Thin Slivers

I am grasping at the thin slivers of hope. The sidewalk chalk messages that someone scrawled on the bike path, "Be happy," something with "Love," and of course, "Wash your hands."

It is hard these days to stay positive. It is easy to be overwhelmed and anxious. It is easy to trip down the rabbit-hole of worry. Worry about my mom's health problems, worry about my students, worry about how sick this thing is making people, worry about the groceries I can't get...

But then I get on the bike path and see that people are good, they are coming together (figuratively!!!) to give inspiration and thin slivers of hope to each other. With each pedal stroke, more of my anxiety dissipates. I see people taking the social distancing seriously - moving into single file to allow 6 feet for my biking partner and me to pass. A sliver of hope. An appreciation of humanity. A student of mine finally got internet today, day 2 of week 2 of online learning. A buoy.

We can do this. We can get through this. One sliver of hope at a time.

Bright Spots

1. Mountains reflected on lakes - Rocky Mountain National Park

2. People who tell it like it is... namely, the Katmai National Park dispatcher that I phoned today for information on packrafting in the park. I was referred to her by a ranger who said, "Um. Not sure. There are bears on these rivers." Yep, got there ahead of you, slick. Katmai is famous for bears.  But at least Slick gave me the number of the dispatcher who knew more about the wilderness rivers.

Her first statement was, "I don't think much of packrafts."

Okay. Proceed delicately. "Is it because of the rivers in your park -- like they don't lend themselves to packrafts -- or something else that you don't like?"

"It's packrafters. They tend to be hikers who buy a raft because they think it'll be cool to float instead of carry a heavy pack. They're not boat people, you know..." And they end up needing rescues.

I laughed because she had nailed it. "Yep, that's pretty much me and my friends.  So, are there any rivers in Katmai that my friends and I could safely do?"

And then she told me about three that were potentials -- or maybe there were four in there. Laced with comments like "The rangers do this one, but make sure you get out before that waterfall, because if you don't, you won't be getting out of anything ever again," and "The Katmai lodge people might take you to the put-in, or they might not," and "That one's mostly flatwater, until it's not. There are parts that will cause you some consternation," and "If you have a lot of money to throw around, you might try..."

She concluded by wishing me well. I might throw some money toward a beer for her when we get to Katmai.

Three Cupcakes, Two Bowls of Ice Cream

There are days and weeks and months when I don't even remember my addiction to sugar. When life flows along smoothly and I hardly think of cookies at all.

Then there are weeks like these. Where I'm clinging to my food diary, clawing for willpower to stick to my recommended daily caloric intake, but I can't stop thinking about cupcakes and as an amputee misses a limb, rolling my tongue around imaginary ice cream. Chocolatey. Creamy. With brownie chunks. In an attempt to see it but not eat it, I google "pastries" and look at the images. I think, "I would buy five of those, two of those, sample that one. Oh, with coffee, or no - with milk, I think."

The google night, only my laziness saved me. I loathe running out to the store. It would mean getting out of my pajamas. And even if I could go through a drive-thru, it's so light out at night that yes, I'd still have to change out of my PJs or risk being seen. I contented myself with images and toast.

But yesterday... I had a bazillion errands to do. PJs already shed. Already in car and on road. Plus I needed legit groceries. So, as a reward for accomplishing my bazillion errands and it must be noted, changing out of my PJs, I purchased cupcakes and ice cream. I have thrown in the towel, surrendered, and retreated to my couch to lick my wounds - and my ice cream spoon.

First Descent: Obstruction Run

I am claiming a first descent of the creek behind my house. If anyone else has done it, I am betting they'll be too abashed at their foolishness to own the feat. In the spirit of first ascensionists naming routes, I have christened it Obstruction Run. It deserves just shy of one star.

Before I went, I knew there would be obstructions. I have walked the path along that creek hundreds of times. But. The extent of the downed limbs, sticking-up rocks, sandy bottom just inches from my boat -- that I did not anticipate. Nor did I anticipate how quickly it would rock my cool. I found myself dragging my boat. Not a great idea when your boat is made out of rubber. Strong rubber, but puncturable rubber that cost me $800.

It was so bloody heavy, I wanted to drag it. It was weighted with my soggy PFD that I didn't need in two foot water, with my tow line that I did need but that soaked up water, and with water I'd onboard every time my optimism would claim me and have me jumping in for a 20 foot ride down the creek. I think I got 20 feet twice. And then I got 200 feet in 5 foot segments before I'd hear the disheartening scrape of rubber on rock. Ugh. At which point, I'd hop out and coax the boat to glide in a channel that would carry it, but sadly not me in it.

Those were the easy hauls when I could lead my boat down the stream, an obedient pony on a string. The hard stuff was when I'd come upon a downed tree or, at one point, a barrel that blocked the width of the creek. Sometimes I could step over it, raft on my shoulder. Other times - and these would make your mama cry - I had to climb the steep bank, thrashing through ever-pliable and ever-snappy and poky willows, careful to protect my $800 rubber and sacrificing my skin in its place. Those areas quickly lost their charm.

What was charming was seeing my trail from the creekside. Hiking partners and I have always noted how a trail looks brand new when you turn around and do it in reverse. Same with this. It was a new neighborhood to me. I saw a homeless shelter erected along the trail and heard some man clearing his nasal passages inside the blanketed tent. A deer was agog with curiosity to see me and my big yellow raft and watched me for several minutes. (It then had the sense to take a drink, and follow a trail back to where it had come from.) A skinny little water snake wriggled its way upstream. Flax and leafy spurge cupped their faces to catch the sun in the meadow where I stopped to catch my breath and dump water from my waterproof socks and boat, then submit my face and sodden self to the sun.

And then there's the knowledge that I had to do it. I had to know if my backyard was navigable. It is not. I see no reason to carry my boat its length again. This first descent of the Obstruction Run will probably be the last. If people have any sense.

Diana & Buddy For Today

I want to know so much more about her. And her little dog too.

I've been biking past her for two months, wondering how cold she must be on that bench. Wondering why she's there at all and not at the local shelter. Hoping she'll be there another day, the next day, when I screw up my courage to finally talk to her. Two weeks ago I worked up the courage to say "Hello" as I rode past, and I've been doing that every time since. I had a twenty in my pocket one time when I went to the store close to her bridge, but I couldn't do it.

Today I did it. I set out from my house and walked to her bridge, hoping against hope she was there. Then seeing her and feeling ebullient. Then deflated as I worried that she'd yell at me if I tried to talk to her. But determined. I had to try.

My parents' message about homeless people was "Look away. Don't make eye contact. Keep walking." We only saw homeless when we went to Minneapolis or Milwaukee. In my little hometown, there was no such thing. Is that why my normally-humanitarian parents had such a harsh message? Because the strangeness and overwhelming nature of the big city intimidated them too? Was it only a childhood message that they would now change to me as an adult child?

Two bikers rode under the bridge as I got within hailing distance of her. I almost lost courage. I felt shame that they would see me approaching her. I let them bike by and then called out to her.

"Hi. I was really hoping you'd be here today. I've been riding by and saying hi to you."

Murky eyes turned my way, and her little dog lunged toward my voice, peeling his way out of her sleeping bag.

"Hi. What's your name?"

And like that, I told her. And she told me - Diana and Buddy. Everyone calls him "Buddy Love" because he loves everybody. Did she need anything? Some chicken and a Pepsi would be nice, because she's blind. She can give me money. Could I get it?

I did. I walked to the store and returned to then help her unstick her sleeping bag zipper. "It was new when he gave it to us to use." Because of it, she's warm enough at night. But she would like a radio. "Can you find me a radio to listen to?" Am I sure I don't want money for the chicken and pop?

I will find her a radio. And maybe I'll move in closer and find out her story. I have so many questions. Why is she there? How long has she been homeless? Who else is giving her things? Are people good to her? Does she feel safe? Was she always blind? Is that why she's homeless? Where is her family?

But today, I got in closer. They are Diana and Buddy.

Attaboy, Atalaya

I saw Atalaya Mountain like this.

Unusual for Santa Fe. One local commented that we received more snow in two days than the total for last year's winter. So. I hiked in the snow. And I needed it!

I left my indolence at the spa resort and drove to the trailhead, itching the whole way, chanting in my head, "Please let it be long enough." When I started, I promised myself that if it was too short, I'd repeat part of it or walk down another trail to get in at least three hours of sweaty indulgence.

When I got to the "Steeper - Easier" decision, I chose "Easier" because I figured it was longer. Though tempted to take pictures when I reached 8100, and got a view of the peak, (I hope I'm going there), I resisted. Save pictures for the way down. Indulge and sweat now!

By around 8400 feet, I was like, huh, who stretched out the mountain? The boot pack diminished to boot track, the snow deeper and not trampled by as many people. I hoped the trail would "go," -- reach the top of what I had viewed earlier and resolved to make my own way if I had to.

I slogged on, happy to greet a single guy descending with his dog, and later a couple who I quickly pinned the snow-drawn heart I had seen earlier on the trail on.  I didn't ask if they'd been to the top. I didn't want to jinx it.

At two hours and 17 minutes, sweaty and sated, I topped out and enjoyed the views.

Atalaya Mountain, 9121 feet. Seven miles, 1800 gain. 2:17 up, 4:00 total for the hike.

That’s Me

“That’s me!” I yell up to John. I have felt the rope tug at my navel that signifies he’s pulled up the slack between us and can now set up to belay me. Shoed and helmeted, I climb the pitch.

“That’s me!” I yell inside my head. I am walking down a New Mexican road as the sun would be rising. There is no sunrise today - just a moisture-laden sky. New Mexico surrounds me: roosters crow, dogs bark, a hare - with those disproportionate ears - shuttles down the road, faster than I would have believed possible.

Snow pellets sting my eyes. I pull my mountaineering cap down and my buff up, covering as much skin as I can. My eyes can’t be helped.  Yet, I feel ten feet tall in my Microspikes, owning this road that has been tracked by only one vehicle.

“I’m better than the cars,” I think, as I stride down the icy rills. I see the vehicle had to arrest a skid and right itself to come back to center. I, on the other hand, stay right on center. Ha.

I have been at a spa resort for two days. I have been indolent. A good friend, upon hearing of my break-up, said, “Let’s go somewhere and get you healing.” I jumped all the way in and have been taking yoga and meditation classes, steam showers and massages. We’ve been eating gourmet meals and drinking wine and tequila.

Last night, my navel kicked in. I wanted to be outdoors and off of this compound. I woke at 5AM to four inches of snow coating the icy, packed snow from yesterday. I donned layers, boots, and spikes and climbed the hill out of the compound. I exited the gate out onto the road. Where I now stride, snow stinging my eyes and my arms cold, but with no intention of turning back. The allure of what’s around the next bend tugs. That’s me.

It's Christmas Eve

I wake up at 5AM and I know... it's Christmas Eve. Chills of excitement course through my 47 year-old body. I love this day.

I have awoken in the grooves of childhood when, on this day, I lived anticipation. First we would stomp out into the woods and spend hours debating over and wearing circles around contenders for the family tree. When we reached a consensus, it was turns with a saw and an axe to fell the thing. Then each kid would grab their portion, blue spruce needles poking through knit mittens, and drag it through the snow.

At home, Mom would be a blaze in the kitchen. She'd have every burner going with sauces, sautéing meatballs, and boiling potatoes. The oven could not fit another item. She made batches of rum cakes, candies, and bagels. She was a fury in the kitchen. Yet, while we were out, she had dragged down the boxes of tree ornaments and lights. The tree stand options awaited us in the garage: the green one if we'd gotten a big tree, the white one if a littler one.

We kids dragged the tree into the garage and gave it a prodding glance: "The time to look good is now." Mom would step out of the kitchen and give the tree an appraising look. All that circling the tree and debating was for her. We waited. We watched her face. She would either say, "Oh, that's a nice, full one," or "You'll have to make sure that bare spot is toward the wall," and the first person to have spotted the tree would either own their pick proudly or snap their head toward the tree, scanning for the bare spot.

Ornaments and lights came next. It took the whole afternoon - with breaks to nip into the kitchen for hot chocolate with milk straight from our cows and stirred with Nestle's on a burner that could be spared for five minutes.

Then came chore time, more onerous than ever with Christmas Eve so close. But as I got older, I got smarter and would dress quickly to get out and get chores started. Once chores were done, we were that much closer to presents. Milking the cows took two hours and felt like two days. Peter and I would run to the barn doors to see if we could spy Santa flying through the air, landing on our roof, by our chimney. Sarah would say, "You know he doesn't come if you're looking," causing a conflict that still twists my heart. Do I look and see the Santa of a lifetime, but risk not getting any presents, or do I fight that urge and miss my chance at seeing him?

When the last cow was milked and bedded for the night, we were released. Peter and I raced to the house and straight to the tree. We'd stand on the threshold to the living room and be dazzled by the lights, the pretty wrapping, and the sheer size of the mound of presents. I remember thinking it was a pile of presents on presents and it stopped me, just to gaze in awe, jaw dropped.

Showering was a fast affair, and then Mom's buffet - 18-plus dishes that she'd arrange around the kitchen and that Peter and I struggled to taste, every part of us being tugged toward that tree. The older kids and Mom and Dad tasted their food and talked. Sometimes, if Peter and I were good, we were dismissed and could go sit in front of the tree, but "Don't touch anything until we get there."

And then it came. The family would assemble around the living room and Peter and I could look at the tags and give the receiver their package. We each opened one gift first, so everyone got a chance to see at least one gift another person had received. Then the careful order dissolved as the present unwrapping proved irresistible and paper was ripped in every corner of the room and cries of, "Peter, look what I got!" and "Thank you, Santa!" filled the air.

We played then, driving toy tractors around the linoleum, trying and trading flavors in our LifeSavers books, playing the new family game. At some point, Peter and I might remember our tummies and go back into the kitchen to graze on the buffet that we could now taste. We stayed up late that night. Till our bellies hurt with tiredness and our eyelids grew heavy. But we wanted to stay up, to stretch the day, to make it last forever. When a preponderance of us were crabbing or rubbing our eyes or who-knows-how-they-knew, Dad and Mom hugged us and turned out the lights, allowing one more glimpse of that lighted tree, before sending us to bed.

We dragged heavy feet up the steps and poured heavy bodies into our beds, sated and grateful, having lived every moment of that day.

"Christmas was always a lean time," my dad now tells me. "Mom and I tried to use good judgement about the presents, but sometimes we got carried away." I need to tell him; I never sensed any of that fretting. He and my mom made Christmas fat and fulfilling and wonderful. And I'm grateful. Even at 47, their enchantment remains, singing through my veins when I awaken at 5AM. It's Christmas Eve.

My Plea

Let me remember you smiling and posing. Let me remember you loving and warm.

Not bitter and bucking.

We have both had a cost of living increase with this break-up. I know. It costs me too. I have to take the pit of my stomach wherever I go. The ache in my shoulders. The 3:30 AM second-guessing. I. Know.

The gnashing of my teeth and adrenaline spike when we "bump into" each other in my parking lot or when you email me SIX times in one day. I know it's hard to accept. Loss sucks.

But I don't want your bucking and refusing to accept to be what I remember. Do this graciously. Be generous. Be a person who I will rue someday. Be courageous. Accept it and move on. Find happiness. Be happy.

You just can't be with me.

When the Bottom Drops Out

Sometimes my bottom drops out.

The foundation of me is an earthquake, shaking and undulating. I scramble and react, unsure of what footing to trust - not sure if trust is even a thing anymore. School is fractured fault lines, he is a landslide to dodge, sister and family never really understood and therefore never really loved me. All is seismic waves and blurry images. In snippets between the tremors, I remember that there is a self. I search for her.

I'm so lonesome I could cry. Close every door to me. All is sad music and scrambling.

The feeling is powerful. It is all of me. I used to tell a depressed friend; you have a choice. Identify it and fight it.

I still believe that. Except. At times. When it hits and you're in its grip. When it is you. It was me yesterday.

Today I grasp to remember because I'm coming out. I fear that someday(s) I won't come out. The quake won't cease. The tremors will just keep rocking me. I need to hear that voice that says...

• Go for a walk
• Do something that you're not currently doing
• Play the keyboard (my *brilliant* escape last night)

That's my Red Cross. It's idiosyncratic what will work. Sometimes I can play the keyboard. But I haven't played in five years. So I have to be as flexible as my undulating quake. I have to roll with its punches. I am enabled to do this when I...

• Eat right
• Sleep right
• Exercise

Those precede any heroic piano playing. They are my first line of defense. When I hear those and obey, I have a patch of solid earth. I have defended my brain chemistry.

Today I'm exhausted from fighting it. I want the other me back. The one that was sooooooo solid at the beginning of the week. Shoot, I was solid ground for others around me! And then I quaked.

I write because it happened. I write because I know it will happen again. I write because I want my house to sit on bedrock. I want to strap some shred of me together so it's there for me to cling to when the tectonics come again.

I Find Grateful

I did not summit Pacific Peak. The story has to begin there. My first attempt was last Thursday. I did not even glimpse the massif that day. I hightailed it off the approach when I heard the distinctive “whoompf, whoompf” of snow collapsing - an avalanche’s signal. Still, I was happy. Three hours of snowshoeing in a basin where Breckenridge and Frisco residents come with their dogs to backcountry ski is not a bad day.

Then I went back yesterday. I was up at 4AM after having awoken 5 times during the night: Is it time yet? I was ready. This time I saw the massif. And how.

I snowshoed the whole approach in two-ish hours, thanking my lucky stars that some other intrepid had made track almost to the entrance to the ridge. (It was a “his;” the tracks were like a giant had stridden/stormed up that drainage.) At this point, I felt so good that I took a look at the connecting ridge to Atlantic Peak and thought, “Hmmm…. Why get one peak when I could get two?”

It was clear to me that I could ditch my snowshoes and hiking poles. It was also clear to me that I wouldn’t need crampons or ice axe for the first bit I could see. Gnarly, beautiful rock lay ever-ascending in front of me, interspersed with the cloud to the silver lining - two-foot deep patches of snow. I began the ridge, rock-hopping where I could, expending energy to punch through those snow patches when I couldn’t. The sun finally met me and I took a break to eat a Gu and drink the last of my Nuun.

In front of me lay the first obstacle, a megalith of black and pink and white rock with a piercing top that pointed skyward. I would skirt around to the right of this thing, picking my way through icky rock. Loose and rotten, having been chipped away from the ridge, it was yearning to make its way down the side of the mountain to who-knows-where. I took the Gu and drank the water, checked my GPS, and thanked the sun for busting up on that 8 degree chill.

I began to work. I hit upon a strategy. I would pick a path up the next 15 feet of shitty-debris-wanting-to-be-downhill-from-here and outline it with my finger. Then I’d put my helmeted head back down and execute the moves. Downward pressure with my hands (or I would be delivering its wish to that shitty debris), precise placement of my feet. Looking, looking for a good hand, a solid foot, among the tumbles of rock and snow.

Upward and eastward I climbed around that first obstacle. And then found the obstructionist part of it: where does it end? Where do I stop traversing and ascend to regain the ridge? In a forest, you can’t see the forest for the trees; on an climb, you can’t see the mountain for the rock. I did the best I could. I consulted the GPS and the route description and decided that I was probably at the point where I needed to “carefully climb back to the ridge crest.” This I did - with more finger painting in the air and downward pressure with hands and feet.

On the ridge, I was happy. I LOVE ROCK. Even not 100% solid rock has its trustworthy sections if you take the time to find them and treat them right. I love the texture of rock - that hard, unyielding density. I also love the bumps and flakes and cracks that make nice handholds and allow me to get a leg up. Even the snow on the ridge had the courtesy to lay flat and not tilt all willy-nilly toward the basin below. (There should be a maxim: everything on the mountain wants to get off - except us humans.) I still had to punch through it one foot at a time, but at least it wasn’t with the fear of sliding to my demise with each step. That came soon enough.

I had to descend from the ridge to avoid another obstacle. In the summer, you would rock hop underneath the obstacle and be around it lickety-splickety. Today it held a steep bank of snow that plunged down onto a tilted slab of bedrock that plunged down in turn to a tumble of rock and scree. For a long ways. I looked at it. I did a risk-assessment. If I slipped, I would get hurt. Bad. So, could I do it without slipping?

My feet would have to go in the snow. My hands would be on the rock above. I scouted the rock for hand placements on this 20-foot section. It had some bumps and flakes and cracks that I could see, then an airy spot between the first rock and the second section of rock. That section was an unknown. And unknowable to me at that point. I couldn’t see if there were holds. But I could start and feel it out as I went.

I did. The first section was solid. My feet sank into the snow and mercifully didn’t slide. Then I came to the unknowable section. I could see a horn sticking out on the second section of rock. It was below me and I would have to tilt to grab it and then move my feet. I would have to trust the snow until I could get that horn. I didn’t think much. I committed and reached for the horn. My right hand grasped it. I exhaled and continued.

I regained the ridge, and the stress lessened for a bit. I made my way around several more obstacles, getting to climb over one especially gorgeous bit of pointy rock that looked impassible at first but yielded under close scrutiny and one-move-at-a-timeism. And then I could see the summit. At last! I checked the time and was amazed to see that it was already 10:57AM. I decided I could give this ridge one more hour and then needed to turn back or risk darkness and fatigue. Already I had signs of fatigue; I forgot that I’d moved my watch to my wrist and searched frantically for it for 30 seconds, I forgot that I’d moved my down mitten to my backpack’s side pocket and cursed myself for having (I thought) dropped it. I took another Gu and sipped still-warm (yay!) water.

I continued another 15 minutes, working that ridge. And then I got a full-on frontal of the class 3 gully that lay ahead of me. I looked at the right side of it. I looked at the left side of it. I didn’t want to look at the middle. It was chock-full of unknowable snow. Ugh. I flashed back to the airy traverse. I calculated that it would be at least another hour to the summit with this gully and the airy traverse and all the other careful, deliberate, brain-sucking moves to make on the way down. The descent of this ridge would go no faster than the ascent. I didn’t think much. I turned around and began the descent. I felt immediate relief.

Which was premature. The descent was tricky. I couldn’t see what was below me as I lowered myself off of shelves of rock, but really hoped a good foot would turn up, or at least a slanted bit that I could place my foot on for purchase until I could lower my hands. I lost my foot track and then found it again. I was sure of one thing: I needed to follow my track on this ridge. It was too cliffy to try out a new route on the way down. So I would search and search for my footprints in the snow between the rock sections. Blank snow meant I had gone elsewhere. It was fatiguing!

My body entered a lurching state. My bad knee was deciding whether to be trustworthy or not. I slowed down and started talking to myself. “What are you committing to in this stretch? What’s your path?” I finger painted and made my body follow.

The worst times were the doubting times. I agonized that I was descending too much and would end up needing to reclimb. I agonized that I was staying on the ridge too long and would cliff out and have to find the exit. I nearly descended the wrong gully but made myself scout the ridge one last time and found my track on the other side of a gnarly rock that I didn’t know I could (and had!) climbed. I committed to traversing a section of icky dirt and scree where I couldn’t see my track but felt it had to be the right level and came upon my track on the opposite side. I didn’t celebrate. I couldn’t. But I did exhale. Then I continued to search and talk to myself and finger paint. I reached my snowshoes and the end of that ridge in 8 minutes fewer than it had taken me to ascend.

Now I smiled. I took photos. I texted my fiancé. I drank water. It was still too cold to bask in the warmth of appreciation and gratitude, but I knew now that I could. I put on my snowshoes and descended into that sunny basin where the Breckenridge and Frisco residents bring their dogs to recreate.

I did not summit Pacific. It has become clear that I didn’t need to. I no longer have the summit fever of old. The summit fever I had when I first moved out here and climbed all the 14ers. I had something to prove. A life to re-define after divorce and ripping, tearing loss. Holes to fill, hungry and driving and blinding.

I didn’t need to summit Pacific yesterday. I am full for having been on that mountain for eight hours. I am grateful for being able to see it, to feel it beneath my fingers, to test it and tuck it away until summer when I look forward to seeing it again in a different light, a different season. I am grateful to descend into sunlight and hear the crunch of my snowshoes. I am grateful to come home and hug the world’s best fiance and tell him what was in my heart for those 8 hours. I am grateful to feel my body, to trust my hands and my feet. And my judgment. I can trust my judgment. I am very grateful for that.

I did not summit Pacific. The story ends there.

13er Reflections

Dallas Peak, 13,809 Summit
Gladstone Peak, 13,913 Summit
Lizard Head Peak, 13,113 Attempt

Dallas Peak

I did climb the two thirteeners that I just summitted. It was my legs, my lungs, my sweat, my panting on unrelenting slopes. It was my crampons, my ice axe, my wet feet, and my chilly-cold fingers.

But it wasn’t my routefinding. It was my much stronger cousin who led the way, who pointed out the peaks and the path to them. Who tested icy class 5 upclimbs and sketchy snow traverses. Who then waved me on - hearing my whimpers on the former - but staying still and quiet for me.

Setting up rappel off Dallas, Sneffels looks on

I don’t know if I can claim them. I want to go back and get them for myself. I want to study those damn mountains and be able to pick Mt. Wilson from Wilson Peak and know Sneffels from every angle like he does. I want to spy a couloir from a mile away and pick a path that leads me to the base of it. I want to be the one to kick steps up the couloir - or at least take my share of doing so.  But I don’t want to do that for class 5 anymore. I don’t belong on class 5 snow climbs, especially since I don’t lead trad. If something happened to Jack when we were out, I would be hard-pressed to facilitate a rescue.

I am great on rock. I should stick to that and never put myself in a position to have to rely so heavily on a (albeit, willing) partner. I don’t like it. It’s a point of pride at this point. But it could become a matter of life and death. It was so cold on Dallas Peak. My hands and feet were soaking wet. So were Jack’s. If the weather had changed, if one of us had slipped… I felt the potential impacts of the potential errors as I stood in the shadow of a chock block, waiting for Jack to scout. I don’t want to die on a mountain. I want to be able to rescue my partner if something should happen to them. I want to learn more and be better.

I want to be stronger, and I will get stronger...

1. Routefinding. I wil learn to draw GPX tracks and use my Garmin. I will study the map as I’m ascending. It will take me longer to summit, but I will start early and turn back if weather moves in -- even if it means I don’t summit at first. I can trust that I will get better with practice, and in the long run will summit more peaks in a way that makes me feel like I’ve really summitted them.
2. Routefinding. Yep, I’m that bad at it. I almost think I shouldn’t go with Jack again until I am better at it so that I don’t let him take over. He’s too dang quick. In both routefinding and pace. I have to do these for myself.
3. Knots, anchors, and rescue techniques. Read up on them and practice them.
4. Crampon technique. I am great in snow, but I need practice at mixed climbing. I would la-dee-da across a traverse and then lurch my way across the rock sections. It’s like wearing a stinkin’ pair of high heels! Jack said place your whole crampon on if there’s space or finesse the midsection (no points) onto the edge of rocks. Which I pretty much figured out after 45 minutes of struggling!

I am good at:

1. Rock, blessed rock! I love the way I can trust myself to pick a path through a thorny ridge. I love the way I know when to use downward pressure on slippery slopes. I love the way I place my feet. I love the way I hop boulder fields. I have a  bit of a thing for rock.

2. 

   Lizard Head, the one that got away

   Judgement. When we were up at Lizard Head, I knew the wind wasn’t gonna quit. I told Jack I would not take more than 10 steps in the hellacious stuff. I like that I am clear in communicating my (dis)comfort levels, even with a partner like him who I am trying to impress. And it’s also good that I know the difference. On Dallas, he offered to tie me in, and, after studying the path and tabulating my abilities, I followed him without a rope. On Lizard Head, it was clear to me that we’d both be in danger. Ahem, Jack, when you’re walking in a crouched position and still falling to your knees, it’s too windy to hope for a leeside to ascend a 4-pitch, 5.8+ tower!
3. Drive. When I want a peak, I am willing to suffer for it. Dallas Peak was haaard, and scary and snowy, but I did it. I felt exhausted and defeated and dreaded the descent of Gladstone the next day, but I dug to some deep place within (by the way, what the heck is that?) and did it. And I made myself keep up with the three strong climbers I was with. Booyah!
4. Nutrition and hydration. I have this pretty much dialed in. On peaks, I want formulated foods. Nuun, Clif, and Gu are my friends. Taken early and often, they chase away nausea, headaches, and prevent bonking.
5. Confidence in and reading of my own abilities. I know the pace I can maintain for 10 hours. I know the rock and snow I can climb.

The Best of Me

With a forehead kiss
I gave you the best of me
Pressed
all the tenderness
warmth
maternal love
a daughter can give to her mother

Whose own mother was
not
tender

Placed it
softly
at the peak of your widow
lips delicately
placed
for the teensiest of bits
but with the accumulation of years
of gratitude
of forgiveness
of understanding
of wishing
and ultimately,
of appreciation for the moment
and for the woman who is Mom

The end of the head massage
you let me to give
just for a small,
small moment
the best of me.

When He Was Good

When he was good, we had the world by the tail. He helped me have a deeper relationship with my mom. When we were good, sunlight and laughter kissed us every day. We kissed back. When we were good, we were each other's bright spot, soul mates, friends till the end, our minds were connected and we made light of everything. When we were good, we floated through existence. I felt almost guilty for the blessed existence that we had - happiness that knew no bounds, that was a giddy and playful and stayed up nights late. When we were good, we were invincible. People stopped us and commented, prognosticating the future that would extend into decades of marriage...

When we were good, I ached for him in the pit of my stomach when he had to go to work. He would come home and tell me how he caught my scent in the air as he turned his head and wiggled it back-and-forth like a wild man trying to catch it again, wanting me. When we were good, we needed nothing but each other. In a one bedroom apartment, we never entered the bedroom because we couldn't be farther away from each other than the full-size futon in the living room. We named recipes for our love, wrote a language of inside jokes. We completed each other.

When we were good, we were so good. It made the bad hurt all the more. When we got bad, I didn't have a partner. When he was bad, I came home to an empty house. There was another person living and breathing, but not giggling, in it. I came home to closed doors and loud saws and things that stopped up human contact. Blocking out human contact I could accept. He had done it before, isolating us so it was just him and me. This was new. He now excluded me. When we were bad, it hurt deeply, gouging out my insides. I failed to reach the one who had been laced into my tissues.

Now I'm out and eight years have passed. I still feel what I lost, but I also see what I gained. I am grateful for when he was good.

One Climb

Just one climb is all it took. To remember all that I'd forgotten. To remember how climbing stretches time. Time waits for you to calibrate. A second stretches as you look at footholds and envision just which part of the sticky-rubber climbing shoe toe box you're going to place on which part of the climbing hold and with what amount of pressure. How much of an inch extra can you eke out of alternate placements? Tick, tick, tick. You aren't even aware of how Time lets you think.

It is generous too when you move your gaze to the handholds. You gauge the solidity of each and intuitively calculate how much your hip must turn into the wall to elongate the side of your body and get millimeters out of your fingertips, enabling that perfect efficiency, the balance between stability and speed - the constant warring factions in climbing.

Your muscles begin the motion, seamlessly agreeing with the mind and eyes, slowly and deliberately snaking out to just the right touch, that  right amount of contact with the rock. And even then, Time is letting you see the next move...

Just one climb is all it took to remember the slowness, the presence of mind that climbing demands. Just one climb is all it took to remind me of its application in other other areas of my life. Just one glorious 10- gym climb with yellow tape awakened the memory: the how of doing things matters so so much.

How to Climb a Mountain

I had climbed 104 mountains. I learned something new yesterday on #105, Mt. Silverheels. I set off late in the day, leaving the trailhead at 1PM, something I have never done before and certainly not in the winter. I knew that I would be coming off the mountain in the dark so was careful to note landmarks and times between them. I was also careful to make tracks in snow. Given the choice of taking a path that went through grass or rock or snow, I took snow so I'd have something to follow on the way out.

Well. I underestimated a lot of things. First, a headlamp is a poor device for spotting landmarks that are more than 25 feet away from you. Ridgelines and snow pack, cairns, the mountain peaks themselves -- all are rendered invisible once the sun goes down. I could see rough shapes of massifs but couldn't distinguish the one I'd dubbed Skater's Ramp from the one I'd called Cheops. I could see that I was traversing below Hoosier Ridge but couldn't see the ridge well enough to know where to get back on it to avoid avalanche danger - an easy task in daylight. Instead I had to painstakingly retrace my steps. Lesson #2: choosing to make track in the snow was smart, but there wasn't enough of it to make what you'd call a breadcrumb path to follow. I'd lose my print and backtrack to pick it up again. I had to double back to pick up the snowshoes I'd stashed. It also became a time management exercise. I couldn't double back every time I lost my track, so I made judgement calls. At one point I just knew that I needed to follow a particular contour on a more-grassy-than-snowy hillside, so I did -- and struck my trail minutes later.

Another thing I learned is that navigating by time on a mountain yields only approximations. I had read that one should make note of where to exit the summit ridge because it was hard to spot the safe rib from the top, so I hit the lap split on my watch when I topped out on that spot and marched to the summit. Seventeen minutes. I figured that descending I'd go faster so I turned downhill at 10 minutes. After descending for a bit, I realized that I'd overshot the correct rib by about 150 feet. And they were an icky, steep, mix of snow and rock 150 feet. Breath coming in gasps, I chastised myself for not trusting my eyes when I'd spotted what looked like the entrance to the right rib earlier. And gathered myself.

"Careful, careful, slow, slow" became my mantra as I placed my feet, controlling my breathing and quelling panic as I traversed my way back to the path. Daylight held for that portion of the hike. I was able to get off of the nasty stuff and onto the gentler slopes connecting to Hoosier Ridge. I made myself stop and put on warmer layers, my headlamp, and gather all the gentleness and patience I could -- for myself and the journey I knew lay ahead. I had already messed up in my panic to get off the windy, cold, darkness-coming summit. 

I took stock. I had many more layers of warm clothing. The night wasn't dangerously cold if I kept moving. I felt tired but had plenty of strength left to hike out, even if it took several hours. I needed to be careful, to pick the path and breathe. I needed to not twist an ankle. My biggest enemy would be my impatience. I needed to focus on finding the path and careful foot placement.

I began the work. Distances stretched. The darkness and my fear of the cold messed with my memory and tangled with my notion of how quickly I should get off this mountain. I had to strike the right balance between moving quickly and being careful. It took constant vigilance. I also knew that Boyfriend would be worried about me. I prioritized stopping for precious minutes to check cell reception. I got cell signal and called home to say I was safe, but would be descending slowly, picking path by headlamp and sporadic footprints in the snow. I told Boyfriend not to worry unless 2.5 hours passed without word from me. This would be, I figured, plenty of time for me to descend the route that had taken me 1.25 hours to ascend in daylight.

Hiking in the dark is tricky. I continued my slow process. Bathed in exhilaration and pride every time I re-found the path, I breathed "Good girl, good girl!" At one point, I congratulated myself, "You are a good mountaineer!" But then I'd temper the excitement, caution myself to stay calm and focused. The work would not be done until I struck the well-trammeled path that comprised the very last mile of the hike out. That was 1500 feet of elevation and who knows how many miles distant. The drive to get out was so strong that it over-rode all other desire. I made myself stop to drink. I made myself stop to add layers. I made myself turn off my headlamp and lift my gaze to the cloudless sky and the silver quarter moon. I made myself focus, but gave myself rest stops to gauge my body and appreciate the beauty of what I was doing. I could keep myself safe by being smart and deliberate.

I traveled along the top of Hoosier Ridge, dreading that I'd miss the exit west down the hillside that led to my car. I had noted earlier that another trail led north to a different peak. I so didn't want to squander time starting that hike. At 6:40 PM I spotted lights that had to be the parking lot. They were far distant and a descent of about 500 feet. A quick check of my compass helped validate the assumption. It was my hillside! I didn't have track, so I made two sweeping treks across the hillside in an attempt to strike it. Failing to do so, I decided it was safe to fix my path to that light and go straight downhill. Knowing I would lose sight of it as I descended, I noted the position of the moon - 10:00 - and sited on a star. I took plunging steps down the hillside, my snowshoes eating up the snow, but whenever I stopped to re-calibrate, the dark and the cold were still working their dirty, stretching-distance trick. The light was only marginally closer. I shook off the pique and rallied. I could do this. I was getting closer. I would be at the car soon and call Boyfriend and tell him I was safe, safe, safe!

At 7:10, I struck the well-trammeled path and saw the first trees I'd seen in hours. "Well, hello tree! Hello bushes!" I smiled at them. I picked up speed and looked for the landmark that would indicate I was about 10 minutes from the trailhead - the spot where I stepped off the trail to urinate so many hours ago. I listened to the darkness, watched the trees turn from dark looming objects to tree-shaped, looming objects. At 7:41, two hours after my phone call to Boyfriend, I was at the road. I stowed snowshoes, poles, and backpack into the car. A jittery, out-of-myself-me called Boyfriend and told him I was safe and coming home! 

I felt like after my Ironman. It's an odd, out-of-body feeling. I'd been maintaining focus to the exclusion of all else for so long that it was hard to shake, to come back into thoughts of non-mountain and compelling-safety things. It thawed out of me slowly just as my seat heaters thawed the chill in my body. 

Then I thought all the way home. I thought in what-ifs. I thought in what-could-I-have-done-betters. I thought in would-I-ever-do-this-agains. (No!)

Then I thought of how far I've come as a mountaineer. Especially in terms of my sense of direction and ability to pick path up a mountain. I have acquired a certain amount of ability to "read" mountainous terrain, to discern the so-called weakness of the mountain that will give the summit to us humans. I also appreciated the adage, "Getting up is optional, getting down is mandatory." That same terrain-reading ability enabled me to find my way down the mountain. It was a mix of intuition and memory from the ascent, and painstaking work to find the path I'd left - and knowing when to trust which so that I could get down expeditiously.

How to climb a mountain? Gently. Truly. A bit at a time. Painstakingly. Lovingly.

In the daylight!

Huffle Puff

Training climbs build strength. Training climbs are painful and fun and wickedly tricky. I went on just such a training climb last weekend. I felt strong. I felt competitive. I felt as though I was auditioning for a role on an expedition. I also felt like I would be the Hufflepuff on that team. Huff and puff my additions to the crew. All the same, I want that spot.

Fierceness & Devotion

I am always going to be a little mad at other teachers when I get a new student. I’m always going to think they are not doing enough to integrate my student. I am going to feel Tiger-Mama and want to tell them to “Cut the kid some slack already! They’re new to our country and school! Help them adjust!”

Then, the kid will do what he/she does for a while, asking for my help along the way. Or not. In those cases, I swoop into the gradebook and see if New Student needs a little forced guidance from Tiger-Mama Triteacher.

It’s the New-Student Dance.

Months pass. The student adjusts to the teaching styles, the teachers come to see the positive in the new kid and bond just as tightly as they have with the students they’ve had all year.

And I have successful, well-adjusted, happy students who still need the guidance and protection of Tiger-Mama, but who have learned how to "do school" here, who get inducted into National Junior Honor Society (HOORAY!!!), who get parts in the school play, who come to school looking for a safe, structured place in which they can build relationships and grow. And that's what Tiger-Mama Triteacher will fiercely and devotedly seek for them. It is the fierceness and devotion that they need. It is the fierceness and devotion that I am always going to feel.

The Beginning

My cousin sort of proffered an invitation while climbing tonight. It began with... "Have you ever thought of doing the Grand?"

I wracked my brains, ideas flitting across my face: Grand Canyon, Grand Prix, Isn't there a Gran something in France?... and landed on, "The Grand what?"

"The Grand Traverse in the Tetons," he answered. "It's thirteen miles to traverse the range."

13 miles is nothing!

"It's 12-14,000 feet of gain," he added. Real casual-like.

The catch.

The trek gets you ten summits, and there are a couple of optional towers. The hardest grade is 5.8. People generally do it in a few days. The record is around six hours. The Beast that is my cousin yearns to go "light and fast" and be in and out in a day. His usual climbing partner isn't crazy about alpine or JB's "light and fast" mentality. It translates to hunger and pain.

I can't stop tumbling the idea around in my brain. He is a solid climber, a solid partner, a solid person. It would be a blast.

It would be one of the hardest things I've ever done. I would be entirely reliant on him; I do not lead trad. And he's fast. The last time I hiked with him, I grew nauseous trying to keep his pace.

It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If I trained really hard and focused on alpine fitness, I could shine at this and see some amazingly beautiful scenery. I could play my edge.

He needs a partner. I am not as strong as him, but I am good at mountains. I keep my wits in tricky situations. I endure. I ♡ low class 5 and scrambles.

I want to explore this. Okay, who'm I kidding... What I really want is to write up a training plan with lots of Colorado ascents. I want to read books and trip reports. I want to drool over pictures and imagine myself in them. Late July to early September... I want to be here...

Going Under

I've started swimming again and it is amazing. I love going under, feeling the liquid meet my face and flow over my skin. I love moving through the water, stretching my body, feeling I am a fiddlehead fern. I unfurl my leafy head, stretching along my lats, elongating all the muscles from my tummy to the reach of my fingertip fronds. I grow even beyond my reach as my hips turn, eking out millimeters to scoop more water, to be longer, smoother, more efficient and relaxed. It requires patience to let every last fiddle frond unfurl. To allow the last snippet of length to be had before turning my head for that sweet breath of O2 and resurgence into sunlight.

I have loved going under.

I think of the metaphorical meaning of "going under," and how people aspire to resurface, to breathe again. I am currently "under" and I do not love it. I am worried about a former student who is fighting for his life, another student whose family is fighting poverty, and about my relationship. I feel under it all and I really, really want clear answers and a path out for all of them - and me. It sends me into a tailspin, a place in my mind where I regurgitate old information, gobble it up, and try to digest it anew. It's as disgusting as it sounds.

I have to take a lesson from swimming. Instead of thrashing, I have to allow the fronds to unfurl. I have to remain calm and trust the process of patient, steady eking. I have done what I can do for the families and will continue to do so. I have thought through and talked through my relationship. But there is more... I have to wait and allow for events to unfold, for all the fronds to unfurl. I have to allow that water in my face - the flow of life and events and relationships. I have to allow the discomfort and the worry. And when I can - when all the fonds have unfurled - I can turn my head for my portion of sunlight and O2.