Tales from UT-OH: Raging Rivers, Kamikaze Mosquitoes and Marriage on a Mountain… How Bone Was Found: Part 3

May 27, 2026May 27, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 6 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. Initially, I decided to put the blog on hold, but I’ve decided to republish some of my favorite posts that may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

In today’s post our group of five splits up and Lynn and April hike out to South Lake Tahoe to care for April’s sprained ankle while Tom, Terry and I backpack on to Lake Aloha through the Desolation Wilderness.

Tree blazes were an important way to mark trails through wilderness areas in the past, and still can prove useful today. This is an old tree blaze in the Desolation Wilderness.

I watched regrettably as April and Lynn headed out. I would miss the inspiration. Soon, however, my mind was more than occupied with route finding. The trail had disappeared under the snow.

Tom pulled out his map and compass to establish our general direction. We searched for ancient tree blazes cut out by axes and left behind by early foresters, cattlemen and sheepherders.

We also watched for ducks where the snow had melted. I’m not talking about fowl that quack and taste good in orange sauce. Ducks, in backpacking terminology, are piles of stone set up to show the way. With a little imagination, they can look like their namesake. Caution is advisable. The people creating the ducks may have had a different destination in mind, or perhaps they were lost.

This is what a duck looks like. I used this form extensively on Sierra Treks. I had my rear guard kick them over to avoid confusing other hikers.

An hour later we found ourselves more or less where we supposed to be, on the edge of the Rubicon River. A student of ancient Roman History undoubtedly named the stream. Like Julius Caesar, we were faced with crossing it. In a month or so it would be a tame creek inviting a refreshing dip but now it was a roaring river filled with icy water from quickly melting snow fields.

Rapid mountain river flowing through rocky forest valley under cloudy sky — Not carrying a camera with me in those years, I asked AI to generate a photo of what a stream filled with raging snow-melt looks like. It did a good job! While our crossing was on a flatter portion of the Rubicon, the river was still daunting.

I entered with trepidation and was almost washed off my feet. Facing up-stream, I used a walking stick to give myself a third leg. Water crept up to my knees and beyond. I have short legs. The force was incredible. I set each foot carefully and moved crab-like, searching for solid ground between slippery rocks.

I’d undone my pack belt so I could shuck the pack if I was knocked over. Swimming in freezing water with 50 pounds on your back is hazardous to your health. In a few minutes, that stretched out forever, I was across. Tom and Terry also made it without incident.

We plopped down on a convenient log to catch our breath and munch down on GORP (good old raisins and peanuts). It was a quick meal. A thick swarm of mosquitoes dive-bombed us with kamikaze abandon. Slap one and five more landed, gleefully licking off our bug repellent before plunging in their beaks. Snow melt time is primetime for mosquitoes!

We were driven to put on our packs and scurry up the trail. Fortunately, Rockbound Valley is relatively flat and we were able to escape. Stopping was not an option as we hoofed it for the next four miles, crossing the Rubicon two more times before we begin our labored ascent up aptly named Mosquito Pass.

Life slowed down immediately as we began climbing. The blood sucking hoards caught up. Near the top, we were confronted with a different challenge, more snow. Eight hours of hot sun had turned it to mush. We spent as much time sliding as we did climbing. It was slow, hard, slogging work. And it was dangerous. Running water, partially exposed boulders and tree trunks melt snow from the ground up and create hidden cavities. More than once we plunged through up to our knees.

Ignoring the danger, Tom and I laughed our way down the other side, skiing in our boots (glissading). Control was minimal. Camp was in sight. Terri came along at a much more sedate and careful pace.

There was nothing about Lake Aloha that made me think Hawaii. It was a strange Dali-like creation with a convoluted shoreline and innumerable Rorschach type islands. What’s more, mini-icebergs decorated its surface. Bright white on top, they turned an icy blue under the water. All I could think was cold. Plowing through snow on our way around the lake to camp added freezing to my thoughts.

That night, we built a small campfire to fight off the chill. Terry wandered off to bed. Tom was slightly melancholy. He looked off into the distance over my shoulder.

“I was married on that peak,” he announced to the night. I turned around and stared across Lake Aloha at the towering Pyramid Peak, the centerpiece of the Crystal Range. It was bathed in moonlight.

Several years earlier, Tom had met and fallen in love with Hilde, a slight, attractive blonde who shared his love of the wilderness. They decided to get married on the mountain. Mom, wedding party and friends were invited to share their 9983 feet “I do” in the Desolation Wilderness.

A photo of Lake Aloha on my 750 mile trek on the PCT. It was in August: No snow, no icebergs. (Grin) Tom was married on the farthest peak.

The marriage didn’t last long and Tom was reluctant to talk about it. The fire burned down to glowing embers. We shared the silence in memory of lost love.

Next: Bone Is Found… but not before the naked ladies jump.

Peggy and I are now on the Greek Island of Tinos. This is a sunset view from our VRBO.

UT-OH Tales: Tom Flunks Map Reading 101… How Bone was Found: Part 2

May 25, 2026May 24, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 3 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. I’ve decided to republish some of my favorite posts from the past 15 years that may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

Today’s post is a continuation of my tale about how Bone was found south of Lake Tahoe along the Tahoe-Yosemite/Pacific Coast Trail.

Tom had a little more hair when we were backpacking together in the 70s.

I awoke with a Mountain Jay screeching at me from the safety of its perch in a Lodgepole Pine. A faint light announced the morning, but the sun still hid behind the mountains on the east side of Lake Tahoe. It was frosty cold and I burrowed into my bag, pretending for a few more moments that I didn’t have to get up. Nature drove me out.

I could ignore the faint light, I could ignore the Jay, and I could even ignore the stirrings of my companions, but I couldn’t ignore my insistent bladder. Among muttered good mornings, I wandered off into the woods and peed on a willow near where I had seen a coyote the evening before. I was marking my territory.

Back in camp Tom had his stove going. Lynn smiled at me. She, too, was a tall, good-looking woman. Terry had yet to emerge from her cocoon and April had replaced me out in the woods.

I heard a kersplash in Stony Ridge Lake and turned to watch as ripples spread out and announce that a trout had snatched its buggy breakfast. Briefly I regretted that I had left my fishing pole at home. The sun was now bathing the peaks above us in gentle light; ever so slowly it worked its way down the mountain.

Instant coffee, instant oatmeal and a handful of dried fruit made up breakfast. All too soon it was time to pack my gear and urge my still stiff muscles up the trail.

The troops were in high spirits. The sheer beauty of Desolation Wilderness demanded it. Our backpacking day would take us up to Phipps Pass, down in to the Velma Lakes, across to the Rubicon River, up Rockbound Valley, over Mosquito Pass and end at Lake Aloha, some 13 miles from Stony Ridge Lake. We took a few minutes to make sure our camp was clean.

Almost immediately we began to climb. Flashes of blue lupine, multi-colored columbine and cheerful monkey flowers eased our way along the switch-back trail. My pace of travel provided ample opportunity for appreciation. I caught a brief smell of mint at one point and wild onion at another.

We passed by two more small lakes and began our ascent of Phipps Pass. By this point I had moved in to granny gear and could hear my heart pounding in its cage, wanting to escape. Each step was a test of will. I kept moving. I had long since learned that the difficulty of starting outweighed the benefits of stopping. One step at a time I reached the top. A spectacular view rewarded my effort.

Peaks still buried under snow stretched off into the distance. The Sierra is a baby mountain range, the child of plate tectonics. Once, ancient seas covered the area. Volcanic activities left behind vast pools of subterranean granite. Crashing continental and oceanic plates lifted the granite into spectacular fault-block mountains, steep on the east and gentler on the west. The Ice Age brought glaciers that carved peaks, scooped out basins and left behind rocky moraines.

We stopped to catch our breath and enjoy the view. Soon we would begin our descent toward the Velma Lakes but first we worked our way around Phipps Peak. A series of lakes came into view. Tom and I immediately began to debate which was which.

A view of Middle Velma Lake early in the morning.

“And you expect us to depend on your trail finding skills?” Lynn asked. Tom whipped out his topographic map.

“See,” he said decidedly, allowing a note of triumph to enter his voice. While we were the best of friends, this didn’t eliminate an element of alpha male competition between us. He, after all, was the owner of an outdoor-wilderness store, and I, after all, was the leader of wilderness treks. I glanced at his map and an impish grin filled my face.

“Your map is upside down, Tom.” Oops.

We did agree to detour from the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail and go through Rockbound Valley. Heavy snow still covered the northern and eastern side of the mountains. It was unlikely to melt by the time of the Trek.

The trail we had planned to use followed the red PCT to Lake Aloha from the Velma Lakes. The route we chose instead followed the dotted lines. The Trekkers would have enough challenge backpacking 13 miles on their second day out. They didn’t need to slog through five miles of snow while muttering unprintable thoughts about me.

We started our descent into the Velmas carefully. It is hard not to think, “Oh boy, down hill!” after a hard climb. But going down is much tougher on your body than climbing. Stepping down is a form of free fall. Velocity and weight are focused on the joints of your legs and feet. Adding a 40-50 pound pack increases the problem.

It is easy to twist a knee or sprain an ankle, especially at the beginning of the season. And that was what happened. By the time we reached Middle Velma, April was limping.

“I stepped on a loose rock and slipped,” she explained in obvious pain.

While April soaked her foot in the cold lake water and broke out an Ace Bandage, Tom and I mulled over whether to go on or hike out. We arrived at a compromise. Lynn would hike out with April to Emerald Bay and the two of them would stay at a motel. They would rejoin Tom, Terry and me at Echo Lake some 18 miles down the trail.

Next: Raging rivers, kamikaze mosquitoes and a marriage on top of Pyramid Peak.

Peggy and I are now at the beginning of our month in Greece. We booked a VRBO at the Acropolis View Apartments for our first stop. They weren’t kidding. This is the view from our balcony.

UT-OH Tales… The Story of How Bone Was Found: Part 1

May 22, 2026May 22, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 6 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. I’ll be sharing some of my favorite posts from the past 16 years that may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

Today’s post will kick off the tale of how Bone was originally found in a mountain meadow 49 years ago south of Lake Tahoe when he was still just a bone. For those of you who have been following Wandering through Time and Place for a while, you’ll be familiar with the slightly whacky, opinionated Bone. If you aren’t, he’s weird but fun, an antidote for our present weird but not so fun world.

Here he is with some of his companions. They like to dress up. Bone is on the left riding on the back of his best bud, Eeyore, who once saved him from hanging in Tombstone, Arizona. Next to him is his wife, the lovely Bonetta. He found her in a Florida swamp. They were married at Burning Man. On the right is George the Bush Devil. He is featured on the front of my book about the Peace Corps, *The Bush Devil Ate Sam*. Bone borrowed the masks from Peggy. This assemblage looks like it is right out of a horror movie, or a voodoo ceremony. Bone loved it. (Not shown: Baby Bone.)

It was the summer of 1977 and my wife was divorcing me. Apparently I lacked in stability, or at least in the desire to pursue the Great American Dream. She was right of course. I had absolutely zero desire to live in a large house in the suburbs. None of this made the divorce easy. I had been prepared to spend my life as a happily married man. (As I am today! Thank you, Peggy.)

To keep my mind occupied, I was working on the route for the Fourth Annual Sierra Trek, a challenging, nine-day 100-mile backpack trip in the Sierra Nevada Mountains that I had created as a pledge-based fund-raiser for the American Lung Association in Sacramento.

“So what’s your problem?” my friend Tom Lovering asked over a beer at the Fox and Goose Restaurant in Sacramento. He’d been-there-done-that with divorce and dated a number of women since. Tom owned Alpine West, an outdoor/wilderness store in Sacramento, and sponsored the Sierra Trek. His store was upstairs from the restaurant.

Tom, Bone and I are in front of the Fox and Goose at 10th and R Street in Sacramento in 2018, 41 years after Bone was found. Tom owned the Alpine West backpacking and wilderness specialty store at this location in 1977. Both the Goose and the Fox appear quite interested in Bone. It’s possible that the fox was thinking ‘food.’

I had persuaded Tom to go backpacking with me for six days to preview a section of the new route. Our plan was to start near Meeks Bay, Lake Tahoe and work our way southward 70 miles following the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail.

Tom had invited his girlfriend, Lynn, and Lynn was bringing along her friend Terry. Terry was nice, but not my type.

“I have a friend named April who wants to go backpacking,” Tom offered. “Why don’t I invite her to go as well? Maybe you two will hit it off.” The implication was it would help me get over the pending divorce.

A friend drove the five of us up to Meeks Bay. April was gorgeous and Tom was right. I followed her long legs and short shorts up the trail. My gloomy focus on the Soon-to-Be-Ex faded like a teenager’s blue jeans.

Hot feet and screaming fat cells were even more potent in forcing me to live, or at least suffer, in the moment. As usual, I’d done nothing to physically prepare for the first backpack trip of the season and I was paying the price.

We climbed a thousand feet and traveled six miles to reach our first night’s destination at Stony Ridge Lake. I crashed while Tom broke out some exotic concoction of potent alcohol made out of 190 proof ever-clear alcohol and Galliano Liqueur.

The Desolation Wilderness west of Lake Tahoe is filled with numerous small glacier-carved lakes and gorgeous granite peaks. This is Susie Lake.

After consuming enough of his ‘medicine’ to persuade my fat cells they had found Nirvana, I fired up my trusty Svea stove and started cooking our freeze-dried dinner. It wasn’t hard. Boil water, throw in noodles, add a packet of mystery ingredients, stir for ten minutes and pray that whatever you have created is edible. That night it didn’t matter.

Afterwards, we headed for our beds. The next day would be long. I slid into my down-filled mummy bag and looked up at what seemed like a million stars. There were no city lights or pollution to block my view and the moon had yet to appear.

I traced an imaginary line from the Big Dipper and found the North Star. It seemed far too faint for its illustrious history. A shooting star briefly captured my attention. Thoughts of divorce, short shorts, the next day’s route, a rock digging into my butt, and sore feet jostled around in my mind for attention.

Sleep finally crept into the bag and captured me.

Next Post: Tom flunks map reading 101.

Things that Go Bump In the Night… Backpacking with Socrates and Carlos Castaneda in the Sierra’s

May 20, 2026May 23, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 8 Comments

Today, I am going to relate a story about going backpacking in 1972 with my Basset Hound Socrates. I took along a book I was reading by Carlos Castañeda that I had picked up at a bookstore in the Bay Area. He incorporated three things that had caught my interest at the time (and continue to): Cross-cultural experience, meditation, and wandering in the woods.

Socrates was not actually built for backpacking but he loved it. His grand daddy, so his papers claimed, had been the American-Canadian grand champion for his class. Socrates had no such ambitions. His two passions in life were digging and Milk Bones, although there was some question whether he preferred hotdogs. Both disappeared down his gullet ‘faster than a speeding bullet.’

Carlos Castaneda’s first book was published by the University of California Press in 1968 and considered an academic work of anthropology. It immediately caught my attention. Later, when his books were considered New Age instead of Academic, I still found his writing and message interesting.

About the time Socrates came into my life, I took up backpacking. While I normally backpacked with friends, I also enjoyed going out on my own. Naturally I decided that Soc should go backpacking with me on these excursions– you know, a guy and his dog type thing. So off we went to my all-time favorite spot in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, a small lake basin that had been carved out by glaciers north of the I–80 Freeway half way between Sacramento and Reno.

I’d driven up to the take off point at Grouse Ridge, hoisted my pack, and started off down the trail with Soc more or less tagging along. Usually it was less. His bloodhound-like nose often led to detours. I never worried about it. He knew where dinner was— and the same nose that led to his adventures always found me.

Plus, at the time, I was on a mission, practicing a hiking meditation that fit into Castaneda’s recommendations for enlightenment. “No words” I told myself. It was my mantra for the day. It must of have worked. I had backpacked for an hour, colors had become intense, and my sight sharpened to the point where I was noticing many things I would normally miss. I was on a meditative high. It was then I heard the voice. It was very clear and demanding. And internal. “Speak to me dammit!” Apparently, the part of my mind that is constantly chatting with itself, did not like to be ignored.

Grouse Ridge: The start of many adventures for generations of people. Peggy took this photo of me in 2017 when I was off on another solo adventure, getting in shape for my 2018, 75th Birthday, 750 mile backpack Trek down the Pacific Coast Trail. BTW, the PCT crosses I-80 on the other side of the far peaks on the left.

My goal for the trip was this beautiful little lake that I have returned to numerous times over the years. I’ve rarely found it occupied.

Sharing the lake with Soc was close to being totally alone. His concept of a quality wilderness experience was disappearing into the woods and seeing how many holes he could dig. He never seemed to catch anything so I am not sure of his motivation. I’d get up in the morning and cover his handiwork. I almost felt like I needed to file an environmental impact report. Socrates would end up limping back to the car with sore feet.

In the Carlos Castaneda book I’d brought along, Don Juan takes Carlos out into the middle of the Sonoran Desert on a pitch-black night and abandons him. Not long afterwards, the monsters come hunting. It wasn’t the best book for a solo night in the woods. As I read into the evening, I found myself paying more attention than usual to wilderness sounds. I ingested a little medicinal herb to lighten things up. It was the 70s, after all. Bad idea; instant paranoia set in. Soon I could hear the wind stalking me through the treetops. Monsters lurked in the water. An old snag turned into a ghoul.

A monster was reflected in the water. It’s on its side here. The Black Buttes are in the distance.

An old snag turned into a ghoul. Off in the distance something big and ugly was digging and snorting. Socrates, I hoped

“Here Soc,” I called. “Come here boy.”

The digging continued and grew more desperate.

“Come here!” I yelled. Still no response but now I could hear large claws scratching at granite.

“Does someone want a Milk Bone?” I added in a quiet, conversational voice.

The digging stopped. ‘Someone’ started coming through the brush toward me. Whatever it was, it was apparently interested in Milk Bones. Soc’s head, long body, and wagging tail made their way into the firelight. He might love digging, but he loved food more. There was a reason why my low-slung pooch weighed 70 pounds.

“Good boy,” I said while digging out a Milk Bone. I knew I was buying companionship, but it seemed like a good idea on this strange, dark night. Meanwhile, Socrates had started to drool in expectation. Soon he was shaking his head and shooting dog slobber off in a dozen directions. I ducked to avoid being slimed.

Unfortunately, my supply of Milk Bones was limited. I tied Soc up to assure his faithfulness. It was time for bed. I put the fire out and was greeted by a moonless, dark night. But hey, who needed the moon when I had my faithful companion and a million stars. I invited Socrates to snuggle up on my sleeping bag and laid my head down on the coat I was using for a pillow.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

“What the F…!?” I shouted, sat up straight and grabbed for my flashlight. Socrates joined in by barking at my sleeping bag.

“No, Soc, out there,” I urged and pointed the flashlight off into the woods. Soc glanced up at me with a curious, what are you talking about look, and started barking at my pillow.

“Look Socrates,” I pleaded, “just pretend there is a garbage man out in the woods.” Soc had never met a garbage man he could resist barking at and I wanted his teeth pointed in the right direction. What Soc did with my advice was make three dog circles and plop down on my bag. I gave up and reluctantly laid my head back down on my pillow.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

I sat straight up again. Soc growled at me for disturbing his rest and started barking at my sleeping bag again.

“Fine watch dog you are,” I growled right back at him while straining my ears for the smallest of sounds. When Soc shut up, I was rewarded with a faint ‘crunch, crunch, crunch.’ It was coming from under the sleeping bag. I had a proverbial monster under my bed!

Gradually it dawned on me that what I was hearing was a gopher tunneling his way through the ground, innocently on his way to some succulent root. I put my head down on my pillow. Sure enough, the ‘crunch’ became a ‘CRUNCH.’ The ground and the mystic weed were magnifying the sound. Soc had been right all along. I was lucky that he only barked at my sleeping bag and hadn’t started digging.

Don Juan would have appreciated how I had been tricked. Reality isn’t always what it seems.

In the next four posts, Curt relates the exciting tale of how I was found in a field of corn lilies along the Tahoe/Yosemite (Pacific Crest Trail). He called me trash!

The Cascading Waterfalls of Costa Rica’s Northern Highlands

May 18, 2026May 18, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 7 Comments

Catarata Los Murcielagos is a steep but easily reachable waterfall found in the heart of Monteverde, Costa Rica. It took about 20 minutes for Peggy and me to hike to it. Catarata translates to cataract and Murcielagos to bats. So we have a cascading waterfall with bats. We didn’t see any bats but the person-wide, shaky bridge and the gaping mouth of the ficus tree roots made up for it. Bright sun overwhelmed the bridge and made the ficus tree root tunnel look pitch black. The tunnel jogged to the left and deposited us close to the base of the waterfall where we enjoyed the water and took more photos.

This is another bridge over the small creek that we crossed before reaching the waterfalls. I’m not sure whether the green, plastic walls were to protect people from falling off or to provide a sense of security! Probably a bit of both. The wall was flimsy enough that I wouldn’t have wanted to fall into it.

Peggy provides a good perspective on how flimsy the narrow the bridge was. Between the bridges and the Ficus tree, it felt like we had ended up in an Indiana Jones or Lara Croft movie. Peggy is maneuvering a bit more carefully than Indiana or Lara would have, however. (I did too.)

And bottom. Peggy had been to the waterfall before with our son Tony, his wife Cammie and their three boys. The waterfalls provides a small but enjoyable swim. She had waded out to the waist-high middle.

Top, bottom, in-between and pool. The whole shebang!

While I was wandering around taking bird photos and exploring jungle trails near our VRBO in Monteverde, Peggy went out on another waterfall hike with our son and his family. Know as El Tigre Waterfalls, it was an up and down 5-mile self-guided walk through a cloud forest that included more rustic bridges and four waterfalls. I urged Peggy to take good photos. And she did! Following are the results.

Tony, Cammie and one of the four waterfalls.

A narrower but still gorgeous waterfall.

A close up catching the right side of the waterfall.

Trees provided an interesting screen for the waterfall from another perspective. A smaller waterfall can be seen in the background.

This was a first. A zipline for bicycles. Our grandson Connor is making his way across, looking quite serious.

“Look, Mom, no hands.” Our grandson Cooper at the beginning of the zipline.

When I think of a waterfall cascading down a mountain, this is what I picture.

Photo of Tony with some really big leaves!

I’ll conclude with this photo. I think of Cammie saying, “Another photo, really?” It was a steep uphill. Peggy may have been taking photos as an excuse to stop. Either that or to fulfill her responsibility as a mother/grandmother— not to mention my request to bring back lots of photos!

On Wednesday my dog Socrates and I head off into the wilderness on a guy’s trip. It’s the 70s, so I am carrying a book by Carlos Castaneda and meditating while Socrates digs holes and downs Milk Bones. Strange things happen.

A Visit to La Fortuna, Costa Rica Where Good Fortune Reigns: It Missed Devastation but Captured Tourists

May 11, 2026May 14, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 13 Comments

Since the popular tourist town of La Fortuna was only 30 miles away from Nuevo Arenal where we were staying, we decided to drive over and check it out. La Fortuna had avoided being destroyed by the violent eruption of Mt. Arenal in 1968 and used the continuing volcanic action over the following 40 years to draw tourists from around the world. While the volcano ceased its activity in 2010, its smoking top still provides a popular attraction for visitors.

Mt. Arenal looms above the Costa Rica town of La Fortuna, a mere 6 miles away. It was cloudy when we visited so we couldn’t see the smoke that that escapes from the top. The red sign on the right proclaims Vulcan Arenal and points toward the mountain. A fan palm reaches out from the right. We were on the Big Island of Hawaii last year when Kīlauea was erupting, so we understand the attraction of a live volcano— as long as it is behaving itself.

This photo from Wikimedia Commons of Mt. Arenal during its active but non-destructive phase shows why millions of tourists would have made their way to La Fortuna.

Signs along the road advertised different ways tourists might want to enjoy the mountain. Options here included on the back of a horse, from a zip-line, or on your feet. The unreadable sign down on the right pushed using ATVs. For more laidback tourists, several hot springs— created by underground water’s close proximity to lava— demanded a visit. Numerous storefront operations along the streets of La Fortuna were eager to sign up visitors for these, and other tours. For example, one could repel down a waterfall, hike on hanging bridges, tour chocolate and coffee farms, or go on wildlife tours. The latter included seeing sloths.

Good views of Mt. Arenal can be seen from anywhere in the town, including behind Iglesia de La Fortuna de San Carlos, the town’s Catholic Church.

A small but attractive town park in front of the church featured Costa Rica’s flag…

A large heart where visitors could have a photo taken. Peggy decided that I should be in one. And…

Bunches of Cana lilies. These beauties, which can be found in flower gardens around the world, are actually native to Costa Rica.

A block away, we found a mural featuring a jaguar and a woman. The thrush seems to be whispering something in the girl’s ear while its cousin, a robin, looks on.

For lunch, we decided that eating in the lava lounge (on the right) was appropriate.

A painting inside displayed an exploding Mt. Arenal. Peggy insisted on taking a photo, a challenge since the glass covering it reflected light coming in from the windows.

We thought the message was clear. An exploding volcano might be a mind boggling sight, but it isn’t something you would want in your backyard. The name of the town reminded me of the Roman Goddess, Fortuna. She was the goddess of fate, and could be rather fickle, bringing both good and bad luck. La Fortuna was on the good luck side. The nearby villages of Tabacón, Pueblo Nuevo, and San Luís were on the other. They had been completely destroyed by pyroclastic flows in 1968. The explosion had been so powerful that it had tossed up massive lava bombs weighing several tons. The giant boulders had been thrown a distance of a half mile traveling at speeds of 1300 miles per hour. If volcanos played baseball, I’d want Arenal on my team!

When I went to use the men’s restroom in the restaurant, I found a kitty litter box right next to it, complete with a kitty taking care of business. How appropriate! Peggy and I laughed. We had to take a photo. The Lava Lounge is known for its rescue work with stray dogs and cats roaming the streets of La Fortuna.

A sign on the wall declared “Love for all living creatures is the most notable human attribute,” a sentiment we agree with.

After lunch, Peggy and I wandered around the small town checking out various shops. Peggy, whose love of chocolate is legendary, had to buy a dark chocolate bar. It came with this interesting wrapper. The label on top declared it as Nahua Costa Rican Chocolate. The Nahuas are an indigenous tribe of Mexico and Central America, ancestors of the Aztecs. They would have used chocolate extensively, consuming it as a bitter, frothy beverage known as *xocolātl*. Cocoa beans were also used for money. If you are familia with the movie *Chocolat*, Vianne would likely have been a descendant of the Nahua.

On our way out of town we passed an artist’s studio with this statue. A carved sloth is climbing on the tree behind.

A primitive monster posed above Earth. Was it going to gobble up the planet? And why did my mind jump to politics?

Our trip to and from La Fortuna from Nuevo Arenal produced several interesting sights. This large truck demonstrated the width of the road. Passing wasn’t much of an option. When two large trucks met each other they slowed to a crawl, almost stopping to get by. Bridges along the road narrowed even further, with room for one vehicle at a time. While there were rules about who went first, using them felt like Russian Roulette to us, especially on a blind curve.

We wondered why a number of cars had pulled off the road. We discovered that it was to watch a band of coatis foraging for food. They have long sharp claws for digging and a tough nose for ferreting out food.

This guy had a dirty nose to prove it. We read that their diet ranged from insects to fruit. Tarantulas and scorpions were downed with the same enthusiasm they used for other items on the menu.

Costa Rica is a ‘grow your own fence’ kind of place. Shove a stick into the ground, wait for it to root and grow limbs, connect the trees with barbed wire, and voila! you have a fence.

The fences can be quite impressive once they grow out. And they don’t rot, which is a real problem in Costa Rica with standard wood posts. When Costa Ricans do choose to use fence posts, they are made out of cement.

Restaurants ranging from a roof on poles to more elaborate establishments were found along the road. Each providing an adventure in eating. This Toucan Lane restaurant came with its own toucan out front There was a good chance it also came with a bird-feeding station that attracted toucans in the back. The sign in the background declared “That’s how fairy tales taste.” I’m not sure what the ‘taste’ referred to. Toucans?

We passed over the Lake Arenal Dam coming and going.

And were also treated to several views of the lake. That’s it for today. Next on UT-OH, I will take you to Sierra College where my conservative upbringing was put to test.

President Harold Weaver and College Trustees review plans for the soon to be finished Sierra College in 1961. It was brand new when I arrived in that fall. While I would go on to UC Berkeley for my Junior and Senior years, many of my views of the world were developed in my time at Sierra. I’ll use Wednesday’s and Friday’s post to summarize the four most important.

A note on you never know who is going to read your blogs. I got an Email this week from Emily Bell, a producer for the Discovery Channel. The channel is doing a Revolutionary War feature on Brandywine, Fort Mifflin, and the Pennsylvania Navy as part of the Nation’s 250 Anniversary celebration. In doing her research she had read my post on Fort Mifflin and wanted to know if I would be available to participate. Here’s what she had to say:

The story of the Mekemson brothers is truly remarkable. We are focusing on the Battle of Brandywine, the siege of Fort Mifflin, and the heroic, often overlooked role of the Pennsylvania Navy. Because all four brothers fought together at Brandywine before splitting up, with Andrew and James heading to Fort Mifflin while Thomas and William joined the PA Navy, their journey offers a deeply heartfelt thread that ties these massive historical events together.

Unfortunately, I’ll be in Greece when the Discovery Channel is doing its filming at Fort Mifflin. I will be talking with Emily this week with more background information on the family before the war, however.

The Scenic and Seismic Northern Highlands of Costa Rica… Lake Arenal

May 4, 2026May 6, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 9 Comments

Lakeview Gardens, the VRBO we stayed at for our first two weeks in Nuevo Arenal, provided this view of Lake Arenal. The photo also provides a look at the jungle-like growth surrounding our villa.

The first place we stayed on our monthlong trip to Costa Rica was in the small town of Nuevo Arenal on the shore of Lake Arenal. It’s called Nuevo (new) because old Arenal, the town of Tronadora, and a huge cattle ranch are now buried deep under water.

In 1979, Costa Rica decided to create a major hydroelectricity project by damming the lake as part of its modernization efforts. Arrangements were made to move the inhabitants of Arenal and Tronadora to new communities. They had new homes, but their farms, ranches, and jobs were left behind. Hacienda la Rosita, the cattle ranch that covered much of the land now occupied by Lake Arenal, was expropriated by the Costa Rican Government, i.e. taken without compensation. I assume that the owner of the property, P. Eckrich & Sons, a subsidiary of the U.S. based Beatrice Foods, at least got a lot of steaks. Or maybe the cattle learned how to swim.

The new dam tripled the size of the lake to 33 square miles (85 square kilometers), making it the largest lake in Costa Rica. Its depth ranges between 98 feet in the dry season to 198 feet in the rainy season (30 and 60 meters). Initially, it was responsible for creating 50%-70% of the country’s electricity. Now it’s closer to 12%-17%, but still significant. 95-98 % of Costa Rica’s electricity comes from renewable sources, making it one of the top countries in the world for clean power. The US is around 24%.

Today, recreational activities ranging from fishing to windsurfing to kayaking and paddle boarding draw tourists from around the world, providing an important source of revenue for the local economy and country. The pages and pages of VRBOs, Air B&Bs, and tour companies listed on Google is an indication of this!

Lake Arenal is known for its windsurfing. A strong wind has this person flying across the lake!

The area is part of the Central America Volcanic Arc created by plate tectonics as portions of the ocean plate dive under Central America. There are several active volcanos in Costa Rica. Mt. Arenal, located a few miles away from the lake, erupted on July 29, 1968 with a major explosion that destroyed the town of Tabacón and killed 87 people. It can seen from Lake Arenal and is still smoking. Hot springs, geothermal power, and a tourist attraction are positive aspects of the volcanic action. Earthquakes and the possibility of Mt. Arenal erupting, again, are on the negative side of the ledger. I wondered how the dam would behave in a major earthquake. The mountain has been quiet since 2010.

A map of active volcanos in Northern Costa Rica from costarica.org. Arenal is the middle volcano. Lake Arenal is just to the north. This is a great example of the lava created when an oceanic plate scrapes off against a continental plate. The result is the volcanoes seen here.

A view of Mt. Arenal. It was cloudy the day we drove to the town of Fortuna at its base, so we couldn’t see the smoke coming out of the top.

Next… photos of Lake Arenal that Peggy and I took.

It was cloudy on the day we went for a hike along the lake’s shore at a park on the edge of Nuevo Arenal. We thought the clouds added to the beauty of the lake.

The sun breaking through provided an interesting contrast to the dark skies.

The trail led us out onto the peninsula.

An inlet leading back toward our VRBO was on the opposite side of the peninsula.

Another perspective. The attractive inlet with its calm water had us wishing we had our kayaks along. The white caps and the wind out on the open lake: Not so much.

Shooting toward the sun gave trees a shadowy look.

Another peninsula and several small islands were visible looking down the lake. Tinajas Restaurant is located just over the hill on the right and provides a great view of the lake.

This is the view out from the Tinajas Restaurant. We went there with our next door VRBO neighbors, Paul and Gabe, who were from Canada. Paul had managed a steel mill before his retirement. Gabe still ran an online school teaching Spanish speakers English. They were a delight. See the speck on the upper left. It wasn’t a bird. It was a spider building a web.

Paul ordered a hamburger. It was humongous. I wondered if it had been donated by one of the ancestors of the cattle that once roamed through the valley below. Even more, I wondered how Paul could possible get it in his mouth.

He demonstrated! And looked quite happy doing so. That’s it for today. Join us on Wednesday as I continue with my blog-a-book tales and…

Win a large stuffed dog to impress a date at the California State Fair. By cheating. 😳 (Thanks AI for the photo.)

The Montezuma Oropendola and the ‘Look…’ Plus 6 Other Colorful and Unique Costa Rican Birds

April 27, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 9 Comments

It’s the *look.* The odds are high that you recognize it. Parents give it to children, teachers to students, bosses to employees, wives to husbands. Etc. It’s behave or else, with a multitude of possibilities if you don’t. Peggy, as a retired elementary school principal, has a potent one. I don’t get it often, but when I do… The *look* is particularly imposing on the Montezuma Oropendola (*Psarocolius montezuma*). The slightly protruding eyes, set off by the white patches and pink wattles, are backed up by an imposing beak. The pink circle at top emphasizes length. The orange tip means business.

If one giving you the *look* is worrisome, think of two. I wouldn’t want to tangle with the feet, either. Courting among the large males (they have twice the mass of the females) is one big brawl. The winner gets the girl, usually several of them!

This Montezuma Oropendola was feasting on pineapple found in the bird feeding table that was located in front of our Villa in Nuevo Arenal. I imagine that his namesake, Montezuma, the last of the Aztec rulers, would have been pleased to have this large, distinctive bird given his name. The Oropendola fits as well, given how much gold the Aztecs had gathered and how Cortez lusted after it. Oro means gold in Spanish. Pendola means feather. It refers to the gold tail feathers found on the bird.

The Masked Tityra (*Tityra semifasciata*) also had a unique, but not so threatening look. This bird is easily identified by a pinkish ‘mask’ around its eyes. I found it hanging out on the eaves of our house in Monteverde.

The Tityra appeared as interested in me as I was it in. Actually, he was looking for a female that he had been trying to impress. When I spotted him, he was running back and forth on the eave with his wings drooping and sounding like a constipated frog. Apparently it was his mating dance.

On the other side of our house in Monteverde, we found this woodpecker carved hole that would make an excellent home for a bird.

A Streak-headed Woodcreeper (*Lepidocolaptes souleyetii*) seemed to agree. Its usual choice for a nest is a hole in a tree pecked out by a woodpecker, or natural.

There seemed to be a problem. It would climb up the tree, peak in the hole and immediately fly back down the trunk to repeat the process. It wasn’t creeping; it was scrambling. I watched it check out the hole several times in the same way. I was beginning to wonder if the pecker was present.

Suddenly, this little head peeked out to see what was going on.

It was a Golden-olive Woodpecker (Colaptes rubiginosus). And yes, it probably had pecked the hole out of the dead tree. The creeper could go find a vacant hole for its home. Next time he/she showed up (male and female Streak-headed Woodcreepers have the same plumage), more than the hole might be pecked.

Here’s another creeper, the Red-legged Honeycreeper. It isn’t, however, related to the Streak-headed Woodcreeper that makes its living off of crawling up trunks and eating insects. It’s related to tanagers instead. The Honeycreeper gets the honey part of his name because its passion is for sipping nectar out of flowers. Creeper comes from creeping through treetops and vines foraging for the flowers. This is a female. The male is an electric light and dark blue.

Here’s another bird known for its love of nectar, a hummingbird. In this case a Green-crowned Brilliant (*Heliodoxa jacula*). We took its photo at a hummingbird feeding station in Monteverde with several feeders. Hummers were buzzing everywhere. The only thing more numerous than the birds were the people oohing and aahing over them. It was hard for Peggy and me to capture photos of hummers without tourists (*Turista numeroso*) in them. I’m not sure what the photo-bombing bug was.

A fun shot of the Green-crowned Brilliant looking up. Note the yellow at the tip of its beak. That’s its tongue sticking out, a rather specialized appendage that can extend up to twice the length of its beak for obtaining nectar. It doesn’t sip the nectar like we would with a straw, however. It’s more like capturing the nectar. Researchers at the University of Connecticut have discovered that the tongue is a “dynamic, shape-shifting, and active pump. As it shoots out, the tongue reaches nectar and splits at the tip. The two grooves/tips open, and tiny, hair-like structures (lamellae) unfurl, trapping the nectar. Upon returning to the mouth, the flaps close, sealing in the liquid.” It can repeat this process up to 20 times a second, thousands of times a day, whether it is getting its nectar from a flower, or your hummingbird feeder. It’s also used for drinking water.

I’ll conclude today with a handsome Great Kiskadee (Pitangus sulphuratus), a member of the tyrant flycatcher family.

Peggy swore it was posing for her. We had a lamp post in front of our villa in Nuevo Arenal that it liked to hang out on.

It would fly off its perch, return, and assume a different pose! It was zipping out to catch flying insects out of the air, an important part of its diet. The Great Kiskadee is omnivorous, however. It won’t pass up small snakes, frogs, lizards, or chicks and has even been known to fish for tadpoles. On bird feeders it’s been seen eating bread, peanut butter, bananas, and dog food. Woof! It’s known for being monogamous, hanging out with the same partner year around. I was beginning to think that it had a thing for Peggy. UT-OH! And that brings me to my next chapter in the book I am blogging.

Founded during the Gold Rush, Placerville was once known as Hangtown for its harsh treatment of outlaws. On the day I was supposed to graduate from high school, I made the innocent* mistake of cussing out the city’s chief of police. He couldn’t hang me, fortunately, but he did give me a choice: I could spend my evening in jail cell or graduate. The former was an UT-OH! of gigantic proportions. *I didn’t recognize him.

UT-OH! Chapter 18: Bleeding Like a Speared Mammoth, I Make Important Career Decisions…

April 24, 2026April 27, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Woolly mammoth in snow with spear in side and cavemen running behind — UT-OH! Thanks AI. Unfortunately, mammoths disappeared before I could photograph them.

I’ve never required much help in eliminating options from my life. Chemistry was like that. Lab work and I don’t get along as a general rule. I quickly learned in high school that I am not particularly fond of cutting up long dead frogs pickled in formaldehyde or mixing chemicals that smell worse than an old dog’s fart. But there is more to it than that: I am convinced that good lab technicians enjoy putting things together, taking them apart, tinkering, and fixing things. As a general rule, I don’t.

For example, I knew kids in high school who loved working on automobiles. Ask them anything about carburetors, water pumps, generators, horsepower or timing and they had a ready answer. They couldn’t wait to get their hands covered in grease. I admired them for it, but my interest in carburetors was zilch. My primary interest in automobiles was that they get me from point A to point B without breaking down. Still is

My hobbies as a kid reflected this. Building model ships, airplanes, cars, trains, etc. had no interest for me. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the results, some were mind-blowing in their detail and realistic look, but my concept of a great hobby was rock collecting. I would pick up interesting rocks on my excursions into the surrounding country until all four pockets were bulging and my pants about to fall off. I would then go home and smash them apart with a hammer to figure out what I had found. Geology became a life-long interest.

I do understand the arguments for being able to fix things: saving money, being self-sufficient, and obtaining satisfaction from a job well done, not to mention being manly. These same arguments, however, apply to going out in the pasture, shooting Elsie the Cow, skinning and gutting her, bringing home the meat, grinding it up, and throwing it on the grill. Just think of the satisfaction involved and dollars saved! Or you can go to the local fast-food joint and help employ a kid who might otherwise turn to a life of crime.

Now, back to chemistry and lab work. One day we had to shove little glass tubes through rubber stoppers. Apparently, this is an important skill for budding chemists. It’s not a difficult task if you ignore the fact that the holes in the stoppers are significantly smaller than the diameter of the glass tubes and, more importantly, have a gallon of Vaseline. I was half way through my first masterpiece when the damn tube broke and ended up jabbed into my hand. Bleeding like a speared mammoth, I was carted off to the emergency room of the local hospital and sewn up.

My attitude toward chemistry was already iffy. With the accident, it dropped faster than it took me to hit the ground in my fall from the pear tree. Higher math created another challenge.

There’s an old adage that we are supposed to work hard at those things we find difficult, that it gives us character. My belief is that I already have plenty of character. If I had any more, little men in white coats would be chasing me with nets. I prefer to spend my energy on things I enjoy, like reading a good book or hiking in the wilderness. Or writing. I have little tolerance for doing things that I don’t do well or fail to interest me. In other words, the Protestant Ethic and I have serious compatibility problems.

But I can be stubborn. Math is a good example. In the fourth grade I discovered that long division was nasty. I got beyond that, but word problems gave me a complex. Two trains are hurtling at each other on the same track with Train A going 90 miles per hour and Train B going 70. They are 252.5296 miles apart. How long will it be before the Train A engineer says, “Ooooh shit!”

“At the same time as the Train B engineer does,” was my answer.

But not nearly as soon as I did. My own expletive arrived on my lips .0000001 seconds after seeing the problem on the blackboard. I concentrated on sending the teacher vibes. “Curt is not here today. You do not see Curt. You will not call on Curt.” But I continued plugging away at math and did fine in grade school. I even managed to ace Algebra I and Geometry. Algebra II was different. That’s when I ran head on into Miss Kaste. It was not a pleasant experience.

Miss Kaste, according to those who were seriously into math, was very good at what she did. Students leaving her class were reputed to have a solid foundation in the basics and be well prepared to move on to the ethereal worlds of calculus and trigonometry.

Basics, I quickly learned, meant that there was one way of coming up with answers and that way was chiseled in stone. One did not diverge from accepted formulas or leave out steps. Right answers obtained the wrong way were wrong answers. Wrong, wrong, wrong!

This created a problem. I had a true talent for coming up with right answers in my own way and this brought me unwanted attention. I could have lived with that except for another problem, Miss Kaste’s teaching technique. She oozed sarcasm. She made people cry. My response was to freeze up or act like a clown. I couldn’t tolerate it— or her. Math was eliminated from my future.

Once again, it speaks to the power of teachers to turn students on, or off, to various subjects. I wasn’t a total dunce at math. Ironically, I scored in the 95^th percentile on the Iowa Test in math the same year. Theoretically, that placed me in the top five percent of math students. I wasn’t a genius, but I could have/should have done better.

There was plenty of time while sitting in ER bleeding to contemplate my future as a scientist. My conclusion: there wasn’t one. Even though I enjoyed botany and geology, I decided that the best way to avoid long-dead animals, smelly chemicals, labs and math would be to choose a career that depended on subjects I enjoyed, and made use of my verbal ability and organizational skills.

Looking back, (hindsight, mind you), I am not too surprised about the paths I chose to follow in my life. They were right for me. No regrets. But given I’ve always found science enjoyable from a lay perspective as an adult, I sometimes regret I didn’t obtain a better background in high school and college. My bad.