Convenience Foods

Convenience food has its plusses and minuses. On the plus side... Shoot! It's convenient. It can be found anywhere at any time the appetite strikes. It is at your beck and call. It is consistent. A McDonald's burger is a Micky D's burger in Denver, Colorado, the same as it is in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. It is easy and simple. There is no preparation. There is no messy clean-up. It is mindless. It is the meal of the moment.

But.

Convenience food makes you fat and lazy. It litters the planet, its garish signs painting the skyline, its packaging stuffing landfills. It is not real food. It nourishes, but only for the moment. Its very ease is addictive. Its engineered combination of fats, salts, and sweets are addictive. You think you can get away from it, can handle it healthily. You think, Ah, this time I'll drive up to the window and just order the salad. Yet, moments after the disembodied voice asks, "Can I take your order?," you find yourself juggling in your lap a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. Convenience food is in the driver's seat. It lulls you into complacency; it allows you to forget your roots, your integrity.

I have been eating convenience foods lately. In man form. I have a convenience man. He is there when I need him. He makes it easy to lean. He is consistent in his offerings. He comes when I call, he leaves when I ask. And I find myself asking. A lot. I'm not even sure I like him. Sometimes I positively don't. He hangs on. He tells me he's trying to hang on. He engineers himself to hook me, to keep me coming back. He is on the corner in Denver, Colorado, and in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, texting the things a girl likes to hear. He feeds me, comforts me, warms my side of the bed before I get in. Yet he is not the one. He doesn't fit. He litters my mind with ideas that aren't me, lives in a way I don't admire. He is fast food, not my soul's mate. I know this and have known it for an embarrassingly-long time. I always think I can handle him, this relationship. I think I can order just the salad but find myself overeating, over-relying, letting him in when what I really need is to cook for myself.

How does one kick a convenience food habit? How does one overcome the withdrawal symptoms, ignore the availability and the advertising on every corner? Cold turkey? Cold bed sheets. Pfft.

Clear Creek Thaw

It is also unnatural to haul your cookies up 85 feet of vertical rock, clipping into bolts that are spaced 10 feet apart with only a rope threaded through and a belayer at the bottom to (hopefully, most times) catch you before you hit the ground or a ledge or other nasty obstruction to wholeness of life and limb. Yet I did it today.

And loved it.

My lead head is coming back to me. Today was all about being humbled, reassessing, and then pushing through to the shiny light at the end of the tunnel - the anchors at the top of the climb. Last night I bought the Clear Creek Canyon guidebook, pored and drooled over the thing, thinking "we can do this one, and that one, and, and, and..." I had myself pegged as the climbing star of the cliff, shooting up these climbs as comfortably as I've been leading in the gym.

Not so fast there, Texas.

I got on an 8 first and nearly wet myself trying the tricky bouldering move to get to the FIRST CLIP. As in lots and lots of grounding potential. And not only grounding potential, but guaranteed scrapes against jaggedy schist and gneiss. Not nice. I  walked myself out onto a ledge - way far from the first clip and shook there for a few minutes. Meanwhile my climbing partner tried to talk me out of my tree -- or off my cliff, as it were. I bailed. I downclimbed and let her have a go at it. She got the first clip, but then was too scared to go to the second. I got on again and finished that route for us.

Which made me really glad that it was a weekday on a 50 degree, somewhat cloudy day.

Most climbers do not take three attacks to get up a route. Especially an 8! So I was humblized. I topped that one again just to dial into the rock and then went on to lead another 8, a 10a, a three-star 9, rounding out the day with a 7 on a new crag. By the end of the day, I was feeling strong and wrapped around the rock and the movement, NOT my fear and risk analysis. I trust my shoes, I trust my serpentine movement, clinging to the rock, moving upward along it, feeling for the crimp, planting a toe, edging on a ledge.

At one point I needed to switch hands in a hueco. I slowly snaked the left out of the hold, arcing it over to my left while walking the fingers of my right hand from the middle of the hueco to the outside left edge of it thereby enabling me to reach a better hold with my left hand. Tiny, controlled, mindful-breathing movements allow you to translate yourself along the wall.

All this was trust was relearned with Clear Creek gurgling in the background, its cold water flowing over rock and ice. Chilly beauty, thawing, like me, for the summer climbs to come.

Route record:
Pony Up 5.8
Poker Face 5.8 or 5.9
Ace in the Hole 5.10a
5th of July 5.9+
Halloween 5.7

The Body Comes Home

It is unnatural to race into the day. To embrace hecticity with a cup of coffee in hand. To clutch and pinch and brace for the big brainwork and the cheering coaxing that is teaching. It is unnatural. Yet it's what I do most mornings.

Over this spring break, I feel the natural. I indulge and revel in it. Wake up, yes, with a cup of coffee in hand, but then... move from one thing to the next, knowing that no one thing is more urgent than the other. I have T-I-M-E. The children are not going to press, colleagues are not going to need, my content is not screaming to be broken into meaningful, digestible-by-seventh-grader chunks.

It is just me. Moving from one thing to the next, feeling the muscles that last night's yoga found and, by virtue of their non-participation in this morning's squalling, the ones that were slinking on the sidelines.

This is my new balance, this partnership of yoga and climbing. If I weren't in this quiet, bodhisattva, body-satisfied place, I'd be screeching "Eureka!" from the Front Range peaks. Instead I'll whisper on my blog, Climbing + Yoga = contentment, balance, healing, strength. 

My body is coming home.

Bolted Places

I find refuge in the bolted places. Look. A bolt, a climbing route, an opportunity to commune with lichen and rock. Stuck there in the eternal spot, enabling the climber to breathe hard, to move up, to progress from the leaf-strewn forest floor to the bright sun. To top out and look. And see far.

I like seeing far...

Longs Peak, Solstice 2012

Tinsel

The old dragging desolation
the surety that nothing is right
Thought I'd licked it
Left it at 14000 feet
Fifty-eight times over

I try

Believe me I try
I build mansions
of red tinsel
stuffed gift bags
alcohol and cherries

Pfft

They are houses of cards
so much morning trash

Breaking up is hard to do

Who do you wanna be?

I want to be a good teacher, a really good teacher. I want the kids to like me and learn like crazy. I want their scores to reflect their growth. I want them to be far-seeing yet near-sighted too, when it comes to others' feelings.

I want to be good at conflict resolution. Or when that ain't gonna happen, I want to be quick to put it in its proper place. I don't want to take it with me to climbing dinners or on hikes -- or at least not that it sticks with me for the duration. I want my mind to be pure and clear as mountain air. Inevitably, there will be difficulties in life. I don't want them to run my psyche.

I want to be married. And I mean married hard. I want a soulmate. Someone who, when I listen to him talk, is saying words I wish I woulda said. I want him to hike, bike, read, and beat me at cribbage.

I want to be five pounds lighter. I want it for vain reasons. I want to look better and I want to climb better.

I want to capitalize on my knowledge of how I tick. I want to quickly center myself when the spinning starts. Hikes and walks do that. Nights out with my girls do that.

And when I get there? I promise to be more grateful than today even. And I promise to make a new list.

The Ma'am Years

I am past my "miss" years and into my ma'ams. Ahh... this golden age preceding my golden years. I have received the news in a series of little things that one wouldn't necessarily notice, like being addressed as ma'am instead of miss. I have noticed other signs.

Most 20ish year olds make me crazy. Was I that smugly self-assured? And as annoying-ignorant of the aura? I repent! On the other hand, if I ever need advice on how to better pack my pack, how to treat altitude sickness, or how to land a high-paying sales job (ma'am!), I know three 20 year-olds I can ask.

My parents are letting my boyfriend and I sleep together when we go back to visit them. An unmarried couple in the same bedroom?!? This has never happened under their roof. Have they surmised I'm not a virgin? Am I old enough that they have given up? Am I so old that they think we can't get it up?

There are perks to the ma'am years. To paraphrase the old country song, older women do make beautiful lovers. Or at least brassier ones. I can walk through the door after a long hike and hand boyfriend the massage oil, and dare him to find a spot on my body that doesn't hurt. After an hour, all my nerve endings are tending in quite a different direction.

My friendships are deep and true, hilarious and validating. We are all off-route together -- in climbing and in our unconventionality. We intuit when to spew beta and when it's best just to shut up and let the other flail.

Finally, I have a visceral response when I see a good bottle of wine, just sitting there, improving with age.

Monsters

The ones under your bed
rapping at your window
beating down your door
big teeth dripping green slime
ready to bite your neck
suck your blood

The ones in your fears
of love lost
romance fading
loved ones dying
Big teeth dripping green slime
Ready to [clamp] down on your heart
Drain your life blood
and replace it with salty tears.

Written June 2, 2007

Trial, Error, Triumph

  

Alpine meadow

Trial -- Last week I stashed my mountain bike at trailhead B and drove to trailhead A, setting up a nice through-hike to bike to car. Pretty brilliant and exciting, but alas thwarted by a snarl of blowdowns. After evaluating the carnage and trying to spot trail signs for 45 minutes, I decided it was impossible. I headed back to the last water I'd seen, set up camp, and hiked back out in the morning.

Yesterday I hiked in from trailhead B to see how far that carnage of trees stretched. Could I complete the loop from the other direction? The answer is no: I found carnage's twin on steep terrain about two miles from the spot where I'd turned back last week. Yesterday I could hear a river I knew the trail crossed. I gave myself six minutes to go off trail and find it. I found willows. Willows mean water. You just can't always get to it. I exhausted my six minutes edging around the pokey buggers. Turning back, I worked my way back to the trail, surprising myself by striking it within 10 feet of the rock cairn from which I'd left. I may be becoming something of a woodswoman.

View from a pass, 11950 feet

There is one more way to access this mess of trees. There is trail C who, handily, intersects my two right between the snarl. I have trips to Wisconsin and New Mexico in the next two weeks, but when I return, the carnage is all mine.

Roosevelt Lake

Error -- Each of my toes feels like a swollen little sausage, a microcosm of throbbing. In an effort to cut weight yesterday, I wore a pair of hiking shoes that, now that I think on it, were recommended for casual use, not hiking. I concur.

Triumph -- Reconnaissance missions in the Colorado wilderness are pretty. And the true bonus: those loaded clouds gave us some much-needed rain!

The Day I Got Through

I got through my divorce day by making promises to myself. They were not pretty promises. There I stood, head against the stall of the bathroom at the Green Lake County Courthouse, squelching tears, clenching fists, breathing deep -- all the over-the-top stuff you don't think is real until it is your heart on the floor. I hoped when I walked out that he'd take my hand and lead me out the door, that he would have realized that this was wrong.

I did not want the divorce. I regretted everything I'd done to hurt him, to lose him. I had the job in Colorado. My bags were packed. This was a formality. But it was so real. We walked into the courthouse on a sunny May Monday, holding hands. He spoke to me in gentle tones. I couldn't speak. We were going to be friends and maybe more again someday.

Afterward we went out on the lake together in the boat. We ate the gourmet cheeses and crackers I'd brought. I had vowed to give him this, to do this graciously. He would not see me cry or shake. I would not plead. I would give him this. He was never to know the price. I sat in the boat, holding my feet in Wisconsin water. I studied their blueness. I studied on my promises. I would keep them. I chewed cheese and made conversation.

The lawyer was there and did most of the talking. We had ended amicably, had agreed. The lawyer had congratulated us on our equanimity, wished all people would end like this. I had to agree once, twice, I don't know how many times. I summoned a voice from underneath the knot, beneath the beating ribcage, forced it past the corrugations in my throat. We'd had to sit apart. I felt him there. I hoped he'd say "no." He said yes.

I would give Colorado a fair shake. I would give it two months and if I still couldn't breathe without pain, if every thought was of him and loss and cyclical regret, I would go into the mountains and keep walking. Or get in my car and drive to Denali and walk there so that my sister would have no shade of responsibility for the sister under her wing. The promise gave me courage. I would give this to him, this freedom. I would do it well.

Leaving the courthouse, he took my hand into his, that big mitt that I loved. He squeezed. "I'm so proud. You didn't even cry."

You know you've been hiking a lot when...

I dream in contour.

• You can feel when you're off-route.
• You are uneasy and your legs hurt from all the scratches.
• Your dreams are laced with squiggly brown contour lines. 
• You need to do laundry so you have clean hiking shirts.
• You have shed the deodorant and comb as extra weight. You give toothpaste the critical eye.
• You refer to "servings" of toilet paper, as in "How many servings of toilet paper am I going to need for this trip?"
• You have two definitions of hard hiking...

---  23 blowdowns in the space of 40 minutes.
--- Your 24 year-old hiking partner asserting that getting her period is the WORST thing that could've happened on this backpacking trip. She repeats it at least 23 times in a 40 minute period.

Lemme give you the blowdown.

• My kingdom for a Playtex Super.
• To plug her mouth with.
• You are outside to receive the sun's first kiss.
• It restores you because being alone in the wilderness at night is frightening.
• You can identify trail by cairn, by blaze, by sawed log ends, and by soil disturbance.
• You've worked out your own alert system for number of blowdowns along a trail...

--- Pink = Yay! An opportunity for a great ab workout.
--- Yellow = This ab workout expends a lot of energy.
--- Orange = Shit. Shit. Shit.
--- Red = Alright already, hiking gods! My abs are going to scare away my boyfriend.

• Tapwater tastes funny.
• A successful trip is gauged by netting more stories than scratches.
• You appreciate how the help never forgets to freshen the flowers. 



Colorado Blue Columbine

• You can't write down all the reasons you do it.

Alpine meadow beauties

Sweet Sleep Spot

Snowmass Peak towers over Snowmass Lake

A friend and I hiked over 12,462 foot Buckskin Pass to reach Snowmass Lake. We had intended to do three more passes but the snow is still prohibitive up high. I wasn't too bummed though. We got to sleep here.

I Like What I Did Today

Bridge 1/many

It didn't start out as anything special. Just reacquainting myself with a hiking trail I hadn't seen in five years. But the day felt good. I loved the way the sweat trickled down my back. I loved placing my feet on the rocky trail. I greeted like an old friend the ache in my quads. Three Mile Creek Trail starts vertical and goes up from there. Straight up alongside its namesake creek with a bridge density on the order of four per mile.

Sweat was indeed trickling

While eating lunch (i.e. the emergency can of soup from my car because guess whose delicious quiche lunch was in a refrigerator in Denver), I looked at the map and realized that a through-hike would be doable. I could connect to two other trails -- Rosalie and Abyss respectively, winding between two mountains and getting glimpses of my 14er friend Mt. Evans. The Abyss would dump me four miles from my car, and since there was a hiker behind every rock and tree on this gorgeous Saturday, I figured someone could be persuaded to translate me through those road miles by car.

Velvet revealed

It worked like a charm. I recognized that I was on top of the velvety looking hillsides I'd seen the numerous times I'd hiked Abyss. I swore I'd get back there and bushwhack to check out all that suavity. Turns out there's a trail goes right through the "velvet." Also turns out it's not that velvety. More like a mix of soft grass punctuated & poked through by short, but symmetrical and evenly-spaced scrub oak. Tricky buggers sucker us hikers in every time.

Beaver Ponds

Up on high, traversing a meadow between two 12ers, Kataka and Tahana, I could see the ridge that Sweet Sis and I worked the first time we bagged Beirstadt. I recognized the windy trail where I'd startled a bushy gray coyote and a brilliantly-white snowshoe hare while doing Abyss in April. I looked down on the beaver ponds and willows that bedeviled attempts at getting anywhere in the country. I climbed out of Three Mile Creek's drainage, rounded Kataka Mountain, and dropped into Scott Gomer Creek's drainage. All in a day's work.

Puffy happy

It was short, downhill work to the Abyss TH. Now I had those tricky four road miles between me and my car. I wiped my face on the inside of my shirt and finger-combed my hair, maybe not first date material but convinced I was no longer sporting dirtbag-hiker-style but she'd-be-acceptable-in-our-car-style. With a deep breath of mountain air, I started hiking down the road. I visualized and anticipated that thumb out feeling. I thought maybe I should practice, but just then a car came -- a red sedan with Oregon plates.  My road-facing thumb skyrocketed up just like I'd imagined. And they pulled over! I jogged up to the gaping window and saw four occupants. I explained my situation, emphasizing the scant four miles part of the deal. Ma said they were fully-booked, but daughter in the back was already squeezing over closer to boyfriend and announced that there was room. With that decree, Dad popped the trunk and I stowed my pack and poles.

Meet Scott Gomer; he's
ice bath cold! (Yes, I
would know.)

Today I hiked fourteen miles and got to know another corner of the world. I made four-mile friends with some Tennessee tourists who were a little wide-eyed to be driving through mountain passes on washboard gravel roads while chatting to a grungy hitchhiker who smelled the part but had been to the Grand Ole Opry. I covered a lot of ground, learned a lot of territory. Net sum? I love what I did today.

Jake's a Daddy!

My nephew became a dad this morning in the wee hours. He has a son who was born a month early, who apparently could not wait to get busy living. And I think... his landmark is my landmark. I feel it in my heart, my mind, and the smile I can't keep off my face. He is way too young to be a dad, and I don't mean age-wise. Age is irrelevant. But he is too young. I know that he and his girlfriend and baby will have some trials. It makes me want to be more solid, more reliable, more present for them than I have been. It makes me want to grow up and settle down! I want to be able to offer them money, steadfast warmth, a great-auntie vacation spot. Maybe that's what family is; their landmarks are our landmarks. Their events make us grow up.

Call Me Bob

As in discombobulated. As in the bobbing in the pool with no sense of direction -- or rather with the waves slapping me in all directions. We waved the kids off to summer today and since they've left, I've been a whirlwind of self-induced activity. A close colleague is retiring so we saw her off with a second-to-last luncheon. Then I screamed into my classroom and dug in. The shelves got my attention, the cabinets... I even made it to the file cabinet before I was interrupted and reminded that the staff party starts at 4:00. I biked home and am going to squeeze in a run before arriving at the party late.

But see, thing is -- my head is still in those files. I'm culling and pulling the best stuff to pore over this summer and revise my units. I'm thinking word studies and demigods and theme. I'm thinking new novel and a whole semester of revised gifted curriculum. And I'm motivated to do it! But alas... the running trail and then a night of wine with colleagues calls. What are the chances my head will be in the game tomorrow??

Do not answer that.

Embarking

My shoulders hurt, my knees ache, and my ego is bruised. I'm not as good at things as I want to be, as I thought I was. I'm not who I thought I would be. The failures in my life greet me in the mirror, grinning in my pretending face.

I'm having a tough time in my own skin these days. But/and it is nothing new. I have been like this. Perennially discontent. While the leopard of my discontent doesn't change its spots, they do vary in shade and degree. And they're killin me these days. So me and my spots are gonna march to the beat of a new drum, a pulse, a heartbeat. I am going to meditate. My body has been reacting adversely to my other "remedies": I can't take the excessive exercise anymore, I always knew that happiness did not lie at the bottom of the Ben & Jerry's container, and going out with friends only works when you actually leave the house.

Tonight while I was soaking in this selfness, with various books and other forms of distraction strewn around me, I chanced upon that book that's been neglected since I bought it four years ago -- Mindfulness in Plain English. Already it speaks the truth and hits my nail on its head and I've only started.

I will continue tri training and pursuing excellence in my teaching, but I want freedom from the unhealthy aspects of drive and desire. I want to perceive clearly, to see what is, is. I want to accept it without judging. I would add that I want it all yesterday, but that sorta flies in the face of the sagacity I'm after. Today I start.

The Rain Keeps Falling

I know I should be happy for it because we need it. Fire danger and such. But truly it depresses me. I'm already depressed and weepy. I am going to miss these kids like crazy. They drive me nuts and keep me from my work and interrupt me, but I am going to miss them and the purpose they give my days. I am going to miss the autism-spectrum kid who wore his puffy orange coat all winter and ran through the halls throwing elbows to get to lunch. I'm going to miss him barging into my room every morning and sweeping my hands off my keyboard so he can load music for me to play anonymously ("I feel funny when the kids ask me all those questions") at Advisement. I'm going to miss the girl who used copious amounts of glitter on every project this year. I'm going to miss her and her friend coming into my room in the morning and talking each other's ears off about swim practices. I'm going to miss them dropping their voices to whisper the latest 7th grade girl drama. They shield me so well.

I am happy that the school year is ending and I want summer vacation and I felt the initial rush of excitement and have travel plans and exercise plans, but man, I'm gonna miss these kids. And this slow, drenching rain we're getting is no cure for my weepies.

Pondering...

I am just back from the pool and it seems like everything I ever knew was learned there. I learned how to breathe, I learned how to pace myself. I learned how to be long and lean and stay on my side to milk every ounce of distance out of that scull. Ahh...

I swim and feel how it is to be smoothly in control versus flailing like  a madwoman. When the flailing begins, I reel myself in. I reflect. I am pacing myself these days. I'm not climbing like a fiend -- partly from choice, partly because I've been coaching and can't fit climbing in. I have been biking, walking, and swimming once per week.

I have not confined my pondering to the pool. I had an impromptu think session one night when I flatted an hour from home. I had a tube and tire tool, but had removed my pump some months ago to cut weight for a supported ride. It never quite made it back onto my bike. Brilliant, I know. But, the walk was appreciated. It was sunny and I didn't start blistering (note: these bike shoes are not made for walkin') until home was in striking distance. So I walked and soaked up the sun. Sweat trickled down my back and beaded under my helmet and it was good.

It occurred to me that rock climbing may not be my Next Thing. It takes advance planning. It takes a partner whose goals are closely-aligned, and it takes me away from home. Nor does it feel like swimming. So I hatched the notion that I just might become a triathlete again. I've climbed mountains and plugged my holes on them. I'm just not compelled to get back to them. (Funny how the drive left once I'd done  the 14ers and how perfectly the two years it took to complete them also completed my divorce self-remedy.) Mountaineering has a big checkmark alongside it.

Walking on that bike path, I was struck by my tri training options. That very bike path is within spitting distance of my deck. (Well, even if I couldn't exactly hit it, I'd give it reason to pay attention.) There are dirt running paths all along a nearby creek, and the pool is five minutes away.

This all started with the putzy little tri training I'm doing for my family's annual sprint triathlon -- in which I will be participating for the first time in three years. And now... who knows where it will take me. I'm already dreaming of a tri bike and AG awards, not to mention hours on the bike exploring these country roads and trying open water swimming in reservoirs. Running doesn't even frighten my creaky knees. Match?

Side-note re: climbing -- I did meet the goal of getting the lead cave 10 route. Just this week, the night after I'd decided to ease off, I nailed it. (Of course.) I had dreamed of it on Sunday night and the dream came back. I was confident and scooted up to and through the crux. I will continue to climb socially and to peck away at my climbing goals, but triathlon... I'm sniffing around your door again. :-)

Fire Breather

Papa Bear swooped in to save the Skinny Defenseless cub from Dragon Breath.

So I blew on him too. I huffed and puffed my all-day-teaching coffee breath all over him. I hope his house is shuddering tonight. He lives in a precious place where belief does not match reality. Where his kid's tears matter more than those of anyone else's kids.

I live in that gingerbread house down yonder. By day I sit at my desk and drink second rate coffee. Lots of it. I sit behind said desk, cracking my whip for the children to work and breathing on them should they get too close. I'm a super hero who isn't afraid to mix my genres and am positively fearless when it comes to my metaphors.

But I digress. Back to Papa Bear...

He swooped in when Poor Defenseless got caught and called out. Now Poor Defenseless became not only that but also acquired the virtues and title of Innocent Perfect Sweet Kindness. Papa Bear asserted that he knows her well enough and she would never bully another kid.

(Hahahahahahahahahaha. Parents, we all know our kids would never do ---. Fill in the blank. FYI: Your kid would do it. Sorry. This isn't a happy ending fairy tale. Tonight I serve up the under-represented witch's perspective.)

So Innocent was crying, and I nearly was with heartache for the bullied girl and anger at that Big Bear lumbering onto my turf and throwing his shirt-tucked-in, I'm a big-important-in-this-district-hardass around. Nailing me to the wall with, "Couldn'ta been my kid. Are you sure it was bullying? I don't use that word lightly."

Well, Papa Bear, she was not playing nice and perfect. To the point where bullied girl went home crying. I hope Innocence cries tonight. I hope she thinks. And Papa Bear, I hope you heard me say that your hard-on is not welcome in this house. I hope you heard me say step off and let the girl cry. Let her reflect on what she did. Let her come talk to me if I was wrong. Let her talk to the girl who went home crying because of her actions. I can sleep in my just-right bed tonight. And Papa Bear, if my words didn't give you pause, I hope my coffee breath stopped you in your tracks.

Energy

Today is the kind of day where enthusiasm and joie de vivre exudes from your pores if you spend even 30 seconds outside. I just spent an hour. My brain tentacles eked out in thoughts and wonderings, possibilities -- nay, inevitabilities! It's that kind of day in Colorado.

My mind went to economy. I want economy of movement, economy of swim stroke, economy in the delivery of instruction to my students. I want economy in my writing. I wanna cut, cut, cut extra words. I never dreamed economy would turn my crank, but it's doing it for me today.

My brain wandered to yesterday's climbing trip. It started ingloriously with a drive through pea soup fog capped by an ice pellet greeting at the parking lot. There ensued a healthy debate on bailing. We decided to hike in and at least take a peak at the crags. Then, as it is wont to do in Colorado, the sun popped out and saved the day. I shed my down layer and raincoat on the hike in. By the afternoon, I wished I could shed right down to skins. Warmth permeated the air and the rock was warm to touch... mmm...

Cayenne sent an 11A on lead. I was about 100 feet away, doing a 10B on top rope and heard her grunting (unusual) and turned to see her 30 feet up her crag, working in a circular motion on the wall, looking to optimize her position for the next grab. I could hear people yelling encouragement, her belayer and his constant stream of beta. Below me was Cinnamon Stick (the token male on some of our climbing nights), sweating and shirtless. Typical of the way in which we girls let each other know we have each other's backs, I told Cayenne to get going; I didn't want to see her ass looking fat as she hung. The guy climbing the route next to mine laughed and said I didn't know him that well yet. It was that kind of day -- wonderful, with everyone in a celebratory, sun-salutory kind of mood.

It's an ahh... spring, warmth, sun kind of energy. I'm in. :-)