X Marks the Spot

The writer of any sort who tries to follow the alphabet sequence for first letter inspiration will inevitably encounter X and be tempted, as all the others, to do something with xylophone or xenophobic.  The late classic food writer M.F.K. Fisher, who started this whole concept years ago, tried her hand with Xanthippe, Socrates's wife, who was, as Fisher makes her out, a shrew and bad for dinner table digestion (she had to find a food angle somehow).  I like the simple geographical approach, "X marks the spot," (for favorite place to go in the area) because it easily follows the backbone of the argument made that La Crosse is in its greatest essence influenced by its natural resources and its native forms of labor.  There are doubtless as many favorite "X marks the spots" as there are good citizens of the city.  One woman's spot might be the flower garden in the backyard; another man's might be his tree stand on his neighbor's land which happens to hold a bluff side and ridge line; another might be the river, Lake Onalaska, Hixon Trails, the HPT's, surrounding small towns, etc., etc.  Unlike other small towns not driftless, La Crosse is an endless array of green, rock, contours, water.  For my own 'X,' – among many others – I would pick a place where history meets nature and they merge, sometimes literally, to

reveal a showcase variety of bluff, swamp and old prairie.  The segment of the La Crosse River State Trail, starting at Cty. B (old Valley View Fitness and Racquet Club), then extending towards West Salem is a throwback landscape to a time when this entire coulee area was prairie and Mississippi / La Crosse River backwater swamplands.  This particular stretch, roughly from Cty. B to Veteran's Memorial Campground, is its own designated eco-region, featuring "stretches of dry-mesic to dry prairie...flora is diverse with big and little blue-stem, Indian grass, and switch grass dominating."  We

took our bikes to this stretch again last weekend with only a little over an hour to burn.  Very few people, ironically, end up on this route "into the swamp," so the vast and mostly pristine marsh, teeming with the din of crickets and screech of red-winged blackbirds, is virtually all to yourself as you ride over the old rail road right-of-way bridges and under the occasional shade of an oak.  Tall marsh turns immediately to lush farm field as you near West Salem. In five minutes, the Golf Course, hwy. 16, and the shopping zone fade to nothing more than vague memory.

Weeknight Cooking

Every at-home cook should be very careful constructing his or her own Parisian-style sandwich.  The biggest problem – I'm now convinced – is that once you assemble the Parisian Tuna Sandwich, for example, stocked with fresh ingredients, and laced around its edges with a sweet oil, you might not

ever depart again from the recipe, only desire home-spun offshoots, and then shun for the rest of your days the three thousand fast-food options available out there in the drive-thru universe.  This could be troublesome for business; Subway might notice one or so fewer customers, and the guilt pangs would soar to the level of devastating.  All this is to say, try the Parisian.

First, before assembling the mixture, picture the fresh oily goodness of a little side-street boulangerie.  Remember that the ingredients are freshly picked from Pierre's edible garden, that the tuna might be unprocessed, and that, under the yellow Mediterranean sunshine, the oils of the meats and olives would shine like the luster off small diamonds.  Find a good hoagie or vienna style bun.  Hard boil

some eggs (remember, we want to peel, cut, serve these warm on the bun in a moment).  While boiling for 10 minutes, open up the buns and toss the insides of the bread with a little splash of red wine vinegar mixed with olive oil, salt and pepper.  Assemble some spinach onto the bun, followed up by fresh tomatoes, whatever sized slices of radishes you might enjoy, a couple of chunks of anchovies

(salty and great in small, small doses).  Red onions chips, if desired.  Dip a couple of bags of oil-packed tuna in the rest of your red vinegar dressing then scoop that onto the buns.  Add some chopped (pitted) kalamata olives.  Break open your eggs, cut the way best suited for the lay of the sandwich, and place.  From here, I went ahead and toasted the sandwich quickly under the broiler. When they came out, because of the variety packed under the bread, eyes were distrustful, alarmed, curious....what to think all of this under one roof!  But, if portioned to balance, the oil serves as a way to pull of all of the crisp warm ingredients together.  Eyes turned to wide open enjoyment.  Subway watch out.  

"Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again.  He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him.  The old man was dreaming about the lions."  THE END

– The Old Man and the Sea



Just before the old man had awoke to the sloshing of the waves tilled up by the wake of the first outgoing Sausalito ferry, he had been dreaming of a ghost of shark bones.  He did not know precisely where this image came from – it was true that he had seen that Great White years ago, and had hoped for it again just last night, but the bones, he did not know.  He stood up slowly now, the bright and beautiful radiation from the sun already tending to his cheek.  There had not been fog in quite a time, this August quite clean as he liked to think of it.  It was true that much more than many people understood depended on the eery fog of the bay, such as the great Redwoods up along the north coast – they would be nothing without the fog – yet he felt selfish every morning that he awoke to that affirming blaze in the sky.  Passing clouds were but ecstatic metal, the surface of the bay a watercolor by Matisse if nothing else.  He did not move slow for any indulgence of Merlot the night before. His mere pinches of wine amounted to nothing more than a softening of the night air.  It was his hips that took the better portion of the morning to loosen to the rocking of the boat.  He quickly put together these two objects in his old but appreciative mind: yes, to appreciate this soft blaze across the sky, to know that I can still stand up, even against the wake on the water of all those grand motors!  He smiled, rolled up his bed gear, and walked over to the side of the Angelina to check his night bait.  To the other side, his crab cage (why not try he thought), but on this side, his fish bait which he had settled in tight around a hook.  There was a small flag attached – if he were awake he might see it tuck some – but it was an easy way to fish at night for who knows what.  The hook was no larger than half of his fist.  As a slight breeze slipped up over the hull of the boat and touched at the sides of his head and hair, he could see, off in the distance, Bay Bridge, a silver sword curved to fit onto Treasure Island, and beyond that onto Oakland.  Oh, he thought, the history of the coast!  To be young when it was all but water, wind, and the fish!  This was San Francisco.  This was a grand city of dreams and gold.  He cranked up the cold dripping line.  There was something there, yes, that much he could tell...not so much a weight, but a tension of the water rising up and up.  A mystery, I see, he said to himself.  Good enough, yes, good enough.  He could see the face of his father now, the fisherman, par excellence.  He was not forced to it, never, but it was he who understood it and taught all the others.  At the corners of the father's mouth a grin and then a nod of the head.  "The skeleton", he once said.  "The bait eaten.  That fish caught by the hook.  That fish eaten by a shark."  He lifted the end of the rope out of the water.  The fish head was still attached to the hook.  The body of the fish a long glowing white train of bone.

San Fran Travelogue

We followed the long and winding road back from Muir Woods. Through Sausalito and back over the Golden Gate Bridge to the sea cliff heights of Baker Beach and finally onto the short but majestic

stretch of sand and rising cliff at China Beach. Of all the beaches available, we picked China because it was written that it was quite pristine, quaint, and not necessarily the most well-known of all the major beaches.

Here we were, just off the loop from the Golden Gate, down on the roaring coast, middle of the day, and there were maybe a hand-full of people enjoying the sunshine and breeze.  Most reports make sure to warn against full swimming along any of the peninsular coasts of San Fran – the water is quite cold, the surf tough and the invisible undercurrent threatening.

The visitor, then, takes a cautious approach to the beach and stays close to the shoreline, the lone rocks standing firm in the surf, the bridge in the distance more than enough to remind you that this is something more than your average excursion on the water.

An older couple walked down to the shore line at one point, rubber capped, jumped in, and began swimming along the entirety of the visual shore line, elbows and jaws rising up above the surface, then dipping back down again.  We thought they were courageous.  They thought nothing of it.

San Fran Travelogue

Chinatowns in most cities might sound or seem like small districts, but in San Fran it's the largest of its kind in America, its roots having taken hold as far back as the Gold Rush era – a Chinese immigration

that resulted in a substantial, hard-working population that has gained ground as the years have gone by.  Chinatown is both hyper-eclectic, but in its own way also generic in the sense that most storefronts along the most important causeway, Grant Avenue, are not much more than retail shops trying to sell

trinkets or, in some other cases, nice Oriental antiques.  One way or another, to walk through Chinatown is similar to walking through the Japanese Tea Garden in that you know you are certainly experiencing something quite authentic and different.  From our own hotel on the Embarcadero, Chinatown was only about a

mile or so up the hill, so to speak, through the financial district at the famous TransAmerica building and up the grades to Grant Avenue, where the trade begins and the old murals on the sidewalls remind you that this neighborhood is essentially as old any other in town.  The storekeeper are extremely

friendly and conscientious of even the smallest products.  All interiors are clean and well-kept.  The smell of noodles and spicy chicken emanates from every corner.  Small paper lamps parade the

streetline and before you know it, you are at a crossroads at the end of Grant where the only genuine Chinese Gate in America ends the district and moves, just across the block, to Union Square, the most prestigious shopping district in the city.

San Fran Travelogue

Located in the Golden Gate Park, this five-acre authentic Japanese garden and forest set-back is an experience unlike most anything this side of the Pacific Rim.

The garden was originally a planned showcase for the international exposition of 1894 and soon after came under the care of a Japanese superintendent.  Mr. Hagiwara expanded the grounds to its current

size, lived there with his family and cared for the property until 1942 when, post Pearl Harbor, he, along with 120,000 other Japanese Americans were forced into an internment camp.  Unfortunately for the Hagiwara family, after WWII he was not allowed to return the Tea Garden and many of his

family's belongings were removed permanently.  Today, as a result of the original vision and years of patient care, the Tea Garden is one of the most popular destinations in San Fran.

A virtual living history of outdoor Japanese culture, the garden features what is called a classic arched drum bridge, pagodas, stone lanterns, koi ponds and a Zen Rock Garden.

More than anything, once the visitor walks in through the elaborate wooden gate, you find yourself inside a scene of serenity against the backdrop of a hectic city.  Much of the purpose of a Zen garden is  to highlight the sights and sounds of nature.  The Zen monk might spend a lifetime trying to create the perfectly unified rock garden and that care is then experienced by the visitor.

San Fran Travelogue

"Walk the Sequoia woods at any time of year and you will say they are the most beautiful and majestic on earth. Beautiful and impressive contrasts meet you everywhere: the colors of tree and flower, rock and sky, light and shade, strength and frailty, endurance and evanescence, tangles and supple hazel-bushes, tree-pillars about as rigid as granite domes, roses and violets, the smallest of their kind, blooming around the feet of the giants, and rugs of the lowly chamaebatia where the sunbeams fall."
     – John Muir, from The Mountains of California

The story of Muir Woods, 12 miles north of San Francisco, is one more example of the far too often bittersweet history of natural resources in America.  The majestically mammoth Redwood trees (some can grow well over 300 feet tall), now one of the most popular attractions in the entire Bay Area, almost entirely vanished by way of the sawmill, man-made fire, and overall mindless exploitation by the turn of the 20th century.  A congressman by the name of Kent recognized the diminishing trend of the Redwood trees and bought the 611 acres that is now Muir Woods for $45,000 from a water company in order to preserve it from guaranteed destruction.  Years later Teddy Roosevelt decided to claim the forest as a national monument.  When he asked Kent if he would like the forest named after him, he declined, but suggested instead that John Muir, the great forest advocate and naturalist of the Sierra Nevada, deserved that title.  Knowing this brief history, it makes it all that much easier to appreciate the delicate nature of a species of tree that might otherwise be perceived as nothing more than rugged survivors.

Muir himself says it just fine what it is like to walk under the broad natural structures of the sequoias.  The appreciative visitor might sense inspiration in such a gathering of trees – to see, in a sense, what is naturally possible, and that nature itself is considerably more interesting than anything man made, for the very reason that it is natural...unmanipulated, free, just as it should be.  We hiked up the old Ben Johnson Trail for an hour and a half; as the trail vista elevated, there were the tree canopies, lush, green, beautifully imperfect.

I'd sense that Man has always perceived such trees as beautiful and inspiring.  When sheer use and profit goes unchecked by appreciation and understanding however, exploitation will occur by human nature virtually by definition.  To visit such a spot once is enough to support it.  Muir walked the Sierra Nevadas by himself for years lending his eloquent, self-taught voice to a mountain region.  By doing so, he preceded most of what we commonly think of conservation by a century.