Six for the road

For anyone in this country who travels a lot (or even someone who doesn’t), this has to be a year with two parts.

When I think about the first part, two February weeks in Bali come to mind.

I was there for work–we travel writers always have to remind people of that–doing research for an article in our series Wonders of Man and Nature.

Bali hardly could have been more peaceful. It’s a dot of volcanic mountains and green valleys in the Java Sea, an island filled with natural beauty, enhanced over the centuries by rice farmers and embellished by artists.

It seems as if all the Balinese have a strong creative streak combined with a gentle nature. Every morning, people set out tiny baskets of blossoms and fruit to honor the benevolent gods and appease the wrathful ones. All such offerings, exquisitely arranged, also delight the eyes of mortals who wander the temple grounds amidst ornately carved gates and exquisite gardens. Outside the temples, those little baskets grace–and protect–the merchant stalls and galleries of Ubud, a Balinese town where form far outweighs function.

In that central city and its suburbs, whole neighborhoods of stone sculptors, silversmiths, painters and wood carvers exercise their considerable talents. All over the surrounding countryside, emerald rice terraces form amazingly precise disks that ring the hills, turning even the most mundane farms into esthetic triumphs.

And yet, Bali belongs to far-flung Indonesia, which at the time of my visit seethed with political and religious turmoil. In other parts of the country, people died at the hands of terrorists and machete-wielding thugs. Car bombs exploded, religious wars broke out, and most of the country trembled with fright.

Not Bali. Oceans surround it, and that’s sufficient protection when the fiercest marauders on other Indonesian islands wield short-range weapons like bolt-action rifles and vine-cutters. Besides, even the most besieged central government understands that Bali plays an important role in the tourist economy and therefore must remain relatively isolated.

The events of last winter would have most Indonesians dividing their year in a different way than Americans divide 2001. There, January and February were horrible. Post-February got a little better. All the while, Bali with its colorful but benign version of the Hindu religion remained a serene haven in an otherwise Islamic country, its year undivided and always warm, always scenic, always friendly.

That half of 2001 also took me to New Mexico and West Texas for further explorations of our national parks–Carlsbad Caverns, Guadalupe and Big Bend. It reminded me how ruggedly beautiful our country can be and how incomprehensibly vast.

In July, I at last had the chance to experience the French Riviera in high season. (Again, for work. Honest.). Southern France in some places becomes a summer-long party–beach clubs spring up on Tahiti Plage in St. Tropez; yacht decks tinkle with cocktail parties; roving Dixieland bands and accordion soloists serenade the diners at outdoor cafes. Sunbathers recline–even on the pebbled strands of Nice.

And away from the sea, along the rocky slopes above the Mediterranean, Provencal village life goes on. Entire communities, seemingly dedicated to the art of living, fret over tablecloth patterns, flower arrangements, wine harvests and the consistency of olive oil.

Later this summer, in pursuit of more stories for our ongoing national park series, I flew to Seattle and drove 150 miles northeast to North Cascades National Park.

I rented a fine cedar log cabin in a rural area near Marblemount, Wash., 15 miles southwest of the park entrance. It was the perfect kind of accommodation for a vacationer looking to get away from it all–no TV, no telephone, just deep shade and pine scent. True isolation.

Upon arrival, I saw no one but the owner, Andie Daniels, whose larger house contains the tiny reception area for the five-cabin compound. She greeted me warmly and said I should drive around until I saw a cabin I liked. If it had a key in the door, it was mine.

I chose one in a far corner, dragged my luggage up the porch and toured the place–modern plumbing in the kitchen and bathroom, a spacious living room with a small radio on a bookshelf crammed with old novels and slightly dated magazines. One shelf held a stack of board games.

It wasn’t the sort of place a journalist might choose for covering a story–no hookup for the laptop modem, for example. And no TV or cell phone reception in those signal-blocking mountains.

The only readily accessible pay phone hung in a rustic booth 50 yards away from my quarters.

Oh, well. I figured I could get electronically connected at the next stop, a conventional hotel close to Mt. Rainier. Here I would enjoy the bracing climate and pretend for awhile that this was a holiday rather than an assignment (there is a difference).

I unpacked and noticed my watch said 10 p.m. I hadn’t reset it since leaving Chicago. Here it must have been 8. Still daylight. There were no clocks in the cabin, and I was yawning mightily. Fresh air and long trips can do that to a person. I would set the watch tomorrow.

Tomorrow, of course would be the day when the year broke in two.

Daylight woke me up. I dressed and went into the kitchen area, made some coffee and turned on the radio so I could find out the time and set my watch. I heard only static, at first–bad reception up here. Then the strained voice of Peter Jennings came over some distant ABC affiliate with the unbelievable words: World Trade Center. Airliners. The Pentagon.

I went to the car, hoping its radio would get a clearer signal (hoping, really, that I had heard wrong back there in the cabin). Andie came rushing up with a cordless telephone in her hand. “You heard what happened?” she asked. Andie handed me the phone. Family calling. That would begin a day of phone calls. My son, in Arkansas, worried that I might still be in Seattle, which has an imposing tower of its own. My daughter, at school in Massachusetts, just had to talk to someone close. Anyone! Now! My wife, a federal employee, let me know that her building had been evacuated and the Loop practically deserted.

My first impulse was to take my rented Chevrolet and immediately head east–for home. The planes were grounded. But that trip would take days, and what purpose would it serve?

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Between stops at pay phones and stabs at the still-silent cell phone, I reluctantly got on with my work: an exploration of North Cascades National Park. I pulled into the empty parking lot at the visitor center and chatted awhile with the rangers there. Half a dozen other visitors turned up, looking as lost as I felt.

The rangers set about explaining the park to us–getting out the maps, mentioning trails we ought not to miss and sights we had to see. It helped keep all of us slightly distracted from New York and Washington–that is, the real world. We were in some strange fantasy place, adrift in another existence entirely, escapees from the general dread.

Of course, we hadn’t really escaped. Experienced travelers know they can go thousands of miles and still not get away from anything. In fact, we felt more as if we had been cut off from the tribe, 3,000 miles from what in the hours ahead would come to be called Ground Zero.

Just down the road, I could see the hydroelectric dams that convert the powerful churning of the Skagit River into power and light for the city of Seattle. I figured the areas near the dams would fill up with security forces. I feared that the North Cascades Highway–one of the few paved roads in the park–would be closed. But that didn’t happen. Employees of Seattle City Light blocked off the roads that ran atop the dams, but the highway remained open. The traffic was sparse, sightseers few and far between

Those of us who found ourselves in the park could absorb its magnificence in more solitude than anyone might wish at a time like this. I stood alone at scenic overlooks, trying to understand the meaning of a year that had suddenly snapped in two.

The North Cascades were grand, of course, but I longed to be somewhere else.

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E-mail Robert Cross: [email protected]