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A Summer Gala to Remember

9/28/2023

Last month (August 23), authors, book designers and illustrators, publishers and avid readers gathered for the annual New Mexico Book Association’s Summer Gala. Thrilled by our record attendance (70) and energized by our program, I served as emcee, sharing the mic with Co-President Miguel De La Cruz and other members of the board.

On the portal of Las Campanas in Santa Fe, acclaimed guitarist and singer Nacha Mendez performed for NMBA members and friends. Mendez, voted Best Female Vocalist in Santa Fe in 2009 and 2010, received the New Mexico Lifetime Achievement Award in 2018.

Moving inside for the program, we reported on NMBA highlights of the year and celebrated winners of the Southwest Book Design and Production Awards while waiting eagerly to hear from our keynote speaker. Jimmy Santiago Baca, an award-winning poet, memoirist, and screenwriter is often described as a “firebrand” and “inspirational.” Abandoned by his family early in his life and sent to an orphanage, he was a runaway at age thirteen. After being sentenced to five years in maximum security prison, Baca learned to read and write, discovering a voracious passion for poetry and the solace that writing can bring to the human soul.

Weaving stories about being a robber gang’s lookout, stumbling upon a nine-bedroom house of his dreams that he would one day own, and taking teenagers from east LA into the hallowed library of Stanford University, Baca shared significant parts of his life and writing with Gala attendees.

A book signing by Baca concluded an evening that I will long remember.

Looking to the future, the NMBA, the only statewide non-profit with a laser focus on books, seeks to increase its relevance in the world of books and defy book censors who are fearful of truths that make them uncomfortable with the complexity of human beings. The NMBA supports the creation of quality books for readers of all ages, genders and ethnicities.
I am honored to serve as Co-President of this organization.

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Iceland Highlights

9/18/2023

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A geological wonderland! That’s how I’d heard Iceland described, and I couldn’t wait to see it for myself. I pictured a huge block of ice under 20-hour-a day sunlight punctuated by spouting geysers, steaming solfataras, volcanoes, magnificent waterfalls, clusters of puffins, and thousands of grazing sheep to account for all of those Icelandic sweaters. In anticipation, I packed stretchable rubber grips with metal cleats that I could slip on over my hiking boots, a couple of collapsible trekking poles, ski underwear, a light-blocking sleep mask and clothes I might loosely call “layered.

We had boarded our ship, the Azamara Journey, in Amsterdam and, after ports of call in two archipelagos – Shetland and Faroe Islands – we were about to set foot on Iceland. We would be docking early in the morning at the first of six ports as the Journey circled the island.

Housing for resident naturalists in Skalanes Reserve

That Monday, July 3rd, we awoke, expecting to disembark in Seydisfjordur, a town of 700 in the eastern region of Iceland at the innermost point of a long fjord by the same name. But fierce winds kept the ship from docking, so we were tendered from ship to shore in a lifeboat.

On the iceless shore, we traveled by bus to the base of a volcanic mountain where birds nest on the ground midst acres of blooming lavender lupine. Artic terns (black and white with red bills) dive-bombed us as we neared their invisible (to us) nests. We were in the untamed wilderness of Skalanes, a 3,000-acre nature reserve and research center. Students from all over the world come here to study the behavior of diverse species of birds. From a resident naturalist we learned that a female eider duck plucks her down – fine, soft feathers under the bird’s tougher exterior feathers – into her nest to keep her eggs and young warm. Many farmers in Iceland provide sanctuaries for eider ducks, protecting them from predators such as seagulls, minks and foxes. When the birds and young leave the nest at the end of summer, farmers collect eider down from the nests and sell it for high-end luxury products. Since a duck produces only about .5 ounces of down per year it’s no wonder an eider down duvet is so expensive! About 75% of the world’s eider down production is in Iceland.

Leaving the naturalist, we trekked about half a mile to coastal cliffs with the hope of catching sight of puffins nesting in rocky crevices high above the rough sea below. As hard as they were to spot (except for their orange bills, they blended in with their surroundings so as to be nearly invisible), I count ourselves lucky to have seen them at all. Two days later, my long-anticipated Whale-Watching & Puffins excursion in a small wooden boat was cancelled because of high winds. Some people eat puffins, I was told. When I heard this, I felt the same way I felt when I learned, years ago in France, that some people eat horse meat.

Our guide, a young Hungarian woman whose partner is Icelandic, told us that she happily left a high-pressure job in Budapest to live in Iceland “to be more in touch with nature and tranquility.” After our morning in the untamed wilderness, she had the bus driver drop us off in town within walking distance of the dock where, much later, we would be tendered back to the ship.

Orange-billed puffin perched on ridge of volcanic cliff in Skalanes Reserve

Looking for lunch, we were directed to a filling station for fish and chips. Without beer on the menu, we kept walking until we found a Gallery-Café that served beer but no food. Heeding the gallery manager’s suggestion, we checked out a nearby food truck specializing in –you guessed it – fish & chips. Carrying our baskets of food, we returned to the gallery. With cans of cold beer in hand, we plunked ourselves down at a table in the midst of photographs and paintings by Icelandic artists. Regrettably, my iPhone battery had run down so I have no photos of our afternoon exploration of Seydisfjordur.

Early the morning of July 4th, we were docked in Husavik where we were met with rain and bone-chilling winds. Because my Whales and Puffins excursion had been cancelled, I thought I might join Frank on his “Hidden Gems of the North” excursion but it was booked solid with a waiting list. So, I boarded a bus to the Husavik Geothermal Sea Baths. For nearly two hours, my head whipped by unrelenting winds, I submerged the rest of myself in the warm (100 degrees Fahrenheit) mineral-rich waters of multiple infinity pools along the edge of a cliff. On a clear day one might have taken in breathtaking views of Skjalfandi Bay below us or spotted a passing whaling boat, maybe even a whale, but visibility was almost non-existent beyond the rim of the pools. Winds lifted the waters of an adjacent waterfall up into the thermal baths. My face felt as though it was being pummeled by hundreds of tiny ice spikes. I returned to the ship in time to meet Frank for lunch before he left for his excursion in the rain.

Yellow lighthouse adjacent to cliff-top thermal baths in Husavik

On the morning of Wednesday, July 5th, we were docked in Akureyri where we disembarked for an eight-hour excursion. Our guide, Juli, humorously entertained our minivan of fifteen while he drove us through idyllic green pastures midst dark volcanic rock. Our destination was Iceland’s fourth largest body of water, Lake Myvatn, known as the lake of black flies. Fortunately, we didn’t see any except in an iPhone photo of Juli’s face covered with flies. Known as “midges,” they usually appear in mid-June in such amazing numbers that they block out views of nearby scenic mountains.

Godafoss Waterfall (Waterfall of the Gods) in Fossholl

En route we stopped at breathtaking Godafoss Waterfall (Waterfall of the Gods). The story goes that in 998 AD, Thorgeir, a Viking priest pressured by Norway to give up his heathen beliefs, threw his pagan idols into the waters to symbolize that Iceland would embrace Christianity. These beautiful falls, in the shape of a horseshoe 98 feet wide, were a fractional reminder of Iguazu Falls in Brazil, an elongated horseshoe that extends for nearly two miles.

Not far from Lake Myvatn, we stopped to check out Skutustadagigar pseudocraters that were formed 2300 years ago. Walking through the bizarre and often grotesque formations, I couldn’t resist taking photos of those that reminded me of humans. At a stop for lunch, we ate, at Juli’s suggestion, dark brown bread slathered in butter, topped by smoked trout – delicious! Afterwards Juli drove us to Námafjall, an area of swirling geothermal activity that smells of sulfur and features smoking fumaroles and boiling mud. From a distance it looked like a vast desert or a burned out Serengeti.

On Thursday, July 6th, we docked at Skagafjordur in North Iceland, one of the island’s most prosperous agricultural regions with widespread dairy and sheep farming in addition to horse breeding. Before leaving home, we had decided to forgo an excursion and tour the town on our own.

From the picturesque church on Main Street, we trekked uphill to a golf course where Frank hit a few balls on the practice range. Back in town, we stopped at a bakery for a bowl of ham and tomato soup chased by a delicious doughnut. On our walk back to the ship, we met a couple who told us they had spotted a huge walrus on a dock not far from our ship. Eyeing the walrus from a pier as close as we could get, a local told me, “This town has not seen a walrus in seven years. It’s been on the dock for two days.” He assured me that the walrus, which didn’t seem to move, was not dead but simply digesting a big meal of fish. The local had planned to go fishing but gave it up to spend a few hours observing the walrus.

On Friday, July 7th, we boarded a bus in Isafjordur to ascend 2100 feet to the top of Bolafjall Mountain. Along the way we went through the eleven-mile-long Mt. Oshlid tunnel. It took a while as oncoming traffic had the right of way, forcing us into numerous turnouts. From the mountain top we had spectacular panoramic views – miles of remote, unspoiled nature and home to arctic foxes (the only land mammal native to Iceland) but we saw not one fox nor, when we looked out to sea, did we glimpse the coast of Greenland. At departure time, four in our group were missing. Our guide became increasingly concerned, fearing someone might have fallen off the mountain. Eventually, the missing were found.

Host at Skalavik Creek in costume made of grandmother’s fabric

After descending the mountain, we stopped at Skálavik Creek uninhabited since the 1960s. In front of a small building, a young woman in a costume made of her grandmother’s fabric told us the story of her family that had once owned the remotely situated small houses and her grandfather’s dream of making it a stop-off for tourists. She invited us into her small house overlooking a tranquil bay for chocolate cake, marzipan and coffee. She told us that her grandfather had died a few years earlier in a sledding accident: “Snows nearby covered a river and in he went.” This young woman, who lives and works in town, is trying to realize her grandfather’s dream.

We returned to the ship with little time to grab lunch before departing on an afternoon excursion called the Dynjandi Express. As we crossed mountain ridges with stunning views of fjords, farms and villages, I couldn’t dispel the feeling of remoteness. Eventually, we arrived at the 328-foot Dynjandi Waterfall with waters cascading down the mountain like a bridal veil. Stunning.

On Saturday, July 8th, we docked in Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland. It was not my first time in Reykjavik. Years ago, I flew Icelandic Air to and from Europe, and a fuel stop in Reykjavik was a must. However, not once on those flights did I ever get off the plane. And now because we had signed up for a five-hour excursion outside the city, I wondered whether we would see anything of Reykjavik. Our guide, so very different from the guides we’d had all along, shared little information about himself, Icelandic ways or the moss-covered lavascapes we were seeing. Our destination was Reykjanes GeoPark, a UNESCO Global Geopark. Our first stop was Lake Kleifarvatn, a 318-foot deep crater lake with a beach of black sand, far different from tree-lined Crater Lake in southwestern Oregon, which is much deeper and bluer.

Below Bridge of Two Continents, which separates the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates

At the geothermal hot springs of Krysuvik, we moved freely around steaming vents that were hotter than hot. Stepping into one cloud of steam, I quickly backed away, fearing my face might melt. From wooden platforms we peered into bubbling, hissing fields of solfatara framed by colorful green, red and yellow hills and inhaled the rotten-egg aroma of sulfur.

In the seaside town of Grindavik, we stopped for lunch at a nondescript dockside restaurant where we were served the most delicious cod I have ever tasted.

Our last stop was The Bridge Between Continents, which separates the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates, allowing one to stand on both at the same time. I ventured below the bridge to stand on the rocky sand below the bridge but that photo is on someone else’s camera.

After returning to the ship, we decided to try to see something of the city. A port shuttle delivered us to city center, too late for the on-off bus tour. So, we walked to a pedestrian-filled street lined with shops, including a crowded book store, and took in the scene: more people than we’d seen all week – young people, many with tattoos. At Frank’s behest, we checked out some impressive architecture on our walk back to catch the port shuttle. The lecturer aboard ship had mentioned several of the buildings we stopped to admire. We had hoped we to eat dinner in Reykjavik our last night together with Susie but the logistics proved daunting. We ended up eating together on the ship after which we rushed to pack and get our bags outside our staterooms for pickup by 11 p.m. Throwing dirty clothes into suitcases, we zipped ‘em closed within minutes of the pickup deadline.

In the morning, we flew to Amsterdam, missing a volcanic eruption near Reykjavik by four hours.
Miscellaneous memories and impressions of Iceland:

Feeling of remoteness and tranquility engendered by the stark beauty of the landscape;
Absence of trees (Vikings, centuries ago, destroyed Iceland’s lush forests, cutting them down for building ships and creating grazing pastures for sheep.)
Absence of ice, at least on our coastal ports of call;
Prevalence of sheep that eat a lot, including newly planted trees;
Heart-shaped red lights in downtown Akureyri;
Marvelous guide, Juli F., who did not have a business card and said we could find him on Instagram – Icelandic tour guides;
No talk of politics (The Icelanders we met seemed wonderful and very attached to their natural environment.)
Salubrious soak in geo-thermal waters;
Countless stories of giants and elves. Before leaving Iceland, I bought a book about Icelandic sagas and folklore.
Frank’s prediction: Iceland will be a mecca for many manufacturing processes that require clean energy. Rather than burning coal, the heat from geo-thermal waters can generate electricity inexpensively and without polluting the atmosphere with carbon dioxide.

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En Route to Iceland

9/14/2023

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Under an overcast sky in late June, we left The Hendrick’s Hotel in an Uber and headed for the Port of Amsterdam to board the Azamara Journey that would take us to Iceland. Without the aggravating Covid protocols we had endured when traveling in Europe a year-an-a-half earlier, check-in was easy. Frank’s stepsister Susie and I signed up for a massage on each of the two days we knew we’d be at sea with no ports of call.

After mustering for the mandatory ship-wide safety exercise, we returned to our staterooms to continue unpacking and stow suitcases out of sight for the next eleven nights. Our stateroom aid was Girlie (real name) from the Philippines. That evening we joined Susie in her room next door and opened a bottle of vodka (gift from the Azamara) for pre-dinner vodka tonics while anticipating immersion in a part of the world new to each of us.

The next day’s highlight was a lecture on the Shetland Islands, a Scottish archipelago of more than 100 islands. We’d be docking early the next morning in Lerwick, capital of the Shetland Islands

En Route to Iceland on the Azamara Journey

Medieval Scalloway Castle

In Lerwick, Shetland, Scotland

After going through UK Customs (passport and room key check), we left the ship and boarded a bus for a meandering drive through the port city of Lerick and nearby countryside. Outside the city, isolated farm buildings surrounded by a verdant landscape of treeless rolling hills and grazing sheep became iconic. Leaden skies enhanced the feeling of remoteness on this sparsely populated island.

An up-close encounter with a small herd of Shetland ponies melted my heart. These sturdy, short-legged ponies, once used to haul peat and coal (they can carry or haul twice their weight), are today often purchased to be pets for children or company for other animals. Five miles west of Lerwick, we stopped in Scalloway, one-time capital of Shetland. Dominating the town is Scalloway Castle, a high-walled, roofless medieval ruin built in 1600. Most fascinating about this stone relic: It was left to rot, we were told, after the tyrannical Earl who built it using forced labor, Patrick Stewart, was beheaded for treason.

Exploring a small museum in Scalloway, we discovered a display that chronicles the heroic “Shetland Bus” missions into Nazi-occupied Norway during WWII. Initially, a group of small fishing boats disguised as working fishing boats were armed with light machine guns concealed in oil drums placed on deck to carry out missions on the Norwegian coast. Several fishing boats were lost before the fleet was augmented by three well-armed submarine chasers.

At the end of our tour we learned that our guide, Margaret Anderson, is the author of children’s books. From one of her books, she stood up in the front of the bus and read a poem, captivating us with her wonderful Scottish brogue.

That night we enjoyed a late dinner aboard ship and compared notes with Susie who had opted for a different excursion. After the previous evening of vodka tonics, I opted for a pre-dinner Aperol spritzer and a glass of wine with dinner. We caught the last of the ship’s late-evening entertainer, singer Grace Clancy, and headed for bed.

Pitched roof houses nestled on edge of fjord in Faroe Islands

In Tórshavn, Faroe Islands, Denmark

When we awoke on Saturday morning, July 1st, we were docked at Tórshavn in the Faroe Islands, an autonomous territory of the Kingdom of Denmark, and we had all of ten minutes to make the 9 a.m. lecture on Iceland. (We’d set the iPhone alarm for 8 p.m. by mistake.) After the lecture and a late breakfast, we departed by bus to explore the northern part of Eysturoy. Volcanic mountains covered by a carpet of green (kept short by sheep) dropped into fjords of clear, cold water. Stark and tranquil. We walked through a village of small houses with pitched roofs, clustered together under gray skies and a persistent drizzle. Dressed in layers, we didn’t mind.

Hairpin turns lead to highest mountain in Faroe Islands

Colonized by Vikings in the 9th century, the islands enjoy a legend-rich history. This was brought home on our stop to view two stone hay stacks offshore, Giant and Hag. According to legend, giants in Iceland wanted the Faroe Islands. So, a giant and his wife, described as a hag, set out to steal the islands. The giant remained in the sea while his wife put a rope around the top of one mountain and tried to dislodge it and place it on the giant’s back. They struggled through the night but the base of the mountain was firm and they could not move it. Legend has it that if the sun shines on a giant or other fairy-tale creatures, they turn to stone. As they struggled to move the mountain, they didn’t notice the time passing, and when dawn broke, a shaft of sunlight turned them into stone. They have stood there ever since, staring longingly across the sea towards Iceland.

Speaking of mountains, we made our way past the highest mountain in the Faroe Islands, Slaettaratindur (2,890 ft.), via multiple hairpin turns on a narrow two-way road before we arrived in the town of Gjógv. Walking through the town, we saw no one. I could only think that in this cold, wet weather, only crazy, curious tourists were out and about. Sod-roofed houses were a common sight. “In the Shetland Islands,” we were told, “they don’t mow the roofs but in the Faroe Islands, we do.” We stopped at a local guesthouse for a snack. Under dark wooden rafters, a long wooden table displayed trays of yummy eclairs and pots of hot coffee and tea but not one local did I see.

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