Travels with Dad

 I.  Piedmont Aloha

February 2025: I left Bel Air on Friday morning, one last stop at Goodwill to drop off donations.  My phone app chose the route to BWI; south on Route 1 and left onto a two-lane road. 

Harford County has two types of roads: developed and rural.  The developed routes are newer and have spawned width, commercial development and exurbs. They are smooth and wide.  They overprint on what I assume were older farm tracks, maybe even pre-industrial routes.  The rural routes are narrow, and wind and roll with topography. 

I was on one of the rural roads, curving through agricultural lands.  This part of the county is atop the Piedmont terrain; broadly eroded metamorphic rock left over from the last five suturings of North America and Europe: rolling topography.  I’ve always found these landscapes involuntarily appealing; the right scale of vista, nicely framing barns, trees, and fields, seen from a winding road. 

Driving was particularly nice on this cold morning. The sun was still low and shining through the hazy air.  The road weaved: around hills, through a broad valley.  Horses wearing blankets grazed in fields near the road.  It was strikingly beautiful.  I’ve had several early morning drives on rural roads while on this trip; the beauty of the land moved me every time. 

This contrasted with much of this visit, spent in hospitals and my father’s retirement complex. This trip was at the end of his life.  A good passing, and with the help of family I was able to sort out his material belongings and make a start on his estate. 

As I drove, I realized this was another ending.  I could plan a return to Harford County only once more: for my father’s remembrance, which would be where he lived for the last fifteen years.  He has my main reason for coming here. 

I would not have known Harford, its landscape and roads if not for family.  My sister and her family moved here from Washington DC in the mid-1990s; my brother-in-law has roots north of Bel Air.  My parents followed them, caring for their grandchildren and then my sister after she was inflicted with cancer.  My parents moved to a Bel Air retirement community in 2010; my father remained there after my sister and mother passed away. 

I must have stopped here sixty or seventy times but always felt a visitor.  I wasn’t here for my usual reasons of curiosity, work, or voluntary travel.  My family made this choice. It was never home, never my place.  Some of this was situational; I was often here in winter: too cold for hiking and running.  Neither type of road was safe.  Visits were short and the point was being with family, where they were.  I must be honest and say that initially, Harford felt imposed, even foreign.  While I could navigate, I never built a mental map of the rural roads, much less understood the human geography.  Moreover, it seemed I always came here; granted I had the means and flexibility through the life I had built in California, but it was on me to become present. 

For the last thirteen years, I visited and stayed with my father.  On this final morning, as I wove through the country, I realized that my Harford home was with him, and that was ending.  He was happy here, in the final phase of his extraordinary life.  It’s where he and I grew close, where I knew him best as the person beyond my parent.  We spoke on the phone almost daily, so I knew the rhythms of his life.  On this trip, I’d heard many stories of his impact in his community, and the gaps that needed to be filled.  That was done, he had passed.  I intersected a four-lane road, turned left, and got on the interstate.

II. The Thing

My father, Bill Hassler, passed away early on the morning of February 13, 2025.  His health had been declining for a few months, particularly after an aspiration pneumonia diagnosis in November 2024.  This returned in late January 2024; he was admitted to his local hospital, where his care team also recognized other systemic issues. 

Our last conversation was shortly after he was admitted in late January.  I tried to call him regularly, but by that point he was either unable to manage the phone by his bed, or elsewhere for treatment or tests.  I spoke with his medical team and got reports from family.

Dad improved, moved to a rehab facility, but had a fall.  He was probably trying to stand on his own.  He was determined to get back to mobility and go home.  He was transferred to Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical Center for scans and evaluation. 

I flew to Maryland on Friday February 8^th, and made it to Hopkins the next day. When I found Dad in the ER, he was delirious, speaking in a garbled voice and unable to move except for inchoate gesturing.  He was soon transferred to a room in the Progressive Care Unit. By Monday, he was still and uncommunicative.  His care team – nurses, hospitalist and palliative care specialist, expected him to pass soon, but the strength of his body, and whatever was going on in his mind and spirit, kept him going.  Family, friends, and spiritual care – his pastor and hospital chaplains - were able to visit and express their love and admiration for his life. His favorite classical music station was on constantly for his enjoyment.

Dad was moved to a regular hospital room on the evening of the 13th, which provided more space and freed a room in the PCU.  Family members were visiting at the time, so we all moved up one floor.  We greeted his new nurse, Heaven, and settled in. 

Eventually, I was alone for the night.  Heaven brought me a reclining chair for sleep, as well as a couple of light blankets.  I read a bit and drifted off about 10 pm.  I woke up at 11:20. Dad’s breathing seemed a little different.  This had been the main audible clue to his status. I’d been monitoring this closely for days; it had been very steady.  Maybe it was a little more erratic, maybe faster?  I got up and stood to the left of his bed.  Yes, he seemed to be breathing more arrhythmically.  Likewise, his limbs seemed a little colder, but his pulse was  strong, and he still had good color.  But I felt it was time to watch.  So, I talked randomly, reminding him where he was, what was going on, that we loved him, that I loved him and that we’d all be fine, just to give him comfort.  Classical music continued to play.  At around 12:30 am, his breathing slowed.  He then swallowed maybe two dozen times; the first time I’d seen him do this.  As I watched, his breathing shallowed and stopped.  I watched his pulse, it continued, then faded to stillness.  I didn’t fully trust my tired blurry eyes, so I kept watch – was there still subtle movement?  Maybe not.  As I stood there, his skin got pale and lemony, and the prominent blue vein on his head drained. 

At around 12:50, I said my farewells and called the nurses.  They could not find vital signs, and the overnight hospitalist called the time of death at 1:15 am.  A dear friend called me from California and just sat with me for about an hour.  I stayed with Dad – except for the washing of his body – until he was moved to the first post-life destination, at around 4 am. 

 

III. Hydromorphine

Tuesday morning, February 11th.  The medical team was impressed with Dad’s resilience. His day nurse had said, with a Caribbean lilt, “he still here!”. 

In the afternoon, a chaplain came by.  I assumed he was there for Dad’s comfort, but then he said, “I’m here for you”.  We spent the better part of an hour talking - Dad’s condition, my family, Dad’s life, my feelings about what might happen, and where that might leave me.  He seemed impressed with my level of clarity.  Towards the end of our time, Dad had a spasm or seizure, where his whole body jerked erratically for a couple of minutes.  The care team came to calm him, but it was over before they could implement a response.  There was no obvious trigger for this; it was both fascinating and horrible to witness.

In the evening, I talked to a friend who is a gerontologist and had been of great comfort and sound advice.  I wanted to understand what else I could do for Dad.  This was challenging since he was unresponsive.  Was he suffering?  Was he there at all?  The responsibility was mine.

I barely slept on Tuesday night.  I composed a long eulogy in my mind. Dad had lived a long, varied and rich life.  Assembling this and reflecting on his experiences, I was moved at its completeness.  He’d made clear he was happy with how he had lived and was prepared for the next. 

What kept me awake was: could or should I aid his transition?  I was revolted by any intention of this being for my convenience, minimizing my suffering at seeing him in this condition, getting it done.  I ruminated.  Eventually the word “mercy” surfaced and resonated – that deep gong like intuitive knowing of rightness.  This was about compassion; what was the best act I could take for the man who loved and raised me, and whom I’d grown close to as an adult.  A small comfort I could offer.

In the morning, I told Dad my choice.  This was hard and tearful; I didn’t know what would happen with a more proactive approach.  When his hospitalist and palliative care doctor came by on rounds, I told them my decision.  They seemed relieved and ordered a hydromorphine drip.  This being an opiate, it took some time to arrange.  When the IV arrived, it had to be secured in a lock box.  All the time, Dad lay there.  The drip was set at a slow rate to provide comfort, but not to cause his respiration to stop.  This seemed right.

There was no distinct change in his state before he passed.  I must trust that compassion was achieved.

 

IV. The Travel Gene

After Dad’s celebration of life in April, a good friend and I drove back to California with an SUV of furniture and keepsakes.  I-80 – Maryland, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, California.  We made interesting stops along the way: tall grass prairie, geology museums, fossil digs.  The was only the latest of many dozens of Long Drives that I’ve been on - multi-day, thousands of mile,.  Well over 100 if I include geology field work.

I’ve realized that The Long Drive is a Hassler trait, a direct inheritance from Dad.  He would have learned to drive soon after World War II.  Having a license led to him a summer job - helping a family friend drive to Albuquerque.  This was well before the interstate highway system was built; he likely drove on a large portion of Route 66.  He rode trains back to Pennsylvania. 

I have a photograph album of Dad’s time in the Air Force in the early 1950s.  Tech school in Colorado led to excursions in Rockies – Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs, Royal Gorge, and Denver. Aviation cadet training in Houston meant the “Texas Bayous”, Corpus Christi and the barrier beaches.  While stationed at Kirkland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, he and his airmen buddies went to Gallup (Native American events) hiking in the Manzano and Jemez Mountains, and Grand Canyon.  He was also based on Eniwetok Atoll in the Marshall Islands at the time of the Ivy Mike hydrogen bomb test.

These experiences set a pattern.  My family travelled during all of our time together.  We made frequent family visits to Pennsylvania, Texas, and Oregon.  We had summer vacations – North Carolina, Florida, Texas, and the West Coast.  After I left home, my parents toured in retirement, around North America with my mother’s high school class, to California to see me, and to Mexico for my mother’s roots.

Dad and I had many trips of our own.  This started when I worked for the National Park Service at Grand Canyon National Park in 1980.  I was stationed at Phantom Ranch; the ranger station and tourist facility at the Colorado River.  Dad came to visit me.  Besides hanging out at Phantom, we took a road trip to Canyonlands and Arches National Parks in Utah.  This was the first of many expeditions.  The Grand Canyon featured in at least eight of these; we must have hiked over 190 miles together on backcountry trails and rafted about 100 miles of the Colorado River. 

Our final Long Drive ended with his passing.  This was the decade-long trip together – just the two of us.  Dad progressively became more himself – artistic, social, spiritual, and content during his last decade.  We became friends beyond father and son.  He came to increasingly rely on me for advice and support. I am sure this is a common pattern, but this was our unique version.  We came to a place of genuine love.  The journey ended well.

Eulogy for Dad

Here We Are

I want to give you my impression of my father’s life.  As I wrote this, I found myself organizing my thoughts the way I’d write a scientific talk:

·      give the conclusion
·      give the evidence and interpretations,
·      give the conclusion again.

So bear with me, here goes. 

I am who I am because of my father.  He raised me.  He supported me.  And in the last phase of his life, we became true friends.  He loved me, I loved him.

I want to talk briefly about the events, phases, and meaning of Dad’s life.  I promise not to go on too long.

Events

My father lived from 1929 to 2025.  Think for a minute about some of the events he experienced:

·      Great Depression + New Deal
·      World War II + start of the Cold War
·      Rise of the American military/industrial/academic complex
·      The age of American’s abundance and wealth
·      End of European colonialism, more or less
·      Korean War and the threat of nuclear weapons
·      Civi Rights Movement + Vietnam War
·      Reaganomics + AIDS Epidemic
·      Neoliberalism and the rise of late-stage capitalism
·      The Internet and personal computing
·      Gulf Wars I and II
·      COVID + Black Lives Matter
·      Whatever the hell the present moment is

Wow, That’s a lot for one life.  In some ways, maybe he moved on just in time. 

So those are some events – there are many more…

Phases 

When I was with Dad at Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical Center, I could not sleep at all one night.  In all honesty, I was trying to decide whether to increase his level of palliative care - morphine.   A choice about compassion and mercy.  Well, my struggle with this isn’t the point.  I mention it because I thought about my father and his life.  It seemed to break out into six parts.  Later, when we were cleaning out his apartment, I found a talk he’d given about his life when he was in his 70s. At that point he identified the exact same first four phases that I’d articulated. 

Thanks for that Dad. 

So, six phases.  These would be:

Phase I: Childhood – Young Adulthood in Grove City PA – public school, Grove City College, and summer vacations at the Chautauqua Institute – music and arts.  Fascination with flight.

• Phase 2: Leaving Home – serving in the USAF in NM, NV and Pacific, and early work in higher education in TX

Phase 3: Marriage and Fatherhood – Dad met my mother Martha in Lubbock Texas, and they were married in 1958.  By the time my sister and I were around, we’d settled in Bethesda, outside Washington DC, where Dad had a long career in the Department of Education.

Phase 4: Retirement – Dad and Mom stayed in Bethesda after he retired in 1982. He began a long series of activities.  He was:

1)     a docent at the National Air and Space Museum and the National Postal Museum;

2)     a volunteer staff aide at the National Archives;

3)     a supernumerary in 20 productions at the Washington Opera;

4)     a volunteer at thirteen National Folklife Festivals. 

5)     a serious cyclist – 7 charity rides, over 4k total miles per year

We were all surprised by his activity level – he was suddenly much happier and clearly enjoying life.  We all thought, where did this person come from?

Phase 5: Caregiving – My nephew Nigel – Dad’s grandson, was born in 1993 and my niece Elsie – his granddaughter, in 1996.  While Dad continued his activities, he and my mother also helped care for their grandchildren.  This was a rich addition to their life.  This led to their move to Harford County, and eventually to Avondell.

My mother’s health began to fail early in the 21^st century, and my sister received a cancer diagnosis in 2003.  Dad added caring for both of them, in addition to the grandkids - both in terms of time and resources.  Eventually, my niece and nephew grew up.  My sister died.  My mother died.  This led to the final phase of Dad’s life.

Phase 6: Avondell – if you live at here, you know what I’m talking about. Dad was very active here:

1)     the Avondell Choir;

2)     directing the Avondell Players;

3)     painting and art class;

4)     Wii Bowling;

5)     volunteer work on the Veterans and Holiday Fund committees;

6)     serving as Resident Ambassador for prospective residents;

7)     volunteering at the Cancer Center at Upper Chesapeake Medical Center;

8)     regularly watching the Metropolitan Opera, or the Orioles, or British TV dramas while making latch hook rugs, and

9)     cycling, swimming, all the activities offered by Avondell.

 He also became remarkably social.  I thought to myself, who is this person?  Was this inside him all this time?

So that’s six – Childhood, Leaving Home, Marriage/Fatherhood, Retirement, Caregiving, and Avondell.

Meaning

OK, that’s all the evidence – what does this mean?

Really, you all can decide for yourselves – you all knew him in different ways than I did.  I’m not coping out; I’ve got four lessons:

1)     First, and least profound, for god’s sake be organized for the sake of your heirs.

2)     Positivity – he had a phrase “things always work out” which drove me crazy at times as it seemed too pollyannish.  But I realized this wasn’t a passive statement – it was the ability to take actions, but then accept and detach from outcomes.  I need to remember this one. 

3)     Stay active – mentally, physically, and spiritually.   CoK thing

4)     Always keep becoming - I hope you can see how Dad changed and adapted in each phase of his life – his actions, his values, and his beliefs.  He never stopped growing.  I firmly believe he was the truest to himself at the time he passed.

So let me end how I started.

I am who I am because of my father.  He raised me.  He supported me.  And in the last phase of his life, we became true friends.  He loved me, I loved him.

Thank you.

 

A Gibb River Video!

Paul attached a GoPro to the roof of the truck, thus documenting the whole Gibb River drive in time lapse photography.  This is the result.  The last couple minutes are post trip, but include such wildlife as kangaroos, echidnas, and Australian children.

Sabbatical XVIII - Enough Already - Geology Digression, Final Travels, How I Wrote This, Was It Good?

Geology Digression (skippable) - I’ve been asked about this numerous times; last week’s earthquake swarm in the Ridgecrest area of SoCal was dramatic, but not particularly surprising in its geography. 

The San Andreas Fault system defines the boundary between the North American Plate and the Pacific Plate.  The Pacific Plate is moving northwest relative to North America, but they are jammed together, and the intermittent jerky motions as they slide past each other are what we experience as earthquakes.  Anyway, depending on the interpretation, on 75%-90% of the relative plate motion occurs along the SAF.  The rest takes place along the Eastern California Shear Zone, basically an oblong blob running from west of Death Valley NNW up the east side of the Sierra Nevada (through the Owens Valley), dying out (at present) at about the latitude of Reno.  

Why?  If you look at the map below, the SAF is the thick orange line (the red lines are other major faults).  Notice that it bends north of LA: this is not a happy plate boundary.  What’s probably happening (and has happened in the past, several times) is that the boundary is gradually jumping inboard to east of the Sierra Nevada.  So in five million years or whatever LA won’t be off San Francisco: most of the motion will be further east.  Maybe.  Check back with me then.

The tight cluster of balloons on this map shows all the seismicity associated with the Ridgecrest event as of Sunday.  They occurred on several of the major lateral faults that transfer motion from the SAF to the ECSZ.

Bottom line: if you live in the Bay Area, worry about this instead. 

And find where you live on these maps.  And get ready.

Yes, this the level of information I used to torture my UCB students.

Thursday July 27 – Thursday July 4 – A pause in Walnut Creek.  I arrived the previous evening after a long night flight, only to have it be night again.  I tend to have really bad jet lag after long eastward flights, and this return was not anomalous.  So during this travel parenthesis, I:

• Unpack, do laundry, wear different clothes.
• Hire a plumber to replace my leaking hot water heater. 
• Trim the pomegranate tree, and do enough other yard work to make my house looked lived in.
• Sleep when I can, within reason, drifting when possible towards Pacific Time.
• Yoga.  Taiji.  Meditate.  Gym.
• Write.  Triage DSLR photography.
• Catch up with friends and family.
• Five books, three movies, four whole issues of The New Yorker
• Go walkabout or runabout, often before dawn.
• Run a 4^th of July 5k race, and do my first sub-eight minute mile since knee issues:

 

Friday July 5 – Button up the house, and off again, to OAK this time.  A delay, almost expected for an end of day Southwest flight during the summer weather season.  My app says that my flight to Portland is this 737’s eighth segment of the day.

So, I do my usual several laps of the terminals; about a quarter mile:

Warmed up, I watch the tide rise:

Observing and trying not to judge how different this domestic traveler crowd is from what I saw in Sydney, Auckland, Brisbane, Perth, Singapore, Seoul, and SFO.  More people dressed in fashion-inspired clothes that don’t fit well.  Or in pajamas.  I want to say there are lots more high-BMI Americans waddling around, but I don’t trust my biases or travel impatience.  It could just be my ongoing perceptual adjustment; I unconsciously expect to be around a lot of Koreans rather than the broader spectrum of Americans.  I will not miss dreaming in Korean, i.e., people saying things I can’t understand.

A plane, the usual super-efficient Southwest transition (allowing for pre-boarding of seven wheelchairs and three “companion” animals):

North, late afternoon over the Coast Ranges and Central Valley.  Hazy, but not much fire smoke.  Yet.  Eventually over the Cascade volcanoes.  A nice well-behaved chain at a convergent plate boundary, compared to the complexity of the Taupo Volcanic Zone.  Crater Lake from 32k feet:

PDX.  Portland seems minuscule after Seoul and Singapore.  Budget gives me a Nissan compact, which while brand new, seems to have had its engine transplanted from dear MG back in Auckland.  I fear accelerating, as I head southwards on I-5.

First destination is Salem, and an overnight visit with my friends Daisy and Bruce.  We catch up some before jetlag flatlines.  I taste a chocolate peppermint stout.  It is not awful.

Saturday July 6  - A morning walk with Daisy, Bruce, and Ollie, their Jack Russell terrier:

Not posed, thanks to Daisy for the picture.  

No dust, no flies.  There are flowers:

Away, further south on Eugene.  I’m impressed all over again at how wide the Willamette Valley gets.  This compressional plate boundary, defined by the Cascadia Fault Zone off the coast (as due as the San Andreas for a major event), is mashed up the edge of the continent, forming the high terrain all the way from the CA/OR coastal ranges to the Olympics; the Willamette Valley and the trough up through Puget Sound are an area of downwarping behind this.  The Willamette was further carved by the numerous Pleistocene glacial floods.  The Valley narrows as I go south; more faulted blocks of volcanic rock poking up through the alluvium.

I guess I haven’t explained this segment of my trip.  I am going to the “Even Decade Party”, a reunion of the West Coast part of my family:

Seven birthdays with ages ending in zero, ranging from my father at 90 to cousins at 10.  Clever.  I didn’t think of it.  Anyway, spending time with family – arguably the wing I see the most and am closest too – seemed the right way to conclude the sabbatical travel phase. 

So up the McKenzie River drainage, Springfield, Walterville, and to Leaburg.  My cousin Charis rented a house, which I will share with her, her boys, and boyfriend.  I am happy to sleep on the deck, with a view of the Goodpasture Covered Bridge (one lane, wooden):

I am not sure where the pasture is, presumably further up into the national forest. 

It’s sort of a weird house, in terms of layout.  It’s three stories but narrow, built into the cut bank of the river to maximize the views:

Lots of stairs.  Lots of decks.  It functions well for family gatherings.

We’re on a narrow reservoir behind a small hydroelectric dam in Leaburg.  The water is cold, and full of anglers:

I enjoy the view and the forest before the remainder of the immediate family arrives:

We have a barbecue and reacquaint:

I subject interested parties to descriptions of my trip, with maps.  They don’t hate me. 

Sleep, eventually.  Today would have been my sister’s 56^th birthday; being with family is a good way to remember her, although she is always with me.

Sunday July 7 - Morning runabout, eight miles on the Leaburg canal:

This prepares me for the main event:

I've been hanging out with this part of my family for four decades.  There is now a whole generation younger than me. 

I estimate 36 immediate family members attend, and another 25-30 friends.  I talk to almost everyone.  Sore from my run, I still can’t resist playing frisbee for an hour plus.  Too much cake, pie, cake, and blueberries:

It is not too hot.  There was a fly.  There is some dust, but it smells of conifers and volcanoes.

I am tired.  Sleep.

Monday July 8 – Good bye to family, good bye to river house.  Before I even leave in the morning, Southwest lets me know my flight is behind schedule.  Same parameters as before.  I must have picked evening flights for some reason, I forget what it was.  No matter, more time to wander north.

Route 126.  This one minor two lane road in Oregon is in much better conditioned and better constructed than most of the roads I drove on in New Zealand.  I tire of I-5 quickly, so abandon it at Corvallis, which I’ve not visited since the 1980s.  I can’t find a coffee shop, so I continue north through Monmouth, Rickreall and Amity. 

Rural Oregon.  Working lands, a true jumble of vineyards, orchards, horse farms, tree nurseries, and other agriculture.  Sort of like North Island, only less organized in its diversity.  There are also many more pockets of wild flora, another jumble of native and non-native species at a variety of levels of maturity.  It’s kind of ugly.  I know there is plenty of rain and the soils are great, but I don’t like looking at it.  Not the narrow band of variety in the Kimberley or in Queensland, where I could make sense of the transitions. 

McMinnville.  Quaint, definitely in wine tourist country.  I eat at a diner where the server calls me “hon”.  I came here to visit the Evergreen Aviation and Space Museum.  You know by now I can’t resist a good museum; this was more on the way the than Portland Gallery of Art.

I explore two large spaces full of lovingly restored machines, ranging from a Wright Flyer to a 21^st century Air Force drone.  The main attraction however is the Spruce Goose, the giant flying boat built by Howard Hughes in the 1940s.  It is too big to photograph in toto, but I try:

The interpretation is good.  Each aircraft has a general history, and then a specific provenance description for that particular flying machine.  The space exhibits gives a good overview of machines and people off the planet; it’s even-handed and not focused on American exploits.  I get a tad artsy:

Evergreen is an interesting contrast to all the art and history I saw overseas.  Most of the other visitors are guys (largely older) who clearly love planes, and their patient families.  

My admission included an IMAX film, a National Geographic production called “Living in the Age of Flight”.  I thought this would be corny and lightweight, but it is quite impactful.  Seeing how flight and air travel have changed the world and our perspectives on it, as well as many familiar things – the show is partially filmed at SFO and on a Qantas 747, and goes to many places I’ve been – times my time over the past couple months together.

A final museum done, I head to PDX.  Portland rush hour: it takes me 94 minutes to go 23 miles.  No rush, my end of the day Southwest flight is delayed.  Plenty of time to hand off the Son of MG to Budget, walk a couple miles in the airport and eat at my favorite airport restaurant .

A final plane.  A final airport.  My car, not a bus, train, shuttle, or Uber.  My house, finally, and I’m really done.

How I wrote this blog - for the curious

It was fun.  I liked the creativity.  I didn’t know in advance how much I’d write, but I got into it.  The positive feedback helped.  Thanks for that.

My main steps: 

• I wrote observations, thoughts, and ideas down as possible during the day, i.e., not much on the Gibb or in Korea.  Ink memory is good, particularly when there are lots of new experiences.  I consciously avoided being guided by the motivation of “oh, this would be good blog material”.  
• I wrote a draft, pretty much chronologically but digressing as observations and interpretations gestalted.  Usually this was pretty close to final; I mentally organize pretty well in advance. 
• I gave the draft one good edit. 
• Uploading and inserting pictures:  I mostly used pictures from my phone: while the CCD is at least an order of magnitude smaller than my DSLR, it was much more convenient due to Google Photos.  Some photo editing as needed.  Picture insertion was often the most annoying phase; getting the formatting to play nice over a wonky internet connection made me want to bite people. 

I tried to simply describe my experiences, thoughts/interpretations, and feelings.  I rigorously avoided adding other information, other than looking up the occasional place name.  I was not interested in telling necessarily coherent stories.  Perhaps the material organized itself that way, given this was kind of a daily log and the proclivities of the human frontal cortex.

I discovered that when I wrote, or organized my observations and thoughts to be written, it helped me comprehend my experience better.  Maybe stay fresher for what was next; there was always a next.  I suppose this should be no surprise, I’ve kept a journal for almost four decades; this was it for the duration of my trip. 

Was It a Good Trip?

Friends have asked me this question.  I of course think about this but am confounded.  A lot of stuff happened.  I went unknown places, saw new things, new rocks, met people.  I was away, out of routine and comfort zone.  The trip was so diverse, and no particular goal, like all my past research trips.  So I have three answers.  First, these experiences that sift to the top of my mind:

New Zealand: running on the beach at Paekakariki, hiking at Tongariro, White Island

Australia: Charnley River Station, driving on unsealed roads

Singapore: the bachata 

South Korea: the art museums, led by the Samsung

Maybe this is an answer.

Second, I’ll invert a quote from Marvin the Paranoid Android (Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe):

“The first day was the best.  The second day was the best too.  After that, things went into a bit of an improvement”. 

Finally, a more personal answer.  As alluded in Blog I, chunks of my reality got blown away due to family losses in winter 2012-13.  Grief and loss are part of life, but they suck.  Since then, I have felt like I’ve been inhabiting my life rather than living it.  Early in this trip this shifted, I think on the drive from Hastings to Ashhurst in NZ.  The loss remains, but having travelled, written way more than expected and taken a lot of pictures, I know I’m alive again.