So, it turns out that driving on the left is not that hard, at least on an island without a ton of traffic (the narrow roads are a challenge).

Hiking up and down ravines for several hours to get to a waterfall–then hiking back trying to beat sunset in order not to kill oneself (on a trip the guide let slip that he’s never come back from without an injury–nice of you to tell us halfway through, guy)–is hard. It left me dead and a little cranky that the guide hadn’t let on how strenuous this was before (he had my parents, one of whom is in his eventies, trying it).

I made it, though, and took a bracing swim in the pool beneath the falls. I heard and saw shapes fluttering of what were later identified as Jako parrots, which are rare–maybe 2000 left on the island, and that’s the only place they exist in the world.

I swore that tomorrow I was going to let the guy show off his plant knowledge without my driving help tomorrow, but dammit if the guy didn’t find the magic words to get me out of bed at 4:30 AM. Sisserou. The other, even rarer parrot and national bird of Dominica.

Curse you, nature guy!

Interesting note–the most complicated driving I’d done was through a crime scene in the otherwise bucolic town of Canefield. There were police with cameras recording the scene and a funeral home pickup truck. No idea what the problem was, but it’s tarnished my image of Dominica as a peacable kingdom.

Yesterday saw the younger crowd of us experiment with left-hand driving and visit the capital of Dominica, Rouseau. I got a taste for Sorrell juice, a hybiscus-like flower that produces a red drink (and, later, a less successful rum punch). I’m not a huge cooked-fish eater, but I’ve had it almost every meal so far and have been quite happy. We poked around the botanical garden, though it didn’t have labeled versions of native plants but exotics from distant lands. Nonetheless, I got some good pictures of some tiny lizards (anoles, mostly).

We then drove up to the Fresh Water Lake (yep, that’s the official name), high up in the mountains. The thing is probably 100 feet across at its widest point, but 75 feet deep. It had been in the mid-eighties in Rouseau with quite a lot of sun, but up there it was in the upper sixties with mist, and, eventualy, a pretty good wind-driven downpour–heralded by a wall of mist coming at us at 20 miles per hour.

Today I’ll probably get my first taste behind the wheel. Think left-handed thoughts at me.

I’m in Dominica, one of the more unspoiled islands in the Caribbean. It’s less white sandy beaches and more mountainous volcanic rainforest. I’ve already seen several birds I’ve never seen before, like the Bananaquit, the Gray Tremblor, the Antillean Crested Hummingbird, and the Lesser Antillean Bullfinch. It’s pretty amazing, and once I get back, I’ll probably have some pictures. If I have time, I’ll blog some more, as I just found out there’s wireless access here and a laptop we can use.

So DC got its first real snow of the year last night, and walking home I snapped this nice little scene:

Click to view a bigger pic

Let that be a lesson to you. Always steady your camera when you suppress the flash in low light.

In other words, my friend Todd has immortalized me after a fashion. [Click on the picture for a bigger version.]

Wherein I unsuccessfully attempt to turn Wyatt to the dark side. Also, my icon was based on the image to the right.

Wyatt Ammon: what’s up with the hat man icon?
Wyatt Ammon: it kind of creeps me out
Wyatt Ammon: is it a hat?
Wyatt Ammon: it looks like it has four little legs…
Wyatt Ammon: or two? is it wearing pants?
Sandy Smith: it’s “eh, steve!”
Wyatt Ammon: oh, of course!
Sandy Smith: http://www.homestarrunner.com/dween_cakes.html
Wyatt Ammon: WOW.
Wyatt Ammon: what’s not to understand?
Wyatt Ammon: from now on when I refill my drink I’m going to say, “I’m going to re-nog.”
Wyatt Ammon: and not care that nobody gets it.
Sandy Smith: ah, and thus it begins–you see something so cool that you must reference it, and ten years later, you’re me
Wyatt Ammon: LOL LOL LOL
Wyatt Ammon: oh please God! NOOOOO
Wyatt Ammon: thankfully I have no memory.

I learned late last night that my friend Ginger‘s brother Wyatt, who used to work and hang out with me before he decided to go into the Peace Corps, died after an accident in Zambia. It was relatively innocent, just horsing around in a hotel when he slipped and fell out a window.

I’ve been having to tell everyone I know who used to work with him. We’ll probably do a memorial site and hold some type of gathering for his friends here in DC. I had to do this two and a half years ago with a coworker I didn’t even know as well as Wyatt, and I’m getting really tired of having to do these things–could everybody just stop dying for a bit?

Thanks.

Update 11-19-05: Here’s the official Peace Corps press release on Wyatt’s death. And later today our memorial site will go up, thanks to the efforts of Nyk and Jo.

1. Talking about what it’s like to argue a case in front of the Supreme Court with a guy who has done it (and lost, and in so doing, created a backlash)
2. Being able to chat with him and a cute young lass you’ve already met about neurology versus psychiatry, as well as wonder at how people can relentlessly defend Bush.
3. Chatting with several people you have read articles from for years.
4. Shall we say, conversing with the editor of your favorite magazine about what about women you each find attractive. We will leave it at that.
5. Finding that the hottie writer for said magazine really is that hot and being able to chat with her before the night’s over. About bird flu. And how we’re all gonna die.
6. Getting a couple of unexpected business leads because apparently people really are interested in what I do, not just the fact I’m there as a reader.
7. Having the guy who set up one of your favorite blogs buy you a beer (I owe him one, or at least a couple of emails’ worth of free consulting).
8. Enjoying Boddington’s with zero guilt: priceless.

Another Sunday, another mountain…er, the same mountain as described in Ginger’s post, actually. But it’s a nice trail to see the change of seasons. This season is deer mating season, and I saw a doe running up the mountain with a buck hot on her tail (quite literally). Then I saw them go the other way, and I just imagined a slo-mo picture of it with “I’m in the Mood for Love” in the background, possibly the Alfalfa version.

Other than the weather being very nice and the valley below at peak or near-peak leaves, the only other notable thing was meeting my friend Missy’s new mare prior to the hike. Unfortunately, Gertie was just coming off a bout of some disease related to Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, and wasn’t in her best mood–plus she was annoyed that Sam, the pony, was hogging all the attention. I gained instant backwoods cred, though, as said pony was nudging me for more petting and had quite a bit of mud on him. So I didn’t start up the mountain as a fresh-faced city boy. He and the other horse, Jack, were quite fascinated by some smell my shoes had. It had been a while since the shoes had met with doggie doo on the sidewalk, so I’m not sure what was so fascinating about them that wouldn’t be true of any other piece of clothing I have (Squeak’s down adds a bit to my dust load in the apartment).

So I have shoes that smell great to horses and saw a ruttin’ deer. Bet you feel enriched knowing that.

So I carried through on my manly penance for my geeky shame by hiking up to Mary’s Rock. Right off the bat, I saw some sort of tortoiseshell or question mark butterfly (none of the pictures I have match the iridescent blue trailing edge of the wing, but that was the general shape if you’re inclined to look them up). Then perhaps fifty yards further on was a garter snake who was not eager to leave the nice warm trail. Seeing as there were people coming down the trail, I shooed him off as my good deed for the day. Since lots of people get weird about snakes, even harmless tiny ones like the garter, I decided not to point him out. I actually had to poke him to get him to move–he was a little chilly.

This being the best weather in some time, I was surprised just how chilly it was on the shady side of the mountain. I had a late start, but I think the main cause was the still-melting snow(!). A combination of that and my general lack of being sufficiently in shape made it a harder trip than usual. The leaves, sadly, were past peak (knew I should have gone last Sunday).

Right before I got to the summit, I passed three people coming down. Some sort of south Asian-descended girl said, “Tell us the story of Morgana.”

“Ah,” said a pinched-looking white female, “Morgane Le Fay. Well…” and at this point, I got far enough past that I couldn’t hear the rest of the tale clearly. I was just being boggled that my manly penance for geekery was being subverted by some SCA types (though they were the scrawny vegetarian SCA types, not the turkey-leg-inhaling, basement-dwelling SCA types).

Still, I happened to the top just during a break in people, and for the first time in years had it to myself. Just as I decided to come down, other people came up. Apart from a junko and the usual ravens, I didn’t see much else animal life (not counting the requisite deer waiting to commit suicide by the side of US 17).

Sunsets in the mountains are much more vivid than elsewhere, and I got treated to the sight of colored light hitting what fall leaves remained as I made my way back to the car.

All in all, I feel restored and able to take on some more science fiction without fear of ever knowing the touch of a woman again. At least not if I go to the UK, where female science fiction viewers now outnumber males (though as science fiction fans, they should have born in mind that the difference falls well within the error bars).