The Treesort
“Someday we’re going to stay in a tree house,” I told my kids. Wide eyed, they said, “Really?”
I said “yes. High, high off the ground.” For years we had this conversation. Soon the response took on a new tone. Instead of a question, “Really” became a sarcastic exclamation. I’d been talking about it so long they no longer believed me.
Finally, in 2007, I had the reservations in hand, airplane tickets booked and we were on our way.
How does one find a “Treesort”? Well, that all began when my brother in law (who was spending a sabbatical year in Germany) asked me to put his name down on a waiting list for a Mini Cooper when they first came out in the US in 2002. As I investigated where to find a local dealer, I noticed a link on the Mini Cooper website, “interesting places to stay in the United States”. Intrigued, I clicked on it. One of the sites mentioned was the Treesort in Southern Oregon. I had to check it out. The website was amazing. This is a place designed by people who LOVE trees, run by people who want to share their love of trees, and visited by people who are curious about trees. And Southern Oregon is so beautiful, I knew we just had to go and stay.
My two daughters (ages 13 & 7), and I were really excited about going. We started off our Oregon adventure by rafting down a gentle section of the Rogue River, and a cursory visit to Crater Lake (the deepest lake in the United States, and in my humble and limited opinion, the most beautiful). Everywhere we went there was lush greenery and rushing water. For my Southern California kids, a river that rushed rather than trickled was an exquisite novelty.
The road to the Treesort was long. Longer than I thought. And pretty remote. We seemed to be leaving civilization behind Further and further behind. At last we arrived. It was truly an arborist’s paradise. And very laid back. The dog on the porch beckoned us into the “office”. Outside were sign up boards for horseback riding and a zip line. Wheee.
Our treehouse (which I’d picked out from a very descriptive website) was accessed by walking across two suspension bridges (think Tom Sawyer’s island at Disneyland) and was 43 feet up in the air. It was one room -if you don’t count the curtained off ensuite bathroom, toilet & shower. We had a front porch, loft beds, small refrigerator and a wonderful 12 foot wide tree as a centerpiece. I have a real fear of heights, but I never felt afraid. After all, there were barriers between falling and me. We could see the other treehouses, the stables, the main gathering house, (which was on the ground), and a forest beyond. Getting our bags up was an adventure in ingenuity. They had a rope with pulleys installed on the side of the balcony, so we loaded them up from the ground. A luggage elevator if you will.
Days at the Treesort were a laid back, communal living kind of camp experience. We picnicked the first day, splashed in the natural (and cold) spring rock pond, picked wild blackberries, laid on wooden swings, and at night roasted marshmallows under the stars. I was unprepared for that last activity, but everyone was extraordinarily generous –more and more S’mores.
We had thought we’d want to make a bee line for the zip line, but after living life in the soaring treetops, we concluded we’d had just enough vertical exhilaration for now. Instead, the nearby Oregon Caves were calling. We answered that call. From up high, we explored deep down under. I like a well rounded experience.
Back at the Treesort, a few of us Moms (who had become fast friends) conspired to not cookout that night, but rather call a local caterer and pitched in together for some sumptuous baked ziti and fresh local greens and caramel bread pudding. A few shared bottles of wine, more stars a twinkling, kids running free in the darkness, and it seemed our wish on a star was there before our eyes.
Upon our return to LA, we looked at trees a little differently, but have managed to keep our feet on the ground. Most of the time. Now I’ve heard there’s a place where you can stay in an igloo,,,,,,
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Dietribe 2, The Sequel
Ok, I'm not done with the Dietribe.
Now, we all know that the food and restaurant industries are dead set against anyone on a diet. And when you dissect their methods, they're just plain insidious. I don't know how anyone who likes to eat isn't immense. (the term "obese" is used and overused and connotes slothfulness, and really, we're not all that way, just a little weak willed sometimes) If I think about it, the people I know who maintain a decent weight must either exercise their buns off (yes, literally) or not like to eat. You can't have it any other way it turns out.
So, I'm meeting my friend Jill for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Century City. It's so festive, with pretty pink lights all over, comfy booths, kitchy decor. While I'm waiting, my perky, pretty, sweet waitress asks in her bubbly and extremely friendly voice if I want a Pretty Pink Margarita while I wait. No, thanks I'll have just water. Oh, maybe just a Corona? No, I'll have just water. Now at this point, I already feel bad. Not only am I apparently dull as dishwater, but I'm almost being mean to her. I keep saying no, and she's just trying to make me feel good, and to bring me nice, festive things.
Then, a bucket of crispy tortilla chips comes out, all warm and fresh, with a beckoning bowl of fresh salsa. I eat one chip. Delicious. My mind nearly tricks me into thinking that the chips are just a vessel for the virtuous salsa with it's tomatoes, cilantro, so light, so healthy. Yeah, uh huh. The smart thing to do would be to send the entire bucket back, but I think I have faith in my willpower. After all, I'm conscious of all of this trickery, it should be easy to resist. No mindless munching here. (yeah, right)
Jill arrives. I tell her these thoughts I"m having. She agrees with my assessments. The waitress arrives back to greet the fresh meat, oh, I mean the additional guest. She's still perky, still pushing the Margaritas. But Jill is wise, and not so guilt prone. She says her no thank you's with a sweet firmness. She sends the no's with a slight admonishment in that it's sort of early in the day for cocktails or beer. So little Miss Perkster, not to be outdone offers the wondrous cocktails as virgin versions - refreshing and delightful. Still no. How about some guacamole while you look over your menu. There is probably nothing I'd like more, but once again, even though our nice waitress is only there to serve and please us, once again, I am rejecting her kind offers.
Looking over the menu, I'm thinking, there has to be something fairly virtuous here. But I'm at a Mexican restaurant, and I really like Mexican food, so I don't want to have something like salmon. I've also seen the websites, (buzzkillers really), that delineate the freaking calorie count of some, or most of my favorite Mexican dishes. Enchiladas, nearly 1000. Burritos with chicken, cheese, guac and sour cream, nearly 1000. Tacos, what can I say, I like them crispy, nearly 1000. And all the plates probably come with beans & rice, another, well, you get the idea. Then I'm wondering if they have a children's menu, so I could at least count on the portions to be more moderate. But I suddenly remember, it's a federal crime to order off the children's menu if you are over 12. Or at least against the restaurant rule book. I wonder, what if I offered to pay an adult price. I hear my husband's voice saying, don't pay full price for less food, just bring half home with you. Well, that's reasonable, but we all pretty much know how that scenario goes. Get the take out container, put 1/2 to 1/3, or maybe just 1/4 in the container, and you've still overeaten.
Jill and I manage to split a Tostada. It's amazing in that it's actually two Tostadas in one order, more than enough for us. (Even I, an overeater, wonder how one person could polish off both at one sitting) And I slip a few more mouthfuls of the virtuous salsa down with the chip vehicle it came with. But I don't really make a dent in the bucket the chips came in. Thank God.
At the end of the meal, I'm content. After all, I've contained myself, been truthful and vigilant about what I'm up against, and with my new, larger waisted pants, I'm still comfortable after eating what I want to eat. Not bad. I might even go out for Thai food tomorrow. See what I'm up against there.
Now, we all know that the food and restaurant industries are dead set against anyone on a diet. And when you dissect their methods, they're just plain insidious. I don't know how anyone who likes to eat isn't immense. (the term "obese" is used and overused and connotes slothfulness, and really, we're not all that way, just a little weak willed sometimes) If I think about it, the people I know who maintain a decent weight must either exercise their buns off (yes, literally) or not like to eat. You can't have it any other way it turns out.
So, I'm meeting my friend Jill for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Century City. It's so festive, with pretty pink lights all over, comfy booths, kitchy decor. While I'm waiting, my perky, pretty, sweet waitress asks in her bubbly and extremely friendly voice if I want a Pretty Pink Margarita while I wait. No, thanks I'll have just water. Oh, maybe just a Corona? No, I'll have just water. Now at this point, I already feel bad. Not only am I apparently dull as dishwater, but I'm almost being mean to her. I keep saying no, and she's just trying to make me feel good, and to bring me nice, festive things.
Then, a bucket of crispy tortilla chips comes out, all warm and fresh, with a beckoning bowl of fresh salsa. I eat one chip. Delicious. My mind nearly tricks me into thinking that the chips are just a vessel for the virtuous salsa with it's tomatoes, cilantro, so light, so healthy. Yeah, uh huh. The smart thing to do would be to send the entire bucket back, but I think I have faith in my willpower. After all, I'm conscious of all of this trickery, it should be easy to resist. No mindless munching here. (yeah, right)
Jill arrives. I tell her these thoughts I"m having. She agrees with my assessments. The waitress arrives back to greet the fresh meat, oh, I mean the additional guest. She's still perky, still pushing the Margaritas. But Jill is wise, and not so guilt prone. She says her no thank you's with a sweet firmness. She sends the no's with a slight admonishment in that it's sort of early in the day for cocktails or beer. So little Miss Perkster, not to be outdone offers the wondrous cocktails as virgin versions - refreshing and delightful. Still no. How about some guacamole while you look over your menu. There is probably nothing I'd like more, but once again, even though our nice waitress is only there to serve and please us, once again, I am rejecting her kind offers.
Looking over the menu, I'm thinking, there has to be something fairly virtuous here. But I'm at a Mexican restaurant, and I really like Mexican food, so I don't want to have something like salmon. I've also seen the websites, (buzzkillers really), that delineate the freaking calorie count of some, or most of my favorite Mexican dishes. Enchiladas, nearly 1000. Burritos with chicken, cheese, guac and sour cream, nearly 1000. Tacos, what can I say, I like them crispy, nearly 1000. And all the plates probably come with beans & rice, another, well, you get the idea. Then I'm wondering if they have a children's menu, so I could at least count on the portions to be more moderate. But I suddenly remember, it's a federal crime to order off the children's menu if you are over 12. Or at least against the restaurant rule book. I wonder, what if I offered to pay an adult price. I hear my husband's voice saying, don't pay full price for less food, just bring half home with you. Well, that's reasonable, but we all pretty much know how that scenario goes. Get the take out container, put 1/2 to 1/3, or maybe just 1/4 in the container, and you've still overeaten.
Jill and I manage to split a Tostada. It's amazing in that it's actually two Tostadas in one order, more than enough for us. (Even I, an overeater, wonder how one person could polish off both at one sitting) And I slip a few more mouthfuls of the virtuous salsa down with the chip vehicle it came with. But I don't really make a dent in the bucket the chips came in. Thank God.
At the end of the meal, I'm content. After all, I've contained myself, been truthful and vigilant about what I'm up against, and with my new, larger waisted pants, I'm still comfortable after eating what I want to eat. Not bad. I might even go out for Thai food tomorrow. See what I'm up against there.
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