My Clipping Sucked Too

On Sunday, my clipping was atrocious, so I rigged up this crag on which to practice...

Materials required: webbing, quick draws, rope, and chin-up bar. Now I can do clipping sets back and forth to get the automaticity I want.

Told ya I had it bad.

Fears

I am afraid of falling. Some of these falling fears are warranted, but some of them are just intimidation factors whose bluff I need to call. Per Eric J. Horst, I am taking a look at them.

1. Featherweight Friend:

My current, quite realistic fear is a featherweight-friend issue. One of my belayers is forty pounds lighter than me. She's a solid climber and competent belayer, but that weight difference matters on lead. I could fall and pull her up to the point that we collide in mid-air -- or worse -- I'd hit the ground if it were an early clip. She can anchor in, but then I worry about the damage that a big fall could do to her body as opposing forces crank on her. She is willing to take this risk, but it changes how I climb with her. I am less likely to go for a grab because that fear for her is in the back of my mind. I have other belayers, but she's been my solid partner for these three years of climbing. We learned to lead together, we've cut our climbing teeth together, and, quite frankly, sometimes she and I are the only ones who show up. If I want to improve, I need to find a way to manage the risk and/or my worry. Do I just not climb hard stuff with her or do I continue what I am currently doing: downclimb to a solid hold and have her take? Is there another alternative? Would it help to practice falls again? Hm. Don't have a great solution to this one.

2. I am scared of pain. I don't want to hurt myself when I fall, e.g. pull a muscle, tear a tendon, or rip open my hand. Strangely, I'm most afraid of hurting my hands. I envision myself SOL for climbing while they heal. This is not a good reason to avoid falling the way I do. (Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk, balk at falling!) My hands are not likely to get hurt that badly. Be rational and fall, Chickie (as opposed to Chicken.)

3. I don't want to be embarrassed. I often don't push routes at the gym because I'm waaaay too aware of all the eyes watching and assessing how I climb. (There are a lot of eyes attached to quite nice bods there, but I digress, or do I? Who wants a hot, potential date to see her flailing at a route??)

That's an easy one. Get over yourself! And if he's that put out by how you climb, he wasn't worth dating anyways. Nyah!

4. Fear of the sensation of falling and clanking the wall and that stomach-catching-up jolt at the catch of the fall... It's just not natural and yet, when I was doing it a lot (read: when Featherweight and I were forcing each other to fall in our early days of leading), I found it exhilarating. I need to get back that feeling of excitement and... release. A good fall is fun.

There, I think I've called myself out on everything I fear. Now to just unfear them.

I Got it Bad

I've got it bad for climbing. But I'm carrying 15 extra pounds that I haven't found a way around hauling up the route with me. So. That being said, I'm gonna focus on losing those fifteen. Why, oh why, did I inherit a sweet tooth and a tendency to indulge myself when stress rolls in? Plus I've developed a penchant for red wine. I've also developed a better-than-average tolerance. The pleasure is temporary. The pain lasts and lasts.

Case in point, I have been working an overhung (my weakness!) 5.10 in the gym. It is a route in the lead cave. I've just busted into that cool-kid zone and have been sashaying around in the big girl pants as I've done some of the climbs respectably. Not so with my red 5.10 today. First time I did it, I took four times, but I stayed in control of my breathing, my fears and my feet. Today I took five times and huffed & puffed like a veteran smoker. I lost my feet and batted at clips. Grr. I am not happy with myself.

But I also have the solution. I am gonna lose that extra weight. Period. I have a stressful week coming up, but I am going to make this happen, starting today. I have a meal and workout plan to prove it.

I will wage this war on many fronts, of course. I am reading Training for Climbing by Eric J. Horst and took the self-assessment. My strength is my Mental game. (Thank you, triathlon and stubborn genes.) The Physical domain and Tactics & Technique came in equally -- lower than Mental. I want it so bad! I want to climb those lead cave 10s by May, I want to lead 11s by the end of the summer and be able to onsight them by 2014. I haven't mentioned that grade that still seems magical to me, but you better believe 12s are on my mind.

This blog? Will be used to track my progress, share my frustrations, celebrate my successes. I am ready to begin!

This week's workout focus:

Tuesday - Sets of 3: EZ climb up & down, lead 9s or EZ 10s, Lead overhung 10 -- Repeat. The rubber match is the lead 10 of the trio. My goal is to keep my head and my feet, clip smoothly, and minimize takes. I had flashes today where it clicked, but it lasted only the length of two clips.

Friday - Boulder my brains out. Especially focus on overhung stuff. Work on grasping the holds well too, not overgripping, but rather placing my hands on them deliberately, surely, trusting them and myself. I will warm up with a traverse around the gym, then do all the recs, then try 2-3 intermediates. Cool down is the gym traverse.

In between my climbing affair, I will eat right, sleep right, and get in a healthy dose of cardio.

Amen!

Ink for my Dad

I have given my mom lots of verbage. My dad I haven't as much. Yet he was the parent who was present when we were kids. He is warm, both in anger and in affection, and has provided a clear moral compass my whole life. Yet he has gotten less press on this blog - probably because he wasn't as hard to win as my mom. I only felt her affection and understanding in my adulthood. His unconditional love has been ever-present.

He is the Superman to her Wonder Woman. He is the patriarch to her matriarch. And he is aging the way I want to age.

He's still energetic and learning every day. He...

Okay, gig's up. I struggle to write this. He's so good he's boring to write about. He's so steady, so predictable, so rock solid that I can barely bring myself to blather on about his perfections! The man continues to indulge his curiosity. He wanted to be a deacon at church but found out he needed a Bachelor's degree to do so. Was he deterred on his quest to give more to the church and expanding his mind though? No. He's taking classes on liturgical matters just for kicks.

Last year, at SEVENTY years old, he went on his first ever trail restoration trip. Granted, his 39 year-old daughter toted his tent and most of his clothes, but the man got it done! We hiked 6.5 miles in high elevation and he sucked up all the oxygen his sleep-apneaed self could and slept in a tent for five days. He swung a Pulaski, dug water bars, and hauled rocks with the men 20+ years younger. The man sucks it up.

He has taken on the project of rehabilitating my aunt, his sister-in-law, who suffered from a stroke two years ago. He drives 30 miles each day to her nursing home to get her out of bed and walk her and talk to her. She has improved more than thought possible. He takes Eucharist to the shut-ins and nursing home residents three times a week. He has a group of 85+ year old men, affectionately dubbed his "Geezer Group," who he weekly rounds up for breakfasts and flea markets.

You see, the man's a bleeding saint!

And he's always been that way. So good. So steady. So solid and reliably Christian. A communicator and people person.

Yet I don't take him seriously. Perhaps because of another of his best traits. The man can laugh at himself. He begs laughter and invites teasing. Even when he is taking himself too seriously, I have to laugh at him because there is passion in that too. He stomps and rages and tells his persecutors (read: my mom and me) in no uncertain terms that we are the problem. It is his passionate delivery that becomes a parody of anger and makes me giggle. He is always real, always readable, transparent in love and war.

That's my dad. And here, at last, is his ink. And a smile.

Stealing the Eucharist

Before I could take the Eucharist, I thought it must be like the moon in November. An icy disk that would melt in my mouth, illuminating me from the inside. That was long before I became an atheist. But I am so profane that I will steal the Eucharist for my purposes now. I want to distill that light and make it mine. What illuminates me from the inside? Some days I can give off light and others I hog it all to myself.

I have had a week of turning inward. Not by choice. It is never by choice. It is the switch that goes off and I find my well has run dry; I have nothing to offer. I can only look at my students and they feel alien to me. My friends I avoid. My Near One I shun. I know that if I talk to any of these really close people, I will be flat -- or worse -- cry.

So I retreat. Words have always been my refuge. Language and thinking and writing. The imagery they provide heals me. I am the helium balloon, snipped free and floating above it all. I don't wanna be down in the trenches with the rest of ya all! I want my head out of the humdrum, the helter skelter, the busy nonsense of chasing down success. I get sick of chasing. I wanna just be. Floating. Right on up to the moon where I open my mouth wide and suck in that icy wafer, letting it melt slowly on my tongue, sip-swallowing those cold trickles.

I need to step off in so many ways. I grip and grasp at my life and success relentlessly, driven. I climb too many days a week and exhaust myself every workout. My heart pounds from overtraining, threatening to leap right outta my chest and land there, red and throbbing, accusing, there on the mat. I grasp at the holds, gripping too tightly, squandering energy and pumping out my arms. I wanna be fluid with just the right amount of contact. I want the light touch that gets the job done deliberately and gracefully.

I wanna stop running so hot. I have been all red energy. I push, push, push my mind just like my muscles. I give 100% of me to my students, I listen to my colleagues and reflect their concerns, I go out with my friends and... it takes from me. I am an introvert. The debits of being outward grind down my inner savings. I have become a faker non pareil, putting out the cheer and the support for those I love. Then I crash. And I got nuttin'. No love for me, no love for anyone. Just a wrecked wracked psyche that craves illumination, that craves a Eucharist to restore it, to center it and bring it peace, to give it the right light touch where I can give graciously.

I still push for perfection. Until I can't push anymore.

At those times, it is not a choice to give or not to give, to climb or rest. My body and mind shut down. And then I remember what I have learned so many times before, in so many ways... we become stronger when we sleep. We become stronger climbers, triathletes, and runners when we give our bodies days off and allow for recovery! I become a stronger, more giving friend, teacher, and lover when I take the time to repair my mind, restore my heart. I read my climbing training guide and it tells me the same thing as my triathlon training books of old, as my heart tells me... my sleep is sanctioned, my recovery warranted.

So this is my new symbol, my new metaphor and mantra:

To that delicious moon I go, getting my Eucharist.

Hair & Skin & Bones & Teeth

"What is the best reason to love someone, do you think?"

I pose the question and then let his words talk over me. I am off to my own races. I think of the construct of him that lives in my mind. This person, this Boyfriend, with whom I pass the time and have conversation and laugh and eat and drink. I think of the title, his role and the way we fit it -- and what that means and where we have to go. I shiver.

I think of my Friends. We girls get together on Thursdays. We belay each other, push each other, compliment each other and razz each other. Then we break bread and drink wine. We lift each other up and we let each other down. We show up and are present; we put other things first and cancel. We ebb and flow in the construct of Friend. As our lives get busy, we drift and then reconnect -- or just keep drifting.

His profile in my peripheral vision brings me back to my bed. I look at him. I see his crinkly hair, his tan forehead, weathered cheeks, the narrow bone of his nose, and his teeth flashing between the lips as they move. "You see them. You see them and know how they've been formed by the love they've been given. You see how they're going to give and receive love. You accept everything about them. You see them."

The construct fades and I am seeing him. I see hair and skin and bones and teeth. I feel a rush of humanity. I realize that I want to see this way always. I want to lose the construct and the attachment to it. I want to see hair and skin and bones and teeth.

Stop Signs

All stop signs should have eight sides and be painted red. But, alas, some do not wear the correct attire. Don't be sucked in!

In romantic relationships...

He says "I love you" within the first few weeks and wants you to move in at four months. How can you trust this man's judgment? Answer: You can't! Do not be tempted by the oft-repeated claims of love and I've-never-felt-like-this-befores.

If he rips apart the woman he was married to for 20 years, and describes past girlfriends in overly-critical terms, he's gonna be bad for you. Once the infatuation and lure of sex wears off, he's gonna see that you too have flaws. Let the critiques begin. Blech.

When biking...

If the metal, paint, or wooden bridge you are crossing is wet, slow down! A metal plate on the bike trail just wrecked my three year no-accident record. And I failed to get out of my clips before I hit the pavement. There I was on the concrete looking around to see who was going to see me lying there with only my dignity lower than that bottom pavement-kissing hip. Fortunately, most people don't bike in the rain. Huh, wonder why. I wrenched myself free of the pedals with no witnesses to mark my grace.

Think I can extract myself from situation #1 with a trace of grace?

The Day I Learned to Live

October 11, 2009

After an hour and 24 minutes of circling La Plata's summit, looking for my trail down, I decided to return my crampons to REI and learn to knit. The 45 MPH wind gusts and the snow stinging my eyes were convincing factors. The fact that I couldn't find the tracks I had just laid in the snow and that the cairns had disappeared behind snow drifts had to be faced. I wasn't cold but my weary muscles and fatigued - frightened - brain screamed at me to GET OFF THE MOUNTAIN and STAY OFF THE MOUNTAIN!

I bargained and pleaded. If I could just get off of this mountain in one piece, under my own power, I would....

I had no place being at 14,336 feet in the first place. My hiking partner had backed out the night before because she didn't like the sounds of the wind and snow in the forecast. (*Hint*) I never missed a beat. I was almost happy to be doing it by myself. I packed my brand new crampons, my snowshoes, and hitched my (also brand new) ice ax to my pack with jubilation. I skimmed over the forecast winds and snow and fastened onto two words, "Mostly Sunny." I needed no more encouragement. A day in the mountains was calling my name. I would steal a day.

The ascent - though windy - was a piece of cake in comparison to what was to come. I was taking a nonstandard route but was happy to find it well-marked with cairns and recent tracks in the snow. I wasn't overly concerned when my map and route description blew away. The ridgeline to the summit was obvious and once on the top, I'd just turn around and follow my own track down. I was low on energy, but what was this? A measly seven mile round trip. I would just take it slower, eat another Gu, and all would be well. The summit was close, it was only a 7 mile round trip, what could go wrong? I would summit today.

After 4 hours of hiking and 3,380 feet of elevation gain, I summited. I crowed at having "stolen a day" and snapped a few pictures. In that same self-congratulatory mode, I started the descent. About 15 minutes down I realized that the valley I was looking at didn't look familiar. I had followed tracks but then it dawned on me that I was doing the nonstandard route - the standard route would come right off of the summit too. I had no idea where they split and how they crossed each other.

I now willed my good map to be back in my hands. I had a crummy backup map that indicated that the gross direction I needed to head was southwest. But where was that? The clouds had moved in so I couldn't use the sun with any regularity plus it was 2:30. I had no idea if the sun was more in a southerly direction or was it already in the west?

I looked around and circled the summit. I'd go a little ways down one side and then come back up, go down the other way and come back up. I just wasn't sure. "You're going to be OK, you know?" I said out loud to myself. I knew I needed to keep my wits - and the summit, an indisputable landmark - about me at this point. After deliberating and circling the summit, I decided to follow the most defined cairns and trail. I didn't think it was heading southwest but reassured myself that the trail could just be switching back, and I would just get down the bloody mountain before nightfall and then work out what to do at the (potentially wrong) trailhead.

After following that trail for what seemed like forever, but was only about 30 minutes, I recognized landmarks that proved that I was on the right trail. I heaved a sigh of relief. Prematurely. Just below that point (at approximately 13000 feet) came the snowiest part of the trail and the snow had blown up against the cairns, not completely covering them but making them difficult to spot. I had to pick my way across this section to spot the cairns - and to avoid slipping/falling between the rocks. I had many thoughts of what a twisted ankle or broken bone would mean at this point. The weather worsened.

Wind and stinging sleet now made me want to hurry. But I forced myself to stop and search for the next cairn, sinking to my knees in spots, crossing that snow.

At the saddle on the ridge, I turned to descend into a valley of willows. It was slow-going into the valley and I even had my ice ax out to self arrest in case I slipped. I reached the willows and lost the trail AGAIN!

I was sick to my stomach with anxiety and super-fatigued, but talked myself through it, telling myself that the trail had to funnel out of the valley somehow and it wasn't a super wide valley - about 1/4 mile across. I bushwhacked to the left side of the valley and then worked my way back across it to the right. I struck the trail way on the right side and was able to stick to it for the remainder of the way down. I reached my car before night fell.
-------------

My first reaction to this event was anger and self-reproach. I made lists of resolutions about hiking more safely. I have kept those resolutions.

I rejoiced. I was glad to be alive, glad to be at school the next morning, glad to not have spent the night on the mountain.

I reflected. I am drawn to this "province of the extreme" (thanks, Jon Krakauer), but I need to indulge it safely. I am drawn to this province and just doing the mountains is What I'm Looking For. People refer to me as "driven" but that doesn't acknowledge the pleasure I have in hiking, summitting, being with friends on the mountain, being alone on the mountain, fighting the elements on the mountain, soaking up the sun's rays on the mountain. They do so much for me.

I learned. I don't want to die. This sentiment and its force astonished me. It is my anchor, my core. I have an iron will to live. In the two years after my divorce, that was not a given. I had voiced sentiments to the contrary. On La Plata that day, there was no contrariness. I was pure will power. I suppressed anything that would impede my getting off the mountain before nightfall. I focused. Today, I believe that I would have kept walking until I was out or dead. I felt an intractability of spirit that I can still conjure.

With the benefit of hindsight, I see that day as my personal turning point. It's the day I learned to live.

By the Way...

I am not a triathlete anymore. Yeah, I know. Should change the blog name, but at least I'm still telling half-truths. Plus, I really don't know what I am in its place. Survivor? Will Keep Walking? Mountaineer?

I finished my 14ers just about a year ago and have had that post-Ironman phenom of... What next? Seriously. It consumed me for two years and they were an awesome two. I was focused and my learning curve was as steep as some of those mountainsides. But now what? Here are some ideas:

1) Climb all of Colorado's 13ers. There are 637 of them so it would keep me busy for a spell.
2) Become moderate with my exercise and life. Work out 40 minutes per day and call it good.
3) Train for and climb Aconcagua in Argentina. It has a couple of things to recommend it; it's 22K and it's located in prime wine country.
4) Stay home and focus on more domestic pursuits: play my guitar, be a good girlfriend, decorate my recently-purchased condo. Maybe I'll take up knitting too. Gak! (No offense, it's just not me. Yet. I keep trying it on every few years. Maybe it'll take one of these days.)
5) Focus on some measurable aspect of my profession, e.g. work towards National Board Certification, take more classes, get a Master's in English lit.
6) Get on my goal of paying back to the mountains a portion of what they've done for me. I have resolved to do one day of trailwork for each 14er climbed. Fifty-eight summits = 58 trailwork days. I have completed three so far.

Meh. It's just like after Ironman in 2006. I really want something, but nothing grabs me. After IM, it was two years before I knew my next endeavor. So I finished my 14ers in September of 2010. Is it reasonable to hope that I'll have my next big challenge figured out by 9/2012? And in the interim, just do a goulash of the above. Do 'em all a little bit and nothing well? Gak! Hand me the knitting needles already.

Mountaineering Tips

1. When off-route, it is best to retrace your steps to the place where you last had trail. Even if you can see the peak and where you need to go, what lies between you and it is invariably more time- and energy-consuming (read: bushwhacking) than retracing your steps.
2. If you cliff out on a route, don't try to climb your way out of it. Retrace your steps and find a better route - or heck! - find the trail.
3. If it's too hard, there's an easier way.
4. There. I believe I've covered that one. You get to read it and learn. I had to do many reps before it sank into my thick skull.
5. Form your own conservation society. Conserve energy, time, calories, and water.
6. You will be hot, you will be hungry, your partner will be imperfect. You will be uncomfortable.
7. You will be sated, euphoric, in the rhythm of hiking, in sync with the world. You will feel great.
8. When hot, scoop snow and dab it behind each ear as if putting on perfume. Tuck the remaining snowball into the cleavage of your sports bra. This will cool you down.
9. Conserve energy. Place each foot. Hike and climb "quietly." Bonus: you look graceful.
10. When doing something painful & necessary, but not necessarily dangerous, e.g. crossing an icy stream, pick a line and do it quickly.
11. When doing something potentially dangerous, e.g. making a sketchy climbing move, pick a line and do it deliberately.
12. Monitor yourself for signs that fatigue is impeding your judgement. Don't do anything stupid.
13. Conserve calories. Keep some food in case you take longer on a route than planned, e.g. a 10-hour day turns into a 17-hour day. Some of these will be the best days of your life as you constantly struggle to avert catastrophe. Then you do and feel euphoric.
14. Conserve water. Also, take water treatment tabs with you. When you've emptied a Nalgene, refill and treat the water. This averts dehydration and makes you feel like you've "made" water, you powerful person.
15. Persevere.
16. Summit Fever is real. Remember: you never have to get a summit.
17. Never touch steep now without an ice ax. NEVER. Fifteen terrifying feet of rapid descent taught me this.
18. Ounces equal pounds, pounds equal pain. Pack efficiently.
19. Take rock shoes for class 3&4 routes. These "magic shoes" will give you an extra boost of confidence - and stickiness.
20. Be good to yourself. If you need a summit to get high, do it. If an alpine lake will suffice, go for it. Bring the peace, euphoria, and goodness back to real life. Let it leak out of you.

I have climbed all of Colorado's 14,000 foot peaks. It has done for me what I wanted it to do plus some. The journey made me persevere through discomfort, made me let it run its course and become something new. I achieved and stood on summits. And I learned that I want to live. On one peak, I uncovered a will to survive that surprised me and that is now my unshakeable, unquakeable core.

I recommend it.

The Guatemala Nod

One afternoon Rosary praying
circled together in the chapel
She looked up from the depths of her Catholicism,
found this atheist daughter's eyes
and winked.

I took it as her endorsement
her blessing
to close my eyes
and recommence
my sinful daydreaming.

Rosary chanting faded to a buzz
as I left them there
and found myself stretched
for him
half-turned

His hands
long, tapered, and skillful
met me there
playing my unsaintly parts
I dreamed climbing mountains and
sweet summits.

I took it that way.

She is Everything

She is everything.

We are just back from a humanitarian trip to Guatemala where the green greets you before your plane even lands. Coerced into going, she landed in a paradise of bougainvillea, mango orchards, and jacaranda trees. The fruits of that volcanic ash soil first nourished her soul. The week kept wrapping itself around her and she met it - at first with the tentative tread of a reserved person but then with the full power of her quiet personality. I saw her.

I saw her best at the hospital. We walked into a Franciscan-run institution where the outcasts of Guatemala land. Babies are left on the steps. Adults with any stripe of disability are granted sanctuary and clean care. Slack jaws and drool and deformed limbs sent me cowering inside myself. She, on the other hand, met it. With that warm, crinkly-eyed smile and her arthritic hands, she reached out to them and said in her English, "Hello." It was universal. They turned their faces up to her and smiled.

I saw the strong woman of my youth insisting on doing the dirtiest work, the thankless tasks, throughout the week. She wore her frilly green blouse, donned an apron, and was on the rusty school desks before anyone else could find sandpaper. She grabbed the stickiest pots, chiseled away at dried wood putty, and climbed to the back of the van.

I saw the empathetic woman I've come to know as an adult. Only she could sustain Aunt Penny's elbow with just the right touch. Not of pity, not of support, but of quiet presence. She cried in the market. This woman of reserve broke down when we bought sets of school clothes for our sponsored children. She then recovered and laughed along with the tickling and storytelling on the van-ride home. She showed up in Guatemala and was present. She has done so forever.

She is wonder woman. She is Unstinting Giving. She is my mom.

Good

Fifty-eight summits
over the last two years
have given me time to think
time to heal
time to reinvent myself

and

I want to be good.
A good person.
No longer just surviving
my heart has healed
I am now striving.

I want empathy
I want to see
I want understanding
When off-route on the mountain
following a guy who bumbles
even more than us
I want to guide him to safety
in spite of the discomfort
in spite of the inconvenience
in spite of my hiking partner's impatient orders
I want to follow me
the inner voice that knows
I want to make the right choice
the one that I would tell my parents about
the one that would make them proud
to have raised a humane being
I want to be good

I want it everywhere in my life
Centered
Lucidity
and a dose of eloquence wouldn't hurt
I have taken long steps to summit 58 peaks
Now I am aiming for good.

Permanence

I will always be...
driven.
I know it.
I will always gather the odd yards at the end of a set
the odd minutes at the end of a workout
the last 300 feet to a mountaineering 3000
I will always be that person.
I know it.

I will always be...
joyful.
Waking up and cuddling Sugs
with his ridiculous button nose
telling him what a great day it is
and how foolish he is to stay in bed
all day lazy bear

Always smiling to myself after leaving
Albertsons
The classroom
The climbing dinner
The people, my people
Always smiling
I will always be.
I know it.

And even if I'm not always
I will always be.
That's how it is.
I know it.

Anticipation

Strangely enough I am looking forward to it. Particularly because of the gruesomeness of it. We will awaken at 1:30 AM and drive through the wee hours to reach the trailhead. Once there, we will be greeted by Cielo Vista Ranch representatives who will collect our $100 and guide us onto the ranch. Then we climb.

This will be #41 for me. And you might think they become "old hat" at this point. Au contraire! Each one is different, on each one I learn something. And most of all, on each one, my love of these mountains - that feeling of fit, belonging - is reborn.

My hair is braided. My pack is readied. I will sleep now for a few hours and then awaken to fresh night and a mountain of goodness ahead.

Thirty-Eight Years Young

You would think I had never dressed myself
for manual labor before

Go get the knobby gloves from your mother

You can't wear your jeans
She throws sweat pants down the stairs
I only wear them for gardening
they can get ripped

I said to get the knobby gloves
He sits waiting on the tractor
waiting lest I...
have forgotten how to drive?
don't know how to signal
for the one left turn in our journey?

I think it is this

Stay behind me
He ahead of me
gesticulates madly
indicating left, Left, LEFT already
all of you hordes of people driving
rural dirt Wisconsin roads

I come home to Wisconsin
and
am
38 years young.
Ensconced.

Joshua Tree Speaks

There are boulders everywhere
and Joshua trees
evenly spaced
as if planted
as far as the eye can see

It comes to me here
I ache to climb them all
to start in the north and
work my way south
climbing touching learning every formation on my way

I start
Circling this ampitheater formation
round its perimeter rock by rock
hold by hold
I step lightly
place each foot deliberately
caress the rock's face
coaxing up handholds
placing my fingers gently
firmly
and transfer my weight
inching ever upward
leaving no trace

It comes to me here
My soul is a desert
free-ranging and true
open and arid
honest and sparse
a spurner of
the extra
the superfluous
the nonessential

My soul
is a free climber
wanting
needing
to do it alone
soul-o
the best
purest way
under my own steam
steaminess
sizzling
passionate
longing
to be doing
to be moving
to be communing with rock
My soul is a desert.

School Bathrooms

I munched carrots and celery in the Smoking Bathroom
avoided the cafeteria and its social morass
molasses
through which I could never wade
instead I hid
went where it was safe
to slide from
132 to 89.4
in four short months
determinedly
shrinking
myself

Between classes
I'd rush into "Staff - Women"
and unleash the real me
swirling
twirling
in my pretty purple skirt
shaking hips and giggling
Gleefully
composing poems to him
anticipating his laugh
his touch
tingling togetherness
We'd be reunited
soon
Anticipation
in the confines of "Staff - Women"

My shoulders fall apart in this bathroom
all of me caves to the middle
under which there is no support
The crushing collapse takes me by surprise
I was a teacher but twenty seconds ago
What ho with this puddle?
A reminder
A memory
A mourning
of loss I thought I was getting over already
Steely determination and paper grade TP
contrast with the gentle watery smile
peering at me from the mirror
an acknowledgement
a trying to understand
a trying to love myself
to give myself time
to be patient
but gather myself quickly
in this five minute passing period
Sandpaper TP dabs at the eyes
fingers fly to the hair,
brush it from hot cheeks
center in a smile
and leave my retreat
The professional restored.

Those walls don't speak
They peel me.

Prayer for a Lover

The mountains are suffused with light.
I think of you.
My body is aching with sadness.
I think of you.

Some of my best days
Were the days with you
You've given me my worst
and I to you?

I miss you.

When I'm sick
When I'm low
I'm at my weakest
There are you.

I miss you.

Devolution

Jaggedy bike paths
and velvety night rides
these are a few of
my dangerous things

It is certain that I devolve
that my ancestors were panthers
Caged all day in pretty clothes
and encouraging words
the feral blood prowling in silence
awaiting its chance

The spandex hits my crotch
and I roll
threading my way
through velvety darkness
egged on by coyotes
yipping in the open space
On all sides of me
voices threading through the grass
across the trail
with just me slicing between

Five miles through State Park,
I see no other humans
I fly too fast for a girl without a night light
but am unable to stop
unable to tether the panther
whose need for speed
teeth sucking wind
jaw gaping
bugs splintering the cornices
of my eyes
Makes me whole.

14er Bliss

I love the hard, pumpy feeling you get when you are working at going uphill.
I love the way my head pounds until a single chocolate outrage Gu stitches those frayed temple edges back together.
I love the way you have to step slowly and place each foot deliberately so as not to plummet to injury - or just waste a ton of energy.
I love the way you gasp in that thin air that yet tastes fresher than the air anywhere else in the world.
I love the way I don't shower or change my clothes for days at a time. (I am green!)
I love the way you meet people on their journeys up the same mountain - and they've come from so many directions.
I love the way my body stays in motion, the way it craves the top as much as my oxygen-stretched mind.
I love the way the world is at the top.

I love everything about it.

Mt. Belford & Mt. Oxford
11 miles, 5900 feet, 9:04.37
July 25, 2009

The Minimalist

You are tempted to take shortcuts, to cut weight and "things" from your pack, to leave it all behind... but the minimalist has learned a few lessons.

You will need a cap and gloves on top of most 14ers. Even when it's 80 degrees in Denver, the top of Torrey's will most likely be tempestuous. Winds blow up there. All the time. Sneak snowfalls and thick wet clouds engulf you. Even the rocks wear a chilly set of whiskers. A warm 14er is a rare find. Come down 500 feet from the summit and you'll most likely bake, but up top - the winds prevail.

Extra water and energy gels are a must. Sunscreen cannot be neglected.


I'm tempted today as I pack. To cut things & stuff loose. But even the minimalist needs warmth on a bare peak. Even the strongest need help, need supportive people on their journeys.

Into my pack goes the warmth.

Mt. Yale: 14,196 Feet

I summited today! It was one of those days where I covered a lot of territory. My favorite shot of the day...

That Time of Year

It's that time of year. That grateful time, the time of reaping all we've sown. The kids are awesome. I ask them to write a sentence using the word "genuinely," and Ellis writes, "I genuinely appreciate Ms. TT teaching me reading and writing."

I have fought so hard with these kids this year! I have despaired of EVER getting through to them, of ever having them see that this - this intervention - is in their very best self-interest. Every day, they are showing signs that they now see the light. They are taking charge, putting themselves in the driver's seat with their reading and writing. (And loving their teacher, which goes a long way to repair the ego they battered earlier this year.)

Today we curled up around the lava lamp for read aloud. I got two pages into it and we side-tracked for a discussion of adoption and foster care and all the issues that lead to parents making the decision to not raise their own children. It was deep and close and caring.

One other nugget for the days next year when I have the new, untrained ones... Parents and teachers of middle schoolers, I direct your attention to this...

I let slip yesterday that, because of a schedule snafu, one student had spent an hour one-on-one with me in my office. My news was met with a chorus of "How come she got to do that?"

Aren't these adolescents supposed to be wresting their independence from us? They are not. Not anymore than we want to be free of them. I'm already sad about the year ending.

Yeah, I'm a loser. But I'm a grateful loser.

Lucidity Comes in Liquid Form

Everything I ever needed to know I learned on the swim.

I did fast 100s. My heart beat so hard, felt so large, that I was sure it was going to leap out of my rib cage and make a splashy entrance into the water below me.

My heart was full, sitting there doing her nails. In all honesty, she was a difficult grandma. She was a don't-touch-that grandma. But last week, I sat at a table with her, soaking her chemotherapy-hardened fingernails and toenails, clipping them, filing them and then rubbing in balm to fend off the itchy, thick skin. My mom was there. My sister-in-law, various nieces and nephews ran in and out. We talked. We laughed. She stayed there with us, with all of that chaotic kid and family noise. She stayed even though her head bobbed with tiredness. She was saying all of the things she'd never said. She said them eloquently with all that staying.

My plane landed in Denver on Sunday night and my phone rang. I thought my heart would burst, make a splashy entrance into the sunlit Colorado air that surrounded me. I wanted it to burst, to paint the sky with a rainbow, to tell Grandma that 89 years was just enough to thank a daughter, to woo a grand-daughter, to be heard.

Your arms reach and pull, all muscles seriously scrabbling for more purchase, more glide, more speed.

It clicked for me. How to climb the mountain was clear. I learned it from swimming. I needed to bend down, crawl like a monkey - on my hands and feet, my core tight, my arms scrabbling for purchase in the slippery scree. I needed to forgo oxygen and push through in bursts. I clued in the climbers nearest me - my nephew and my sister. In less than an hour, they would summit their first fourteener. I would stand there with two of my sisters, transported from our lives on a rural Wisconsin dairy farm when there was guaranteed Holstein shit under our fingernails for the first 18 years of our lives, up to that place that defies words... though my sister, in rushing bursts, tried... "It's all so amazing... It's nothing like I'd ever imagined it would be... every step of it... but how could I have imagined this...?"



I stretched, long and lean in the water. I was all glide and no effort. I flipped and repeated.

Do you ever get the feeling that what you are doing - in this precise moment - is exactly what you were meant to do, that you have been training all of your life for just this moment? That your neurons, your fibers, your very self is in harmony with this place? Do you ever wonder how you got there? Do you shake your head at the very odd confabulation of events that led to it?

I end this piece on a packing night. I will be on a plane again tomorrow. Going to a funeral, reuniting with my family - to grieve, to celebrate. I take with me Colorado sunshine. I take with me the sweet stillness of a good swim. I take with me peace - and the ability to be ever-surprised.

The Ample Spread

I feel the ample spread
when I sit down in my chair
My hips and thighs
conquer
quashing any resistance
from the chair
the loveseat
even the couch can hold
no truck with them
This truckload o' me
brooks no opposition

And while I'm bitchin'...

My hair is streaked with silver
I've got cottage cheese
- and not just on my plate -

BUT

My ample spread
encompasses
not only the state of my
buttocks and thighs
but also my frame of mind
I'm comfortable where I am
wide-ranging and free

So keep your skinny hips
and your 6-pack abs
I'm comfortable with
my ample spread
my horn of plenty
my plethora
the bottomless pit o' me
(No pictures with this post though.)

DNS Mountain Style

I Did Not Summit today, but Mount Yale was kind enough to reward me with one of the best failures of my life.

This hike comes out of the gate in your face, ascending brutally from the get-go. Up-up. So it goes onward and upward for about a mile, and then you leave the hard-packed snowmobile trail. You think the snow is crusty enough to support you - and about 70% of the time it is. So you slog along, breaking through every few steps until your frustration overcomes your laziness and you stop, unclip the snowshoes, and put them on your feet. Sweet relief!

Until even those can't hack it. I reached this avalanche chute - and man, those things are false advertisers! They look all white and glisteny and inviting, and then you start walking up them and even your snowshoes don't cut it.



I'd take a step and sink in up to my waist, falling forward on both hands. So I thought I'd be smart and walk up it on my hands and feet. Not so smart. My feet couldn't get a purchase. I'd step and scramble with my snowshoes, essentially running in place, churning out crystalline snow in my wake. Then I'd stop and side-step and gain two inches. It was HARD. It took me the most arduous 30 minutes of my life to get up the damn thing. I really thought I was getting somewhere, because I saw patches of rocks (oh, sweet rocks) leading up to the summit. Ha! That was the kicker...

There were more steep patches of snow in between the rocks. I persisted until I'd been out 4 hours. At about 1/2 (grisly) mile from the summit, I decided that Yale would just have to wait for me to grace its top. I had eaten my lunch, 2 Gus, Shot Bloks and jerky and finally caught on that no amount of fuel was going to get the spring back in my legs. I'd given Yale the the ol' college try and it had shown itself to be the BMOC. So I gave up and started down. And that was even hard. Did you hear me?? Glissading down was hard. Without warning, I'd drop through the crust and end up with a pile of snow in my craw. That quite impeded progress.

When I reached the tree line, things finally leveled out a bit and - the sun was out en force. It was 52 degrees and so bright. The mountains were in bas relief against the blue sky, the trees were in bas relief against the snow... it was purdy. I couldn't stay peeved. It felt so nice and warm. I slowed down and took a ton of pictures, frolicked, and just looked at stuff. All told, I was in there 6 hours.




Attempt concluded, I drove out to the main road in the teeny town of Buena Vista and - surprise, surprise - turned the wrong way on the highway. I realized it within a mile so turned around. I took it as a sign that I was supposed to stop somewhere and indulge the strange craving I'd been having. I ate a cheeseburger. I haven't eaten a burger in 15 years. I pulled off at this mom & pop place that had a lot of cars in the parking lot (that is my new #1 restaurant- choosing strategy) and ordered the quarter-pounder with cheese. It was charbroiled deliciousness.

That helped me get my head on right - and served as the icing on the cake for a perfect DNS.

The CLimBer

I'm exhausted and my fingertips hurt, but I can't sleep and want to write. My blood is still up.

I went climbing outdoors for the first time today. I keep replaying it. The holds, the exhilaration, the way it felt to just boss my way up the climb. Then the utter exhaustion and my inability to grasp even the easiest hold. The way my body told me "no," the way my mind could just not persist, did not even want to - the way I hated the rock and wanted off in the worst way.

I never felt unsafe. My belayer is too good for that. But I did feel unsure. It feels like a massive departure from who I used to be. The climbing crowd is part of it. The rock itself is another. Then there's my learning curve - the absolute mental and physical challenge. I could barely follow the conversation on the way to the rock. The terms, the names of (apparently) famous climbs and climbers... My climbing partners threw their jargon around like snow in Wisconsin. I was in a blizzard and just tried to keep my vision clear. More than once, I was snowed-in.

And that was even before we got to the rocks.

Once there, I soon found myself on belay and climbing Shelf's limestone walls. Implicitly trusting my belay partners and going all out, attacking the rock. You look for the weakness in the rock - and it ferrets out every weakness in you. I used every part of my body and every piece of rock that I could think of to devise a hold. To pull myself up those rock faces. I bear the battle scars. Bruised knees, a chunk of skin out of a finger pad, and muscles that I don't want to face tomorrow.

I attempted five climbs. I couldn't make it to the top on my last two. A meager three full ascents drained every ounce of my energy. My third climb was my most fun - but the most technical of them all, the bruise-maker. It was called "Don't mess with my Moves" (each climb has a catchy little moniker) and was "in your face" the whole time, requiring the climber to be creative in finding each hold. I remember being splayed on the rock, spread-eagle style to reach holds, while other moves had my hands and feet hugging an outward bulge of rock. That's where I earned the bruises; determinedly hugging that rock with my thighs and knees, not wanting to give it an inch - wanting to ascend under my own power.

Once that climb was done, I attempted the fourth and fifth climbs but found that I was done. My body was tapped out. My mind was tapped out.

Right now I am a CLimBer; my skills are as jagged as Shelf's burlier faces. I am going to have to work to get good at this. According to my climbing partners, I have a natural aptitude, but even with that, I didn't do a single "clean" climb. I either fell off the wall or had to ask for a "take" - wherein my belayer locked down the rope and let me hang to rest and consider my next move. I am far, far from being able to lead. It is unsettling to be a newbie at this. I am, however, settled on one thing: I will be back. I am in the place where it makes sense to do this.

As exemplified by this final photo. We left as the sun was beginning to sink. But a glance back revealed nine different ropes at work on this one wall. Shelf's hundreds of routes find just as many climbers. This is quite a place.

Mt. Sherman is Mine, All Mine

I did it! Bagged my fifth 14er on Saturday. I can now notch my belt with Mt. Sherman, 14,036 feet.

The trip was awesome - beginning with the drive to the trailhead. I topped two new passes and the view was stunning. From Denver, highway 285 leads you to the Mosquito Range which hosts Mt. Sherman. It also leads you to incomparable views. The passes opened onto wide valleys framed by the mountains. Little - like teeny, cardboard box - towns were nestled in there. I drove through and couldn't help but dream of purchasing real estate. You wanna be tucked away - that's the place.

After Fairplay (the most populated city in its county, boasting 610 souls), you turn off on a highway that quickly turns into a boulder-strewn gravel road. When that peters out into feet-deep snow (where the plows stop), you park and start hiking.

The hike itself was... incredible. It is a singular experience doing these 14ers. My other hikes are pretty views and tranquilizers; I find so much peace. These 14ers are all hard edges and adrenaline. You start above treeline so there are only the bare faces of the mountains and their individual shapes to study. Some have been uptilted, decorating their faces with horseshoe-shaped bands of minerals. Others are stout little pyramids greeting you. Others, like Sherman, while indistinct in shape, are no less impressive for their sheer mass and power over the landscape.

Though snow is the predominant color, rocks with their coats of lichen also dot the mountainsides. Occasionally, human structures break out of the landscape. Abandoned mine shafts remind you of Colorado's rocky mineral history. Looking down, you see fir trees, standing stark and dark against the white of the snow.

For most of the hike, I followed a well-blazed trail. But by approximately 13,500 feet, I had passed all the other climbers and was left to my own devices to find the trail. Naturally, I lost it (my map had flown into a ravine early in the hike) and I ended up making my own path. I could see the summit ridge so I knew which direction to go, but it was quite tricky picking a path. My choices were to pick my way up steep, slippery scree - or posthole up a nearly vertical wall of snow. And of course you don't realize how vertical things are until you start...

I chose the snowy path, kicking my boots into the snow for toeholds and grasping with my fingers for handholds. It all went pretty well until I reached the very last ledge. And it was a doozy of a ledge - with snow stacked up to my chest. And it was hard-packed. Kicking to test the snow and finding it unyielding, I considered Down. But Down looked more treacherous than Up.

Up it would be. I kicked several times before I could begin to consider putting my weight on the toeholds. I threw my mittens up on the ledge and dug handholds with my fingernails. With two good footholds, I heaved myself up and crawled on hands and knees once on the ledge itself. Tricky, tricky. Meanwhile, all the other yaks were gaping at me - and mostly going a different route. I got lotso props on that move on my way down. But mostly I just loved it for me. It's a bit ineffable, this feeling I have while climbing, but I'll give it a whirl...


I realized that day on Sherman that I am no longer just somewhat driven; I am summit driven. It feels like purity, like all of life's ambiguities are no more. There you find yourself at 13,500 feet, buffeted by winds and facing steep rock and frozen snow. I love being at 13,500 - much more than the 14,038. Thirteen-five is where the adventure is. The self-reliance, the test of strength and stamina. The choice between Down and Up, while daunting, is a clear one. And you write the ending all yourself. I revel in my body's strength and - dare I say? - developing skillz.

The top? Oh yes, I reached it. It took me 3 hours and 15 minutes. It was super windy so I spent very little time stopped anywhere - not even the summit. I snapped a few photos, signed the 14ers ledger, and began the descent.

When I reached the downhill of the less steep snowfields, I remembered an episode of Man Vs. Wild in which Bear Grylls saved mucho energy by glissading down an embankment. I promptly plopped myself in the snow and slid down, steering myself by slightly digging my heels into the snow or pushing down with the heels of my hands. It was a ball! That 3:15 it took me to get up turned into 1:59 for the way down.

Once finished, I was a zombie, tucking myself into my car, not even changing out of my wet socks and boots but rather doing all that needed to be done with automaticity. I listened to no music on the way home; rather I was accompanied by my own thoughts and the sensations of 14.

Mt. Sherman? Feels like mine.

The Rocks Were There...

...so I climbed them.










Path finding mid-stream. Better now than never.











Goal met: I reached my chair and sat for a spell.







Eldorado Canyon Hike 2/16/09

Eye-Opener

They come into my office one-by-one
these struggling readers
referred to me by teachers
who have related their
battle stories

unmotivated
LaZy
Trouble-maker
PUNK

They come into my office
one-by-one
and they perform
No, they transform
for those 20 minutes
they become students again
slicked-up and straight-backed
doing their darndest to answer my questions

Some can't sit still to save their lives
some can't answer my comprehension questions to save their lives
but they try
they have new hope
for that 20 minutes they see
a new teacher
a new opportunity
and to a one
one-by-one
their egos respond
the best in them shines
they have hope
they give it their all

That resiliency
that capacity for hope
is inspiring ...
yet sad

Because when my 20 minutes is up
they leave
Over my head in my office hangs
their hope
their inspiration
their assiduity
Over my head hang
the question marks

Can we?
How?
Will we?

The Mountain Top

I am another person on the mountain top.
I'm the person who knows how to live.
Who knows how to give.
Who wants nothing for herself.
Who has everything she needs.
Who doesn't crave
or claw
or demand
But rather
listens
and hears
and is soothing
quiet
peace.

I see far on the mountain top.



Photo - Pike's Peak Ascent, 9/12/08
Sentiments - Eldorado Canyon Hike, 2/16/09

Did you see that streak?

It was me on my bike! It was AMAZING here in Denver today.

It was the kind of day that makes happiness leak out of you & everyone else you meet on the bike path, resulting in a culture of grinning that seems almost cultish. It was 67 degrees with sun, sun, sun that flooded the bike paths and baked the concrete. It was the kind of day where you yell (OK, I yelled), "Go, shirtless guy!" to the biker in the oncoming lane. It was the kind of day where you started out a little fearful, because - well, you think about things differently when you've been hit by a car - but then find yourself fearless because you have a mightily beneficent tailwind and every time you look down to check the gauge it's whispering sweet nothings to you... 19, 20, 24, 26 MPH...

You find yourself fearless because the sun emboldens you. You find yourself fearless because the downhills feel so sweet and rounding the curves feels tight and fast. You find yourself fearless because your bike feels like an extension of you and you are lithe and strong and healed and - best of all - on the road again. Riding out the thoughts of the day, obsessing over the kids, the colleagues, the lesson plans, the problem solving until you've ridden them all out. And all that's left is you and the motion and the pure mounting joy...

Today: 21.4 miles, 19.4 MPH Av.