and keep going later.
"There is so much more I want to hear about," she had eventually said, and I felt a certain twinge of desperate need in her voice.
"I'm moving soon, there are boxes everywhere, and I have no spare bed to offer. Even the couch may not work. But I would love to offer you a place to crash."
"Thank you so much," I had responded. "I'm traveling with what I need—a mat, bag, pillow. I just need a floor."
Once the Practica was done, I had followed behind her along the streets of Spokane to a whispered destiny perhaps, the surprise of serendipity, the heart-laden touch of recognition of crossing paths with one in the "tribe". Not the Tango tribe, although this was the path, but the tribe of women who have walked away from cultural expectation. Especially for her in a region known for conservative complacency. Where does she fit in, what compromises have to be made? Like a sponge, she soaked me in, infused herself with the tribal energy, remembering that she is not alone out here in the wilderness.
The more I travel this way on my journey, the more I think this is what is important— the extended hand of welcome, the extended word of shared life musings, lessons, remembrances.
"I've taken breaks from Tango," she had said. "I'm not sure why I've continued recently. I've been feeling a need to break again."
I know though. This is the clarity that comes later on, that look back over one's shoulder. Had I camped along Rose Lake, I wouldn't have danced with the man in red sneakers with retrofitted leather soles. I wouldn't have drunk water out of a wine goblet. And I wouldn't have felt the mottled sun on my face and arms as I strummed my Ukulele in the park with J. I like to think that life energy is always an exchange. That we give and take with every single person we look straight in the eye, and hold in our hand. Every loved one. Every stranger. Every dance partner. Maybe we are all angels, some of us dancing backward in heels.
Shrewd dealings up here in the northern Idaho Panhandle. At least that is what lurks deep in the history of the Shitsu'umsh—the "Discovered People", the "Coeur d'Alene People" who inhabited thousands of acres now covering parts of Idaho, Washington and Montana. "Sharp-hearted" were the tribal leaders who held firm to their dealings with the French fur traders who wandered into their territory in the late 18th century and early 19th century. The sharply declining mountainsides flow quickly beneath the Lake Coeur d'Alene's horizontal surface now filled with holiday recreation. Nothing shrewd on this long weekend, Sunday afternoon at McEuen Park, downtown Coeur d'Alene.
Promenading the Panhandle:
1.The Great Posthole Debacle
"I've heard that there is a lovely hike in to see Shadow Falls over in the National Forest. I thought we could go check that out today since I've never been and have been wanting to go see," J., my Couchsurfing hostess #1, offers.
I research for too many hours and still have to guess on the interesting hot spots that only locals seem to know. I also know my history of serendipitous experiences when I've let go of my personal agenda and invited the unknown. And those experiences have so often been, while on the road, surprising, awe-inspiring, connective, grounding, nurturing.....you get the idea.
The National Forests, not all everywhere, but often, and especially here, involve mountains parting themselves for those adventurers driving through them. Also, so often, slithering through the lowest parted crevices, are the rivers, creeks, streams, lakes and ponds.
We follow the arrows on the wooden sign pointing down a dirt road: Fern Falls...Shadow Falls. The usual pot holes and jutted rocks pop into view and J. maneuvers over and around. The road goes on, and on, and on.
"Hmmm," she grumbles. "I'll be disappointed if we drive all the way to the Falls."
The road turns to concrete bars where the creek has eroded earthen mass underneath and we bump our way across the "bridge". At the next pull off, J. turns the wheel to position the car off the road.
"I was hoping for an actual hike. Let's walk from here," she says.
"Absolutely," I respond, and we gather up our daypacks for the hike up the road. Cars and trucks have crowded into the small parking area up ahead, and families with kids barricade the path leading to the two Falls. We part the sea of people and sneak through, walk barely a quarter mile and stop at the bridge in front of the first waterfall rushing into a pool. The wooden fence separating the path from the water puffs out a sign: "No hiking beyond the fence. Please help conserve the resources."
"This happens a lot around here," J. whispers. "Signs mean nothing."
We keep walking and switchback uphill to the next falls that we think is Fern Falls. Some new ferns hang off the rocks holding firm under the misty spray, mosses spread into the wetness. More kids climb past where signs nicely ask for any respect at all.
"Well, this is disappointing. Let's go find an actual hiking trail," J. says.
I'm on the adventure, and it's a beautiful day to be out and about. She drives us up towards the borderlands straddling Idaho and Montana into the Panhandle National Forest (Idaho) and the Lolo National Forest (Montana) near Thompson Pass.
"I've brought the kids here when they were younger to pick huckleberries. See that skimpy trail across the road from this lot?'
I look across and see a rift along the gravelly hillside. Is that the trail? As I follow the line up and around, I see a sign lurking behind some trees and bushes.
"Ah, yes. I see a sign up there," I say.
We cross the street leaving everyone else who had come here to march their way on trails leading to a couple of lakes. We cross over the pavement and head up the line trail, double back and walk the hill's ridge through budding huckleberry bushes.
"The kids and I never made it back very far from the bushes. The huckleberries were ripe and we ate and picked tons of them. It'll be interesting to see where this trail goes."
The trail meanders along the ridge, and we stroll easily along the path most likely padded down by animal hooves. Slightly up and slightly down and slightly straight on. We crawl over some downed trees not yet cut aside by the Forest Service. We slop through lingering soft snow patches hiding in the shade of battered pine trees slowly being choked by hanging mosses. Winter winds have fallen the weakest trees and sunlight filters through the open gaps. Along the next ridge, we slog though more and more snow, scan the terrain for the thin open path of the trail not blazed with markers.
Whoosh! I turn around and see J.'s leg pulled down into the patch of deep snow. I had walked over the patch without incident just to the side of her posthole fiasco. She climbs herself out and brushes the cold snow from her bare legs. Ouch!
Whoosh! My left leg disappears from under me. No way. Laughter added to the lingering remnants floats down onto the snow as J. offers her hand for me to pull on. I take her hand, and put my other hand onto the patch and pull my leg out of the hole
"Owwwww, that's cold!!!!!!" No blood either. We tear up from the laughter, compare out scrapes and gingerly find our way across the rest of the snow to find the dirt path again.
Part of the Couchsurfing culture is the connective interaction. The CS community is also a "tribe", and none of us who host travelers in our homes wants to be used like a hotel. Our generosity however, does come with a string attached: we want to get to know our wanderers, learn about other cultures, hear stories, tell our own.
Traveling can take me down solitary paths, much needed centering within my individual experience. But, it can also keep me isolated within my self-serving and self-absorbed thoughts and activities. Balance is important to me, and when too much solitude starts to slip slide my social savvy, it's time to step back out into society. To remember how to listen and share, and I am never disenchanted.
"I'm pleased you wanted to stay Sunday and Monday nights," K., my CS hostess #2, has written me. "I won't have to work and we can do something fun if you have the time."
Of course I have the time. I'm soaking in the social, hearing my voice in response to others, and inviting the graces. We, like J. and I, chat up a storm like the excited tribe members we are.
"My son bemoaned 'another couchsurfer, mom'?" she tells me. "But, I love to open up my home, and it's good for him to trust that all strangers are not dangerous. The TV news is not always right."
The weekend's weather wiggles winter-heavy wishers out into the sunshine. Including us on a drive north to another lake: the Pend Oreille. Pend O'Reille. Pendoreille. Penderay. Whichever. 43 miles length. 6 miles wide. Approximately 1,150 feet deep. Totaling 148 square miles. It was in the town of Bayview along the lower lake that small versions of Navy submarines were tested for sonar applications—once upon a time. We drive by gated Navy yards still protected from those wishing to steal military secrets, past boats launching into the waters slapping up against steep hills. We arrive in Sandpoint more north along the western arm of Lake Pend Oreille, an artsy ski town hunkering down into the holiday lake life along City Beach.
We've come for the adventure of a place not known to me, and not visited for awhile for K. We get to business: lunch. What's new? What's open? What do we feel like? We decide to try City Beach Organics. Not remembered by K., we peruse the menu of salads, wraps, sandwiches and soups, then order up.
Young enthusiastic staff whisks our orders into the kitchen, and fills the filtered water canister with more drinking water for our empty cups. Our orders arrive, bulging with organic nutrients, to fill our adventurous tummies.
"I don't remember your restaurant when last here," K. comments to the man picking up our cleaned plates.
"We're on day number three," he responds. "Just opened after several months of renovation. We're a family business. Seven kids, and they are so happy not to be painting walls, and ripping up flooring. We're just all so happy to be finally open and in the kitchen now."
K. and I take back the thoughts of pot-high teenagers giddily filling orders. We'd be happy to be on the other side of the grunt work too.
The prices are reasonable for organic fare, the location easy on the main drag, and the love and care of a family owned establishment. When in Sandpoint, look for them, eat there, celebrate organic food spiced with giddiness. Perhaps someday, they will have a bona fide website, complete with menu. But, for now, know they are there and ready to serve.
Sandpoint, the winter home to downhill skiing and snowboarding, continues to hold onto that small town feel. At one end of the Main Street, a coop of markets huddle across a "covered" bridge spanning the Pend Oreille River as it meanders west from this arm of the deep lake. K. and I peruse the shops open, and also along the street, stop to celebrate what I know now to be the regional and famed huckleberry.
Buttermilk Huckleberry ice cream to be exact. At least for me. K. follows in the footsteps of the woman in line ahead of us...some kind of ice cream in a cup with espresso poured on top, which of course, puddles the circumference of the cup around the mound of ice cream. To each their own. I'm happy with my huckleberry from the Cone and Coffee across the street from City Beach Organics.
To work off the extra calories, we stroll the City Beach, not quite as crazy as the Lake Coeur d'Alene city beach. The usual suspects are engaged in the usual beach bustle. Recent pine pollen particles slime the surface of the beach sand, but fearless teenagers wade through the yellow muck regardless. A sailing (or maybe motoring, I cannot tell) Scandinavian sea vessel, diminutive in comparison to what history may have portrayed, slithers by yet another Statue of Liberty.
What? K. and I walk down the pier leading to her proclamation to see what the deal is. But, secured onto the bottom of the lady's base is a sign commemorating the gift of Mr. And Mr. Somebody or other. Go figure here on the Panhandle. This is the fun part—one never knows really what an adventure stroll will uncover, where or why. I raise my right arm is solidarity to the dream of freedom, and we head back to Cd'A for my last night on the Idaho Panhandle. For now. Who knows what disappointments will nudge me to choose my way back, tango or not? But, what I do know, is that within the city limits, are two lovely, risky, adventurous women whose eyes I looked deeply into, and I know, without a doubt, we belong to the same tribe.
Organic Fun Food
Huckleberry Ice Cream