Kingston Peak 12,147 Feet

It was wicked in the high country today. Here's what we could see of our intended summit, 13er, James Peak. ---->

It was one of the best views we got.

To that end, Sweet Sister and I decided to do Kingston Peak, since we could actually see it. Even so, the wind and cold proved challenging. Neither of us drank any water as mine was frozen and Sweet Sis was too cold to dig hers out of her pack. My thumbs and fingers and facial skin begged me to turn back.

And I would have, except Sweet Sis had been robbed of James Peak on two successive days last week and was not going to turn back for anything. Today she needed a peak, any peak. She wasn't going to stop and see her younger, weaker sister flagging her, waving both trekking poles in the air and pointing down, down, down. Younger, weaker sis who was decidedly sick of braving frost bite for a peak that wasn't on any list she'd ever made. Decidedly not in the mood for winds that found the millimeter of bare skin between the Turtle Fur, goggles, and Mountain Hardware Windstopper cap. For winds that weren't stopped by the cap designed just for them. Criminy! These were the definition of vicious.

So I trucked along, seeing - if not the face - the back of determination. Don't think I didn't still try. Every time I could lift my head and spy her - and she was stopped - I tried to reason with her, or at least my trekking poles did.

She has always ignored me. And I couldn't let her continue on alone in those conditions. So I tagged along. Saying lots of expletives in my head and even one or two aloud. Until mercifully, we reached the top and shouted something to each other. We did not commemorate the moment with a photo as our camera batteries had decided it was too cold and were dead. I gestured that we descend the east face of the thing, thinking we could find the lee of the wind somewhere.

We did. It was manna from the heavens compared to the blasting we'd taken on the ascent. I could hear her, and she could hear me. I gave her an edited version of my thoughts on the ascent, and we agreed to stick closer together in the future. Then it was sisters on the mountain again, pointing out peaks in the distance and adding them to mental checklists, reveling in the ruggedness of two that we'd already done, and making a game of picking the spots where our boots wouldn't posthole through. We talked about the sand-like texture of the snow, a product of the -4 degree temperature, no doubt, and enjoyed sending it skittering with a whiff of our boots. We talked of family and friends and feelings and anything else that happened to come to mind.

Three hours and nineteen minutes later, we were back to the car. Seven hours and forty-two minutes later, my thumbs still tingle, but my face bears a big grin. In spite of conditions and against my better judgement, there is something to be said for sticking with your sister. Pretty much always.

Embracing the Other

It is the rub against those who are different that allows you to reflect, reject, and re-find yourself. I am different from my family. After going there for Xmas and seeing the baby-centrism, I am championing childless folks who mountaineer. I see this stance for what it is -  a reaction, a rejection of the belief as real as the one put unquestioningly on the top of the Christmas tree for all to adore.

I can't look at it with adoration. I am not appended to a child. And when one doesn't have a baby hanging from the teat, one is considered not quite whole at my parents' house. The conversations are coos and comparisons and proud parents, rivaling siblings, fingers tucked into suckling mouths.

Please. I like the babies. I love my family. But I do not want what they embrace. And I object to being a shadow floating around the edges of conversation in a home that should live up to the "There's no place like home for the holidays" adage. I am probably not the only embittered, fatter, sugared-up American who is realizing that the thousands of miles of travel and consternation over the right gifts were misplaced.

What is the answer? To continue to rail against them? (Never aloud. Good daughters dasn't.) To scorn their close-mindedness and lack of reflection and perception? To resent them and swear to never do x, y, and z again!? Or, to feel I don't measure up and try to stitch a spot in the family fabric for single aunties - and feel worse when the thread pops out? Probably healthy doses of both have already been done. Maybe even unhealthy doses.

Should I review my life choices and assure myself that lives like mine count and don't float on the periphery of everyone's awareness? I could argue that lives like mine are better, but I don't believe that's the point. I believe the point is that I've brushed up again against the other, people whose fundamental beliefs do not match mine. They are sandpaper against my skin - Mom and Little Sister the coarse grit, Dad and Big Sister the fine. Chafing and grinding.

They remove the detritus and I surface. I am an unmarried, childless-by-choice woman who mountaineers. I will not have children, I will not devote myself to the examination of their every (bowel) movement and mouthing. I am not an appendage to someone else, nor are they to me. I quite like my own arms and legs and my thoughts and ideas. I could add to my family - their lives and conversations in so many ways - if the rapture in burbling and bawling babies would stop for just a moment. Oh, for the moment!

Clear and Cold

It was clear and cold when I started the snowshoe up to Mount Bierstadt. Nine degrees. The brittle snow squeaked like Wisconsin cheese curds under my snowshoes. It talked back to my poles, the sound of a squeaky hinge - the oldest variety - or the sound the Scream face might make if it made a sound. The cold snuck up on me in weird places, stealing the warmth from my right arm here, siphoning it from my knee caps and quads there.

It was clear and cold when I came across the Moose Guy. I thought he was a moose at first. I watched "the moose" as it worked its slow way up the path. I became puzzled when I noticed it was following the switchbacks. But that hump? As I drew closer, I could see the man, bent over the trail, his pack humping on his back. He worked the snow across the trail, walking hunched over, his hands busy. Something in the busy-ness of those hands made me recall Tobacco Charlie and our seedy college apartment house. My husband and I had named the maintenance lady Leather Face. She liked my handsome husband. "Those old ladies let you leave the nursing home?" she'd call to him in greeting. Kind and charming, Eric would quip something back. The leather would split to emit a hacking cough of a laugh, one that cut through the smell of Meals on Wheels seeping under the door of our neighbor's apartment and over the sound of his TV to reach my ears in our own apartment.

Tobacco Charlie, another apartment dweller, was so-named because he wore a grizzled (the poster man for the term) beard that served as a bib for the drippings of his tobacco chew. We didn't interact with him, just knew him to spend time arranging tools in the back of his rusted pickup truck. He'd stand alongside the open bed, strapping his rake to his ladder and then strapping that to the box. He shifted tools beyond inventory, arriving after a time at some satisfaction with the arrangement. Upon seeing us, he might say hello or grunt or be silent. He was more likely to acknowledge my husband. I was a little afraid of him.

Until the day I was a lot afraid of him. Home from my waitress shift at Chi Chi's, I was turning on the shower when I heard a fist pounding on our door. I heard Leather Face, "What's going on, Charlie?"

"That bitch took my parking place!" It took some moments for me to register that I was the bitch. I swallowed and pulled a towel around me.

"I know she's in there!" he yelled. I heard indiscriminate words from Leather Face, placating in tone.

Pound, pound, pound.  He wasn't going away.

I couldn't move and didn't dare go open that door. I thought about calling to him that I'd move my car in a minute, but I didn't want him to pound through the door. It seemed like he could. I padded over to the phone and took the handset into the bathroom, closing the door. I dialed Eric. He was minutes from the end of his shift at the nursing home and would come home, he said. Until then, keep quiet and put the table in front of the door.

Even as I hung up the phone, I noticed that the hallway was quiet. I dragged the kitchen table over to the door and sat on our futon to watch it. Eric came home minutes later and took my keys. He moved the car. Tobacco Charlie was nowhere to be seen. When we went out the next day, his truck was in "its" parking spot.

My Moose Man moved his hands like Tobacco Charlie, the constant motion, settling the snow here, then scooping to move it there. Un-inventoried amounts of snow. I came upon him and called, "Hello!" He didn't answer, nor did he seem to hear me. No head cock, certainly no eye contact. I moved past him and, in front of him now, looked at him, hunched and moving the snow. "Hi!" I said.

Nothing. I thought to myself, "Okay, he wants to be alone," and continued. As I drew even with him on the switchback above, I'd had time to become concerned. I stopped and looked right at his hunched back, the side of his face, his bald head. "Are you doing okay?" He'd heard me. He emitted a low sound, maybe a sniff. I left him to it.

On my descent, he was farther up the trail, doing his same snow shifting dance about twenty feet off the snowshoe trough. This time he stopped and straightened. "The trail is over here." My insides froze, keeping my neck from swiveling to look at him. "You tear up the tundra going off trail." I insinuated myself to the far edge of the snowshoe trough and descended.

I had him figured. And I agreed with and admired what he was doing. People love the Colorado mountains to death, sometimes making track across tundra that takes decades to recover. But he also loved that trail and tundra more than human beings. He had a single vision of what is right. A rigid adherence to a parking spot. I imagined that David Brower and even John Muir might growl at another human being that way. I hoped not; I hoped they had balanced their environmentalism with diplomacy and maybe even kindness. I left the Moose Man to his shifting.

But his stance went down the hill with me. I wondered if he could enjoy the mountains. Did he appreciate the clear and cold? Could he see the insane green of the pines that ever-deepened as it contrasted with the whiteness of snow in full-on Colorado sun? Did his eyes smart as they took in the brilliance of it all? Did his breath steal as he caught the scope of distance, Square Top Mountain across the valley seeming so close but miles of hard hiking away? Did he resolve to come here again, to send a picture and an invitation to his cousin who, recently-diagnosed with cancer, needed inspiration to fight and see more of the beauty in the world? Did he see the mountains and beauty and inspiration, or did he see snow?

Tick-Tock

He adds to the conversation of my life.

He makes tracks I want to follow.

He makes me see hearts.

The Carpet Lady

The carpet lady set me off. While selling me a tapestry, she told of teaching English in Nepal for twelve years. I could teach in Nepal.

The tug is strong, a full-body pull.

Go, go. Teach, teach.

My feet have been firmly on Colorado ground these seven years. I have been burying a past and building a life, step by step up mountains, shedding layers of sweat, memory, bringing alive new parts of me. Teaching kids, making friends, loving so many. Enjoying a full, close relationship with my favorite sister. Your lives get wrapped in each other's and it feels good. It feels like a well-woven tapestry full of brilliant colors offsetting the dull ones cuz yes, they're there too.

And I'm close to him. If I stay with him, Nepal is out of the question. So is a spontaneous summer car trip up the California coast and hiking in the Northwest. The imagination is curbed. He adds a layer of consideration. His feet are firmly on Colorado ground for the indefinite (and loooong) future. If I accept that love and keep this relationship going... no Nepal for me.

The carpet lady gave me pause, made me long. Eyes a-sparkle, old hands wide and expressive. A story. A caring. Somewhere far away. A different way of being. Consider the possibilities. Indulge the thought, to think that I could do it. I have the skill set, the interest, the drive... to go other places. To be different.

I have wanderlust. That lady and her magic carpet have taken my brain for a ride.

I want to go.

How to Get There

It used to take daylong treks up big mountains. Long sustained activity that left room for only tiredness. It took wearing out my muscles, my body, my ever-churning mind left no option but to stop the churning and focus. Focus on rock, movement, tent set-up, calorie-getting. That fatigue felt good. Getting to that point felt good - the sucking of air, the burning of lungs, the absolute stunning beauty of mountains. It took me there. To the happy place, a place where I let go of everything that wasn't being.

Now I get there differently.

It takes... a morning of waking with him, my 6-month man who I'd like to be my *jinx* forever-man, coffee on the couch, idle chatter. A slow preparation for leaving. Pulling the car off the road to smell the pretty things, to take photos of new flowers, to pee down the side of oblong uptilted rock, competing... him,

of course, winning. A hike up Devil's Head, a 3-hour endeavor with stops, shared observations. Weaving our way down unknown roads, talking, listening to music, being quiet, soaking in sun through the windshield, wind ruffling via the sunroof.

It takes less. It is simple.

I am mellowing.

It is about time!

Canyon

One of my favorite memories of the canyon is him. Coming around the corner, cheeks stuffed with pb&j bagel, one bite pinched yet in his fingers. Striding toward me, trying to smile around all those cheeks.

I was hot. Not just with the 87 degree Grand Canyon sun, but furious at him for not giving me half the bagel. Hadn't I just raged 20 minutes ago about how hungry I was? Hadn't I been silent at our last stop in the shadow of the red layer? Hadn't that silence communicated to him that every part of my skin was prickly, that my stomach was growling, that tears were near? Hadn't he seen me stomp off, tired of waiting yet again for my brother and his girlfriend to finish their lunch, wanting to get out already, to get to the car and eat mounds of real food? Was he genetically-incapable of reading the needs of the woman he supposedly loved? Was he selfish? Was he stupid? 

"You didn't think to save half of that bagel for me?" 

The pinched bit was instantly thrust toward me.

"No, I don't want your last bite." Spit couldn't have sizzled more on the rocks.

Silently, but looking at my face and finally (hallelujah!) taking it in, he pulled off his pack and fished out a whole, intact, oatmeal & raisin Clif bar. 

It made a dent in my hunger. It made a dent in my anger. It loosened my tongue enough that I could tell him all that was going on. How I felt so strong, going up, ascending out of the canyon, how I was born to do that, but that it KILLED me to have to stop and wait. He listened in that quiet way he does. We looked at the blisters on his heel and toes. We speculated about how much more of our 10.3 mile hike might remain. He hugged me and held me by the small of my back. He helped me into my pack.

One of my favorite memories of the canyon is him. Watching me melt down. And calmly, coolly putting me back together.

-Grand Canyon, March 2015

The True Things

Hiking in the sand dunes

you feel the true things

The happiness of giggling families

kids sliding down dunesides

the pure joy

of running 

flying

sandy plunge steps

the kiss of sun on cheeks, legs, 

so much warmth in February

The joy surges and you

Stop

and share it with him

what is real and true

the best in life
You wish for him

Will his way

across a thousand miles
around the signed divorce
over the hurts
the loss
you find the true things

The feeling

the knowing

the absolute

of that short list

joy

sunlight

laughter

Give to him and
know

that he feels it too

The Secret Side of Me

"You are living the life I always wanted."

HA! If only you knew!!!! Yes, I feel proud that you've said this and for a moment, I even forget the truth and the secret side of me. And yes, someone asking if they can publish a piece of my writing feels GREAT. But I also know the cost and the secret side of me. The vision that blurs around my periphery because I am concentrating-focused, racing from thing-to-thing-to-thing, trying to hold it all together and I care so much about it all that I can't bear to drop a single shard cuz I'm sure the whole caboodle would be shards if a strong enough wind came by. I do love it all: grad classes, new teaching job, MY STUDENTS (are awesome times 10,000,000!), my colleagues, my family (oh yes, they're in there somewhere), my mountains. The outside look is happy, happy, happy cuz I do love it all.

But the cost. Man, I know the cost. Nights like last night where I cannot drag myself to the pool. Instead my car steers itself to Target and the Oreos are open before I leave the parking lot. Potpies ensue - comfort food for the frenetic. I allow it. One night of total abandon. (I know, sexy abandon this. Feel free to add yoga pants and baggy sweatshirt for the full effect.) That somehow recharges my batteries and makes me able to get up the next day, get on my bike and charge uphill (yes, it is literally 5 miles uphill to my school) to see my students again and teach them math and writing and music and... life. Followed by the downhill ride where I plunk again in front of this laptop and respond, respond, respond to grad level reading but connect it to me. I have to make it who I am. Then to eat and exercise and have any kind of social life that is permitted at this point.

HA. If only you knew, colleague of mine... the secret side of me.

Autumn's Kiss

Kissed by autumn
sunlight and cold
their lips meet
and leave pure gold.

The Picture of Fulfillment

Today, I walked into an eighth grade classroom where "my" kids were. The students I had last year. There was a groundswell of "Ms. Triiiiteacher, Ms. Triiiteacher..." And smiles. Let me tell you about the smiles. Every one of their faces swiveled in my direction, lit up in shining recognition.

I felt famous today. And gratified and fulfilled.

I said a brief piece about how I'd be co-teaching in that particular class two days a week (more cheers from the crowd) and then yielded the stage back to the eighth grade teacher. Throughout the class period, I worked my way through that crowd, asking about this one's horse, that one's favorite book from last year, checking for pretty shoes on the girl who shared my shoe fetish... reconnecting with the kids to whom I grew close last year. I have a great job.

It makes me more committed as I start my new role this year. I am teaching English to speakers of other languages. In this role, I get to be with many, many students across three grade levels. I have an opportunity to be present, to weave together my knowledge of 11-14 year-olds and my different areas of expertise: math, science, literacy, Spanish. I have the chance to do it all.

Vow: I am going to be the best, hardest-working, biggest-hearted, most attuned advocate and teacher for these students. I want them to excel, I want them to feel great, I want so much for them... let me see the way to give them the best in me.

The Diamond Necklace

“You wander from room to room
Hunting for the diamond necklace
That is already around your neck!”

-Rumi

I find the diamond necklace 

In the scramble up a chimney 

to a summit block 

and friends

In the easing of slight nausea 

as I descend to 10,000 feet

In the full body wag

of the creek over rocks

In the sight of a wild rose

and the rush of my dad

posing by a rose for Mom

backpack on his 70 year-old back

His goofiness

His steadfast neediness

The sight of a Shooting Star

and hours later humming

"Don't you know that you are a shooting star

Don't you know? Woah, yeah!"

And feeling it must be me

In sunlight on my face

daydreaming on the narrow gauge train

I reach up and feel --

Yes. Necklace.

Daisy

Today I want to write about the way that grief inhabits your body. The way you breathe around a lump in your throat, the way you hold the steering wheel and your shoulders hurt, the way your chin feels wobbly. The way your stomach has that sinking feeling all the time walking around. People say grief gets better with time.

In a way it is true. In another way, it is not. There is vestigial grief, vestigial digits and fingers of hurt that come back. My sister and her husband have to put down their dog this week. She has been their dog for 13 years. She was young with them when their marriage was young. They were exploring California after they left Wisconsin, taking her on hikes to explore mountains and beaches and the American River. She was with them when 9/11 happened and comforted my sister when her husband was traveling.

I have my own memories of Daisy. She comforted me. When I first moved out here after my divorce,  I lived with them for a period of time. One night I was crying, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. I was trying to be private about it. I was in the basement away from everybody. Except Daisy. She came down to check on me and with an empathy I've seen only in her, she laid her head on my knee and just rested it there.

As I grieve Daisy, I feel the old pain inhabit my body. So quickly the body relapses into the interstices of that old grief. I feel for this loss and it feels like the old loss. I feel for my sister and her husband. To contemplate that most horrible thing. Putting down your friend, letting her go. There is the decision-making, the second-guessing, the effort to be rational when your emotions are cloudy. Then there's the pain of watching her in pain and wondering if you've done it soon enough. It is a horrific proposition.

And they will miss her. There is that side yet to come.

There is a time-sucking quality to grief, especially in stores. Scene today: waking up from reverie so many minutes later in REI wondering what it was again I was looking for. Passed the dog section. That's what set it off. When I divorced, seeing willow trees set me off. Heh. Breathing set me off then.

I get why people have to die. I mean, how many layers of experience can the body hold? Yet then, I feel sad for Daisy dying. She won't get to see all the beautiful things in the world anymore. The hikes, the smells of piney woods, the splash of the creek, the doggy joy in catching a tennis ball.

The joys. The time when Sis and Brother-in-Law sent me on a 12 mile hike in California with Daisy as my guide. I was new to mountains, new to hiking, new, new, new. Daisy was my seasoned guide and boon companion, trotting by my side, carrying her joy in the loll of her tongue, the wag of her tail, the bounding steps of exploration. Crossing a stream, she would fetch a rock from the stream and bring it for me to throw again. Pure frolic.

The same joy I feel in water. And that's true too. As I carry the interstices of my old griefs, my body and mind carry the remnants of past joys as well. On the water kayaking with my sisters earlier this month, I remembered learning to kayak from someone who loved me. When you learn to paddle from a lover, your memories are of chasing moonlight across a lake, of ducking into "garages" made by bent willow trees, of stopping and kissing, pulling up alongside. That magical, magnetic pull. I remember nearly dying waiting for him to do the car drop and come back so we could be together. Of watching him log-jump, of being his cheerleader, his confidante. Of him watching me dive to the bottom of the river, running my fingers through the sand-rolling, pebble-running bottom. Coming up for air and his face, his smile. And the knowledge that he would be there, enjoying my joy.

I get why people have to die at a certain age. I mean, how many layers of experience can the body hold? There must come a time at which the interstices of joy and grief have carved deep enough wrinkles into the skin and that is the time.

Daisy has reached that time. In dog years, she is 91 and cancer has eaten up her body and carved an end point to her time. I salute the layers of joy - and grief - she has given my family.

Men Are Like Fishing

Since I’ve gotten back from my trip (three days ago) and re-posted my pictures on the online dating site, I have “talked” to several men. One is a quick hitter; he swooped in, liked me, blew up my inbox. We flirted hard for two hours. Good sense of humor, this one. Then *poof.* He disappeared. Like the turtles who nabbed my mom’s nightcrawlers, this one returned to the muddy depths with all my bait. *Sigh.*

Another is a professional correspondent. This type comes on slow, like 3-inch crappies working a 5-inch crawler. He nibbles around the edges of conversation. He continues to nibble. When I go on a trip, he grows fonder. I hear from him 4-5 times per day. When I’m in town, we set a blistering pace of 3-4 messages per week. These men (for the current correspondent is not an anomaly; he is a type) amuse me. I picture them with their iPhone in hand, thumbs working away, smiling and flirting. Glancing down, you see their feet - the polar opposite of all that activity above - potted in clay.

Others are the kind you land. They can handle the bait - 8 inch crappie on a jig. This kind can even follow the bait. Two of my 8-inch crappie have checked in with me since I returned, asking if I am now ready to meet. Then you disaggregate… one is a slow burner. I said yes, I can meet and gave him two nights that will work. Wait for it, wait for it… no reply yet.

The other was quick to choose a night, now is choosing our venue and time. I may actually land one!

And then what??

More types to come!

My Track is Good

That statement is true.

Some snow, lots of beauty at the start.

I took a hike up Herman Gulch today and broke the trail. It started with just some snow, but soon became all snowy and postholey.

Gushing stream.

I got my bearings on the stream at first (keep it to your left) and then the jaggedy peaks that peeked out in occasional clearings in the forest.

My track! I broke right on up this steep
snow slope.

And I landed on the top, turned right, and landed at the lake! I wasn't sure the whole time, and I am 100% sure I didn't stick to the designated trail, but I did land - as if helicoptered in - at the intended destination. It was beautiful. I feel so proud of where I've come with my navigating skills. Used to be I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag. Now, I can actually tell people, like the couple visiting from Ohio who followed me... "My track is good!"

Plucky, pioneering Globeflower

 This applies to other areas in my life. I feel like I'm living so non-traditionally and like there are no role models. Single, mountaineering, independent females were not the women around whom I grew up. I now take snippets from everyone around me, but sometimes, it has felt downright lonely and like I'm pioneering. Sometimes I've felt like my track is not good. Sometimes I had no sense of my life, my track, my legacy at all.

The snow is melting fast. Trail clearing in the scant 2.5 hours
since my first picture.

But I'm getting there. And I want to be there. It was such a joy to see the Ohioans on my descent and reassure them that my track would take them to the lake. I want to have something to offer. And I have, just as with my hike today, taken some younger women (and climbing men) under my wing. I'm starting to sense that, in many senses, "My track is good."

To Do List: Fall in Love

Okay, so I also have on it to clean the fridge and send invitations to a dinner party I'm hosting. But really, falling in love is at the top.

To that end, I've started online dating. Again. I gave it a whirl for three months last November after I finally decided to make the Convenience Man my ex-Convenience Man. Online dating was... interesting. So interesting that I stopped in March because I needed a break.

Now it's June and I am ready to undertake it all again. The messages in my inbox proclaiming that I'm all that on a cracker (OK, those aren't the exact words. They are that colorful. Just more R-rated.)

And then the times I reach out to a promising man and never. hear. back.

That's what was so difficult the first time around. The people I liked didn't like me, and the people I didn't like seemed to think I was hot stuff. It was downright disheartening.

So what am I going to differently? I am going to really try this time.

Please laugh at that.

But in a way, I mean it. I'm going to stick it out and meet lots of people and steel myself for disappointments and keep it all in perspective. I really would like to meet someone who was right.

Ideal? A climber, a peak bagger, with a side passion for relaxing like a fiend after the hard stuff is done. A thinker, a reader, with a passion for laughing and banter. Someone for whom I want to dress in pretty clothes and go get sushi. Yet he thinks I'm just as striking in my climbing gear and harness.

What a sweet dream. Makes me smile just writing it.

*Sigh*

What I'd settle for? Someone who would support my passions and let me support his. Someone who fit with my friends. And was sorta hot. Or really hot. I'd be okay with that too.

What I have to wade through to find him... people who like my pictures but don't like to hike. Or don't like my brains. Or that I don't want kids, or that I'm an atheist, or that I'm... me. At the base of it, that is what I have to not take personally. I am me. And some guys are just not going to be into me. I have to be into me enough to hold out hope that there is someone out there who is just as (even more??) into me than me.

And that I dig him like crazy. I wanna dig somebody. It's such a great feeling to love someone and want to treat them like gold. To anticipate, to read them, to want their happiness like I want my own. To help them get it, to make them laugh, smile, sigh, dream bigger... Yeah, I'm ready. It might take 2 dates, it might take 200, wherein enters my endurance training, right? I'm ready, set... GO!

Eleven Hours, Three Minutes

Eleven hours, three minutes to pull off ascents of 13er Mount Lady Washington and Longs Peak on Monday, Memorial Day. It was beautiful and grueling and scary and fulfilling. I can't wipe the grin off my face even today.

We cruised up the first 2.5 miles, me getting the scope of my cousin whose motto is "Fast equals safe." He lives by it. I am usually not the slow one on a hike. He left me huffing and puffing, but also determined to hang and not cave in to burning lungs.

Snowballs on the way up Mount Lady Washington.

By Chasm Lake, our snow climb began. We rounded the lake instead of crossing it. On the far side, we heard sounds that would accompany us the rest of the day. The sounds of snow and rock fall off of Longs' Diamond Face. We heard it and would spot the area and could not believe that what looked like a dusting of snow and dust particles could echo off the walls and ricochet sounds to our ears. It was intimidating. We decided to stay well away from the face for our approach. Which meant climbing straight up Mount Lady Washington's steep snow. It was so steep that snow balls were peeling free of the snow pack and rolling down as we climbed up. Gravity's victims all. We achieved the Lady and snapped a few pictures, ate some calories. We took some time to case our remaining route.

We saw snow. Lots of snow. But a mountain does not get climbed by looking at what lies ahead. After spare minutes, we descended to the saddle between the peaks. The real ascent began.

I thought I had become familiar with steep 'n' deep snow as we ascended that first snowfield up Lady Washington. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!

I had known nothing. This was brutally steep, with sections where I watched my 6'2" cousin sink to his thighs. Conversation was sparse, though at one point he felt it necessary to excuse a stop, "I can't see. My sunglasses are running with sweat." He lead for most of the way, but when he stopped for particularly long periods of time, I'd catch him and offer to lead.

I quickly realized how following in his footsteps, brutal though it was, was child's play to breaking the

We ascended along the right flank of the Diamond.

trail. I developed a method of motion. I jammed my two trekking poles into the snow ahead, weighted them and moved one foot, then the other. Sometimes my foot plant would sink only six inches - HALLELUJAH! Other times it would sink six inches and then with a knee-wrenching thud, give another 6-18 inches. I usually managed another plant of the poles and a shift of each foot before I needed to pause to breathe. I allowed for 5-10 good yogi breaths, mindful to open my chest and let the oxygen in.  On the sinking steps, I managed only one pole-plant, the need to breathe prohibiting further movement.

Then there was the fear. The rock and ice dustings continued echoing around the chasm. As before, we were in such steep snow that snowballs kept rolling down around us. One came with such speed, I heard it whoosh past my helmet. It had several friends that broke loose at this time too, giving the impression that the mountain itself was rolling, dozens of ping pong snowballs rolling down on me. I needed to speak. I turned back at John to ask, "How you feeling about this snow?" He was brief, "It's good." That was enough for me to keep going, and going fast. Getting off of this quickly would mean safety and the end of ragged fear breathing.

I lead a good 100 yards until we we reached the rock where our technical climb should start. Two right-facing corners jutted out from the snow field. This climb goes as 5.4 in the book. We put on harnesses and crampons and swapped out our poles for ice axes. John took the lead, edging his way along the rock, digging in crampons and ice axe. He moved quickly up the first block and turned back to ask if I wanted to rope up. He had made it look easy. I refused the offer and started my own ascent.

My first five or so moves felt secure and I enjoyed the feeling of vertical upward motion. Then I hit a thin part. "Uh, John, how did you do this?"

"It's thin, but there's a good pick with your right hand and a good left toe in the corner. Toe in so you can feel it, then step up slowly to test it." It's such a slow-motion act, climbing is. You incrementally shift your weight into the ball of your foot and then roll ever-so-gently into the toe of your foot. All the while screamin' Jesus in your head, hoping it will hold.

It held. I marveled at the trust I could place in the metal. The tips of my crampons and the tip of my ice pick in those teeny crevices. I was denied the security of skin contact. There was a layer of remove between me and the rock, metal touching rock versus the boot or hand. It is so much scarier. But doable.

We continued to climb the seventy technical feet without roping up. There were two more thin sections to negotiate - the first John coached me through, the second I gathered my forces and figured out.

Left flank of Longs

At last we topped out. I saw John ahead of me - ON FLAT GROUND!!! He saw that I was okay and charged toward some summit rocks, seeking shelter from the blowing winds that are always present on a mountain. I was feeling cold, had to go to the bathroom, and was more weary than I'd realized. I started to follow him and noticed I was missing my right crampon. I called his name to let him know I was going back to look for it, but my voice was lost in the wind. I saw where he seemed to settle behind some summit rocks and turned to find the crampon, hoping against hope it was somewhere on the flat section, not down in that technical section.

It was. I had dropped it right after topping out. With relief, I scooped it up and now, stopped, thought to go to the bathroom, remove my harness, and put on some warm layers. As I was doing this, the clouds that had been approaching arrived, swirling the peak in a white mist with flurries of snow. I couldn't see John and panicked at the thought of being separated. I quickly stowed my harness and the crampon, not taking the time to put it back on. I followed John's track - the only ones on the summit that day - to where he rested behind a rock. We high-fived and bolted calories, feeling the urgency to get off the mountain. It was 1:00 with less-than-ideal weather and a serious descent to undertake.

Another beautiful pic that doesn't match the story. Sorry,
no pics from the heavy breathing sections. Need I say:
oxygen took precedence.

Without speaking, we'd both arrived at the same conclusion. There was no way we could descend as we'd ascended. Snow covered the rappel rings that would have allowed us a cushy rappel down the technical section. We'd have to descend the standard route. Which meant more steep snow and exposure through the Homestretch, the Narrows, and then the Trough, all the way back to the Keyhole. Gracelessly and with no pride, I backed down the Homestretch, digging my axe in above me and backing my feet down. John walked forward down the whole thing, stopping to check I was OK before beginning his next section. Route finding was tricky in sections; we grinned madly anytime we spotted one of Longs' famous bulls-eyes. We reached the Keyhole and were relieved to pick up someone else's track to follow through the Boulder Field. We took off our crampons for the first time in hours, and made the reverse poles/ice axe swap.

It was a cruise the rest of the way out. We relived the climb, talking about the things we'd both noticed - notably the two loud cracks of thunder - but hadn't acknowledged at the time. It was funny how we'd had many parallel thoughts but had needed to breathe more than talk. We made up for it on the descent, talking the whole way. First about the climb and mountaineering, then talking life.

We two cousins grew up separated by 1000 miles and a seven-year age difference. We had scant childhood memories of the other, but used those Longs miles to fill in the years with sibling stories, parent stories, and adult life stories. We covered a lot of territory and I added my respect for him as a person to my respect for him as a mountaineer.

The giddiness that had simmered on the hike set in in the car and then percolated to the top when we reached Lyons and lunch. Our "we're safe" texts sent, we ordered and drank and ate, tasting the best food ever. Which is anything you eat after an 11 hour climb.

And here I find myself, days later, alternately grinning and wiping the sweat from my hands as I write this. Afloat on a cloud of... achievement, pride, knowledge that I pushed and my body and spirit rose to the occasion? Yes.

Mount Audubon Trip Report

Climb that right shoulder to 13,223 feet

I started early cuz that's when I woke up. I had been trying to decide on a trail and had seven marked. It was not without difficulty that I settled on going to the Brainard Lake Rec Area outside of Nederland. Since I was going solo, I had resigned myself to doing just a couple of the lakes; stay low, play it safe. However, there was more than a touch of drool on the page describing the route to 13er, Mt. Audubon. 

But, only a crazy person solos big mountains in the winter. I took no axe and just enough water/food for a moderate trip. Content. Safe. Low. Safe. Content. Blah.

I made it to the TH at 9AM and realized that I had given no one the specifics of my itinerary and that I had no cell signal. Whoops. Parked next to me were three late 20s guys from Boulder. They got out and had ice axes. Cue drool! I quickly ascertained that they were doing Mt. Audubon. With a backward glance at those axes, I trudged down my flat, well-trammeled trail to the lakes. 

Turns out... the Mt. Audubon route starts that same way. The boys caught me at about 2 miles in, and reading my expression accurately, told me I could hang with them and they'd spot me on the mountain. One even offered me his axe. It was a Black Diamond. Should I have said, "Yes"??

Turns out... I don't have a lot in common with 20-something guys from Boulder. I can only laugh so many times at Audubon pronounced "Autobahn" in an exaggerated Arnold accent. When the boys stopped to stash their beer, I forged ahead, thinking they would catch me. They never did. But the idea was planted and the mountain was there. Itching for my snowshoes to scratch its icy spine.

Well, that mountain just kept going up and up. There was a snowshoe trench all the way to treeline so route-finding was a gimme. Once at treeline, the wind picked up and kept increasing. It scoured the rocks and snow, covering tracks of people who'd gone before. No longer a gimme. I assessed the weather; it was gorgeous with just one itsy-bitsy cloud in the sky. My water and food were holding out. I had only daylight and my energy level as limits.

About halfway between treeline and the summit, I spotted a hiker ahead with his pants down. I decided it was a good time for a snack and to check for cell reception. (Nil.) After an appropriate interval, I approached this 70-ish year old man with tobacco stains in his beard and mustache. I asked him if everything was all right and he responded, "Oh, I just had to take a dump. I sent my partner on ahead. You can follow his tracks."

Alrighty then.

I continued climbing, finally able to lose the snowshoes and be lighter on my feet. I avoided snowfields and wound a circuitous route up the mountain. The wind was steadily increasing as I climbed and I started getting a little rattled. I stopped at a relatively still spot and did a risk-analysis. I still had no cell signal. It was 1:00 in the afternoon so I'd been on the route for 4 hours. The summit was still a good hour away. I would descend faster than I'd climbed but who knew when the sun would set with the peaks all around this area? Did I want to be searching my way back to that trough, potentially in the dark, alone, at 12000 feet? No. 

I decided to turn back. Upon deciding, I felt relieved. I passed Tobaccy-Man, asked him again about his plan, and continued on my way. I made it back to the TH at 4:20. Turns out that hour to the summit would have been iffy. 

Autobahn, I'll be back.

The Gift

As a kid watching
of all things
the Ms America pageant
I knew it was about something deeper

As a kid reading
of Wilbur and Charlotte
sobbing experiencing
E.B. White's gift
I knew it was about something deeper

As a kid sitting
in the high school auditorium
listening to Lisa Borman's soprano
echo through that dingy space
I knew it was about something deeper

As a woman
hiking Longs
the breeze riffling my skin
sagey scents tickling my nose
scenery saturated with mountains and sun
endorphins coursing through my veins
strong legs wanting more, more, higher
I know it is about something deeper


It is about beauty
Seeing it
It is everywhere
Appreciating it
Creating it
Oh, the ache to create it
to give to other human hearts
that throb of something beyond self

Yosemite Day 1: Great White Book

Route goes up the huge flake on the right.

I wrote a story on the Great White Book. It was a story of anxiety, confidence, and relief. After arriving in Yosemite National Park and doing some warm-ups on Sunday night, my climbing partner and I decided to tackle this beauty on Monday. We donned climbing shoes, and I tied a rope backpack so we could scramble up some rather gut-wrenching class 4 to the start of the climb. The four warm-up climbs did not bolster my confidence; all of them were much harder for the grade than the climbing I've done in Colorado. I was still nervous and getting to know Yosemite granite. You have to trust your feet, your fingers, yourself, but it is hard when your gut wrenches. Your gut sees that each step you take is higher, farther away from the ground, and closer to the point at which a misstep, a slip on your shoe lace, could send you sliding down Stately Pleasure Dome's granite face. I warred with my gut, conquered it, and kept going.

At the top of the class 4 approach, my partner built an anchor, placing climbing gear into cracks in the rock -- three to protect an upward force, one to accommodate a downward pull. We then attached to these and yippee; we were protected! We also tied to each other. For the next four pitches, we stayed tethered together, a maximum of 60 meters of rope between us. We did our checks and Victor started up the first pitch. He managed to place protection and reached the next belay station without issue. My turn to climb! My gut clenched, my tummy flipped, and I realized that even though I'd peed no more than 60 minutes ago, I needed to go again. I yelled up to Victor, "I'm gonna pee!"

Laughter erupted from some climbers I couldn't see, but now placed to our left. I was pretty comfie on that ledge because peeing at this point involved taking off my harness, the point of my attachment to Victor, to my anchors -- to any and all things keeping me on this 60-foot high ledge. Except my deft feet in my most excellent Mythos climbing shoes. I shimmied out of the harness, sidled away from the rope, and relieved my bladder, losing some of my anxiety in the process. I am also pretty comfie peeing in front of strangers. As I squatted, I noticed a fisherman and a male tourist in the parking lot looking up the dome. I ignored them, not caring if they turned away to allow me privacy or got out the binoculars. Necessity and mothers and all that.

Looking over my toes at what we've climbed so far.

Tension broken, bladder emptied, I started up the rock. The climbing was pretty easy - especially on a top rope (thank you, Victor!) and I reached the blocks that would comprise the next belay station one step up that slabby slope at a time. I peed before I left that belay station too, but only after Victor and I worked out a clever communication system so that I wasn't responsible for some other climber's belly laugh pulling them off the rock. "Code Yellow!" was my cry and Victor would know not to pull on our umbilical cord until I signaled I was ready. Climbing pitch two was much the same as pitch one; we got higher, but I felt reasonably secure.

Then came pitch three. I realized that everything I thought was gut-wrenching up to that point became null and void. I watched Victor pull farther and farther away from me up a super-wide chimney, in which he could place no gear. In which he could place NO gear. Gah. A climber wants a calm head. My head was Manhattan at rush hour, a steam locomotive crashing into a Boeing 747, the lawn guys at my condo doing the grass with leaf-blowers (heinous things, those). I had every kind of worry there was, a chorus of what-ifs and Jeez, is there really no protection??? I had visions of that chimney purging my partner, sending him plummeting past me. The horror of thinking about watching him fall nauseated me. I tried to bring myself back to the here and now, to keep my mind on the belay and envision myself hauling in rope like a madwoman if he slipped. My mind rocketed wildly from rational movement-anticipation to gut-clenching anxiety.

(Later, when Victor topped out and I began to climb, I acquainted myself with a new body odor -- the stink of my fear sweat. It is different than exertion sweat or the sweat of a hot day at the beach. It is tangier and sourer; it smells like panic.)

Victor stopped to rest at about thirty feet up. I dared to ask how he was doing. "OK," he said. "No place for pro but the climbing's easy." After breathing for bare moments, he moved up again. I was relieved when he finally left the chimney and even more relieved when he turned a corner and was out of sight onto a block with presumably more options. There were. He yelled, "I've got a piece! And it'll hold a freight train!" Shortly thereafter, he built an anchor and it was my turn to climb.

I felt like a kid at fat camp ascending that chimney. You grind your hip against the edge of the chimney and push your feet against the opposing wall. I braced one hand on each opposing edge. There weren't holds, just friction. The low angle allowed for that force to hold me in place and even to move up. But it was strenuous! As I huffed and puffed my way up, I was glad for that freight train piece of pro.

At the next belay station, I congratulated Victor on his strong head. We exchanged pleasantries, shared water, and inspected the anchor system. We also noted the few drops of rain and increasing cloud cover. Victor got moving, pulling a roof right off the belay and then traversing out of my sight. I started to feel a little nervous when he yelled down to me, "I've protected a traverse for you really well. There's a good piece at the start and at the end!" Hmm... when one traverses, one cleans the gear at the start, so a catch really depends on the second piece at the far end of the traverse, which means.... you get to be a human pendulum. To add interest, the sprinkles of rain were increasing. Victor was practically running now, pulling out slack as fast as I could feed it. Within moments, he had me on belay.

I saw the reason for his haste to get off the dome when I pulled the roof. Ahead of me was about 20 feet of seemingly-blank traverse. And it was not getting any grippier with the rain. Victor coached me to take my time and feel my way across. I whimpered a bit and "guhh'ed" and "I'm scared!ed" but I kept moving. We needed to get off of that slab before the rain started in earnest. I made it to him pretty expeditiously (in spite of the emo output). We quickly decided that rapping the route to 4th class slab made no sense in the rain. According to the guidebook, the other descent option required some route-finding but was safer in the rain. We scrambled up to a headwall and found a way over it and... hit cairns! The whole descent was well-cairned and beautiful. We even felt safe enough to welcome the rain for the sake of drought-stricken California.

I ended the day with unequivocal appreciation for my climbing partner. When I finished pitch 4 and we were safely descending, Victor remarked that he wanted to get that thing done so that I could get moving and get it done quickly too. He was worried about me getting it done before the rain moved in; he knew I'd be sketched out. When you're attached to another human being with an umbilical cord of rope on a 450-foot granite dome, you want that human being to say things like that.

Day 1 ended, I felt uncertain about my relationship with climbing. It was too scary to be fun, but too exhilarating and gratifying to be dismissed. This love-hate question would be kicked around for the rest of the week...