2026 Resolution: Open Heart

Sunrise hikes make me think. Today my Jetboil brewed up my coffee and my mind brewed up my 2026 resolution.

1) Open heart. That's my theme. Open heart for my sisters - those beautiful women with whom I share DNA that evidences itself in over-exercising and covert competition. I want to shake that petty larceny of siblinghood, the part of me that feels like it "won" Christmas break because I could play guitar and teach my nieces and make my mama call to tell me she's proud. And that's the bottom of it - winning her is winning all. Dummy. One would think 54 years old would be enough to have learned. Stealing from my sisters is no victory at all. I don't have my brain completely around the alternative, but I can glimpse it and I want it. Open heart.

2) I want to express an open heart toward myself too. Accepting this life I have. Because sometimes I rue. Rue not having children and the clear cut path of life that gives you. I can get very easily into the "what I don't have." I want to reframe it. What I do have: I am the woman who climbs 13ers, who teaches kids, who cuddles my nieces, who hikes at sunrise, who sits on a log in 3AM wilderness looking at uncountable stars. So too are my blessings. Uncountable.

3) Open heart for what I can do with my talents. I am good at creating a space for others. I do it for my students and for my family. I want to do more of that... more massage of my mom's aching neck, more guitar and singing with my nieces, more helping my nephew seek creating art for a high versus using drugs, more connections with my students. I want to inspire.

4) Ageing. Open heart for it. I have been kicking at the ageing of my face, the slowing of my body. Silly yet profound too. I have NEVER been the kind to cosmetically enhance anything, but I find myself thinking hard about Botox for the wrinkle in my forehead. I am at war with myself. I want to age naturally and gracefully, but I also want to look damn good. Who knew I had this huge vein of vanity!?! 

5) Keeping myself feeling good. I can't train at the level I used to. I can't go as hard or as long. I get worn out and my fingers flare up with arthritis. Acceptance for where I'm at - arthritic fingers and all. Kick at what I can though. I want a weight training routine to replace climbing (until and if I can figure out the arthritis) that I do 3x per week. I want to write here 2-3x per week. And play guitar 20 minutes daily. I want to get out on sunrise hikes and ski in the mountains' snow. I know that is what refills me and makes me able to visualize how it should be. Be it resolved - open heart. And my blog posts will center around how this plays out in 2026.

One Hundred Girlfriends

He is tall with unruly black hair. He doesn't speak or make eye contact. He's been in the US for a year but I can barely coax a word out of him. When I do, it is a whisper. He gazes at me imploringly when I test him. I tell him to just say the words on the screen. I sit beside him and reassure him after each question. 

I arrange a meeting with Vietnamese speakers, but he barely speaks to them either. I lose sleep. Why doesn't he have more English after a year here? Is he a selective mute? Is there a language delay? He changed schools three times in 7th grade. His mom indicates that he may stay only one semester here. I ask her to not change schools. 

I make conversation cards and practice with him. He dutifully reads the words and fills in the blanks. "Hi ----, how are you?" "I am ____. And yourself?" 

 It is weeks later when I have my small group of newcomers make slides that I glimpse his personality. And guffaw. 

The assignment is to make a slideshow with six statements about yourself - some true, some false. His second statement reads, "I have 100 girlfriends." On the next slide, the big reveal is... "False. I am too lazy. I have to learn English first and then I will get a girlfriend." 

I breathe a sigh of relief. I can work with this. It will take coaxing and teaching and love, but I will get him. How else is he going to achieve that dream? 

In January, I happily report that I've gotten him! He makes eye contact with me and asks me questions. And though he never talks my ear off, my teacher sense knows he's good. His mom has reached out to me repeatedly with gratitude, and the family is planning to stay in our feeder area for high school. 

And my boy has gotten his wish. He walks through the halls and eats lunch with and sits in class with... like 100 girls. He's a chick magnet! They FaceTime each other at night. I cannot imagine what they talk about, but it is not important. He is here. He is connected and he is gaining English. My teacher heart sings.

Ice Lakes Peaks

I lay in my tent listening to the hail, my muscles melting into the ground, and the feeling hits me. It is big love I have for my dad. The feeling has come out of nowhere but as soon as it arrives, I know it is true. I see the path of care I will give to him. It opens for me the way these mountains have been opening. 

Fuller, Vermilion, Golden Horn, Pilot Knob

I am in the tent after climbing four peaks. I am exhilarated and satisfied, my summit fever quenched. My cousin and I have summited Pilot Knob, Golden Horn, Vermilion, and Fuller Peaks in some intense class 4 scrambling and route finding. The peaks are beautiful and ring the equally beautiful Ice Lake and Island Lake. But the rock is crumbly and loose. 

Earlier we had scrambled up that rock, ascending a steep gully on Pilot Knob's east side. I was monkey scrambling on all fours, my butt way up in the air like a monkey tail. I was moving quickly, attempting to win the race with the rock sliding down beneath me. I'd peek up and pick my line, then bend down again to scrabble up. 

My cousin was ahead of me. At intervals, I'd straighten to check his location and line. But every time I did, I paid a price. Vertigo swept through me, causing me to swoon. I learned to not crane my head up and instead stole quick glances. I neared the saddle and the opportunity of flat ground. I had one more move to do and I'd be there. I darted a glance at the wall ahead of me, grabbed the side of a microwave sized oblong rock and, sickeningly, felt it move toward me. I pushed my left hand back against it, meanwhile darting my body around to the right, out of its path. As soon as I cleared it, I pulled my left hand back. Off went the rock. It rolled and crashed, screaming down the gully, picking up speed and raising dust. "Rock! Rock!" I yelled. Though we had seen no one else on the mountain, I wanted to warn if there was someone below. 

Climbing a weakness

I watched as the rock finally came to a stop. I took a few more steps on the saddle, rounding a short tower and saw John. He saw that I was okay, and said "That was scary, huh?" 

"I should never have touched that rock," I said. I shared the vertigo I was fighting - and how my method for doing so had led me to grab the loose rock. I would have to take more care when selecting holds. We continued on, picking lines and glorying in how "way leads on to way" as the mountain opened up to us.

As a climber looks ahead, a mountain presents jagged towers, steep dirt and rock, and beautiful but unscalable faces. Yet, little by little, we found the weaknesses that allowed us to pass - a chimney here, a crack with hand and foot holds there. We'd round a tower and find a ledge system that would lead us along a cliff band, getting us 20 feet closer. This spirit of discovery and problem-solving, coupled with deliberate movement had occupied my mind for 7.5 hours it had taken us to climb the four peaks. It was all-consuming and rewarding.

I'd had no room in my brain for anything other than where I would place my hands and feet and what my next line up the mountain would be. But then, in my tent, I realized Dad had been with me all the while, his recent health issues in my brain. It came to me, as clear and sweeping as any swoon, that blast of big love. I saw how I'll care for him, how true I will be, how steadfast and generous. How there will be ups and downs, how he'll drive me crazy and put up roadblocks with his bad moods and ill temper when he's not feeling well, with his over reliance yet high expectations of meals and phone plan and quality of lifestyle. It won't be an easy or a straight path. There will be obstacles. But I have the perfect training and the way will open up. I will deliberately pace myself and place myself in the best position to be there for him. My big love will fuel me. 

How Wrong Can You Be?

 So... I set out yesterday to "pick off" a 13er in Rocky Mountain National Park. I thought it would be a lot of cruising on awesomely-maintained, tourist trails. How wrong I can be.

I wasn't wrong right away though. The first four miles were a cruise on the kind of trail I'd expected. I had a snack at Sandbeach Lake and then... well. There was supposed to be a trail off the east end of the lake. I couldn't seem to find it. All I found was a path that was peppered with deadfall. No superhighway in sight. It took me several minutes to convince myself that it was indeed the correct trail. I started thinking of it as "trail." That helped. 

I picked up my pace again, climbing over deadfall and making progress. I checked my GPS and saw that the route was actually a quarter of a mile to my east. I bushwhacked to it and made progress up a sparsely-cairned boulder field. I was rattled about routefinding but didn't want to continue checking my GPS. Why, you may ask. Well, because I'm a driven-ass person who didn't want to waste time. So I cruised along to the top of the boulder field and then allowed myself to check my GPS.

I had followed the wrong trail! The original, pre-boulder-field trail HAD been correct. The cairns up this boulder field led somewhere, but it wasn't to my mountain. I looked hard at the map, trying to determine if I could continue up this -  Hunter’s Creek drainage - to reunite with the correct route. I just didn't know if it would go. I decided to turn around and regain the correct route.

Now though, my body was aching. My legs were pissed at me for wasting all that energy on boulder hopping. Off-route boulder hopping. It dawned on me that my head wasn't much in the game either. I considered bagging it and heading home. But, it was still early in the day and there were no clouds in the sky.  

I readjusted my thinking. I named my impatience, and realized that there would be rogue cairns to contend with. I picked where I wanted to go and went there, feeling good when I saw cairns but not wasting time looking for them. Soon I was skirting left around Mt. Orton and climbing the long, multi-tiered class 2 slope up Chiefs Head. My energy was low and I was tempted to stop and eat, sit, rest, but I kept telling myself to keep going at "Everest Pace," which is one foot in front of the other just fast enough that you can tell I'm moving. I finally gained the rocky ridge leading up to the summit. I knew I wouldn't need my trekking poles, so propped them against a blocky boulder that I was sure would be obvious on the descent.

I enjoyed the summit. I drank in the views of Longs Peak, Pagoda Mountain, and Mt. Meeker. I took out the map and looked at the 13ers I still need in the area: McHenry's and Alice. I took off my boots and laid down for 10 minutes. I was proud of myself, proud of Everest pace, proud of myself for getting it together. It was a self-love fest.

I started my descent 20 minutes later, still feeling good vibes. Then I heard the first thunder. I scurried down the rocky slope as fast as I could. Faster than I could. I stepped on a rock I KNEW would slide. It slid and I landed hard on my left elbow and rump. I felt my teeth click and my brain land in my cranium. I assessed how hurt I was. Not very. Bruises, a little blood, and a very loud voice in my head yelling, "No more dumb mistakes! Pay attention to your footing. You are soloing; any slip could have big consequences." That, along with intermittent thunder, accompanied me down the ridge. My head was a noisy place. 

I finished descending the ridge and I realized that I should have spotted my trekking poles in the spot that was “sure to be obvious on the descent.” Turns out it was not obvious. I debated just leaving them and skedaddling. I still had to reascend to 11k to go around Mt. Orton. Above treeline with thunder is not a great place to be. I gave myself 20 minutes to search and retraced my steps back up the ridgeline. I had my lovely Lekis in hand in five minutes.

Now I skedaddled. Down to the Orton/Chiefs Head saddle and then back up to the base of Orton. Skedaddled but with the addition of “No more dumb mistakes.” I watched my footing. I kept eyeing the skies. There were dark clouds and thunder, but nothing near me. I followed the "trail" all the way back to Sandbeach Lake, turning on my GPS tracking just to see how close to the plotted trail it was. 

I did not stop at Sandbeach Lake, I did not pass go and collect $200. I did smile and chat with the tourists on the Trail, but otherwise, I was a hiking machine. I enjoyed the thick air and let my brain oxygenate in it. I thought about everything I'd thought the climb would be today... and then what it really was. A humbling experience. An arduous, trying, thought-provoking, rewarding, beautiful experience.

Chiefs Head Peak 10:49 for 18 mi/5476 ft. Approx 6:17 to summit, 20 mins. on the peak, 4:12 down

Searching for Center

I rode around it, feeling instead my lips - so dry and heat-sucked that they would chafe off in a breeze - the trickle of sweat down my back into my shorts, the ache in my lungs and my quads. Up I kept going. Climbing High Grade and digging deep. For I still can and it is a beautiful thing to have that desire. The drive to keep pedaling, to use the cleats to pull up, to maximize my pedal stroke. Drive feels good. And the confidence that I could - keep pedaling,  and my steady cadence would take me the 50 miles and 5000 feet slated for the ride. My legs and lungs answered.

Inside, my mind imitated my pedaling feet, circling the issue, swirling around it. My mom. I have had low grade depression since visiting her. Her health is finally stable and she is home. But home like she used to be. Home and driven. While her health is stable, she is no longer strong and mobile enough to accomplish all of her aims by her own hand. When I pull in from Colorado, she sees two hands that can. It was a flurry of commands and pushes to weed the garden, put cages on tomatoes, drive to 6 stores, redirect vines, wash windows, fetch this or that from the basement or garden, cut asparagus. 

We kids used to joke that she was a slave driver - we were her slaves and she had us for the purpose of getting work done. It is a poor joke in terms of US history, but I felt where it came from on this visit. She was driven and drove me. She wants the life she used to have - dominion in her garden and kitchen. She was a dynamo in her day, raising and feeding eight kids, milking 72 cows twice daily, haying in the summers, chipping silos in the winter. She still has the drive but doesn't have the answering strength nor mobility. So she drove me. And it felt bad. There was no time to stop and gawk at the baby killdeers on the lawn; "No, I need you to get the fork for weeding for me before Dad comes." 

That is a piece of it too. Being caught in the middle of their war. When she pulled me away from working with him, he came to where we were weeding and said, "No, do not pull that weed. It's too dry. Let it go, TT. We are not going to do things the hard way. Wait for rain and then come out and pull these."

It wore me out, pulled me off-center. I felt like a failure of a daughter because I could never do enough. There was always more on the list. I was always wanting. And there was no meeting of minds, no questions about my life and interests, no joy. She has never been a confidante kind of mom, but we've had connection in the garden work or her health and my care of her. It wasn't there this time. There was just the demand to do more work. It makes me sad. I remember the kid I was and how I struggled with it. That kid came right back on this visit and was reeling. She's still here though I've been back in Colorado for a week.

I get the drive. I get the joy of the drive. I also get aging and loss. I am happy she is "raging against the dying of the light" (thank you, Dylan Thomas). As I want to PR every time I ride my bike, she wants the big beautiful garden she has always had, to cook three meals a day for her family, to make quilts that fetch $6,000 at the church auction. And she wants to do it all in a day.

I am still circling. I get pieces of it. I understand her desires. I understand my desire to please her. 

I also know that I can't. It's an impossible mission. And that's the rub. There is no steady cadence that will allow me to accomplish her aims. It's full throttle PRs every second. I can't do that. It is not possible. (Much less right. Even in a 9-day visit, I need some sense of self.)

Now it's accepting that and figuring out how to not feel like I've failed her. I need boundaries when I go there. I would ask her for a list, but she's never been a list person. She's more of a torrent of energy - what needs doing multiplies as we get into a job. I could do a dedicated number of hours per day, clock in and clock out. 

And meals... I have to set boundaries around those too. I developed an eating disorder as a teenager - out of that drivenness of the house and with the weirdness about food. She feeds us like crazy. The last three days of the trip I never felt hunger. The last morning I woke up to a breakfast of poached eggs on toast with hollandaise sauce and breakfast sausages. Plated. There were two kinds of baked desserts available at all times plus ice cream. And it gives offense to not eat the goods. That's the other piece. I don't do well with sugars. I've known that for years. She doesn't ever ask me though. Just gets sniffy if I don't eat the brownie. It's a power struggle.

Maybe underneath, that's the other piece. Power within our family. Her and dad competing, and whatever you can do to win...

Ugh! I just want my soul! To stick the knife into the brownies at 35 minutes and have it come out clean. Better, no brownies at all! Just my bike and a steep-ass hill, a steady cadence, sweat on my back and butt, heat-chapped lips... yes, that. Give me that!

I am still pedaling up this one.

When You're in Last Place

When you're in last place, so many thoughts go through your head...

Why did I ever sign up to train with Strong and Stronger? They're so much better than me!

They're talking. How can they be freaking talking??

They suggest that the must-haves for training rides are Kleenex and chapstick. When would I have time to apply lip balm? Use Kleenex? I would have to redirect energy from breathing in order to extract the Kleenex. Use breath to blow my nose? Never! 

Take in solid nutrition on the ride? See above.

Mantra: I will get stronger. 

Whimper: I will get stronger. Lookout Mountain is so long. Were there this many switchbacks last time? 

What's with my lower back and butt muscles? My strong, flexible hip flexors are tight and in full-refusal mode.

Breathe. Keep a steady cadence. Back and butt in unison: No! Stuff your steady cadence. 

Maybe if I stretch. I arch my back, then stand up on the pedals to release tension. Breathe into that area. 

Ha. Steady cadence for thirty strokes. Maybe I fixed it!

Are those people passing me on mountain bikes?? Yes, they are. Oh my god. Brené was right. Comparison is the death of happiness.

I want survival. If I survive this, I will require nothing of myself when I get home. My bed.

My bed!

Don't let yourself burp too deep. Oh nausea. My foe. 

And then I am - hallelujah, forever later - at the top. And I can stop. I unfurl my back. I see Strong and Stronger. They have ridden well. We compare notes. They are so nice to me, brainstorming to solve my pain, saying they've been nauseous on this ride, maybe I am not a sucky weakling, but rather am feeling crummy because of my second vaccination shot. What lifts my spirits most is the reassurance that there's not much more uphill left on this ride. 

Eat? No. My stomach flips at the thought of it.

I struggled through and made it back to the parking lot and my beautiful, beautiful car. An hour later, I was in my even more beautiful, luxurious bed.

The ride totaled 42.95 miles with 2987 feet of gain. I affectionately titled it "Lookout 43 Barf" on my GPS. I will get stronger. I believe that. It's just gonna be some painful miles between here and there. Gulp.

Vax Day

It's here. Vax day. It feels historical and monumental and shivery all at once. What a life-changer this last year has been. Remember the first days of mask-wearing and the other-worldness of stores and streets full of people wearing masks? Now I startle when someone is not wearing one. Ugh, anti-maskers and all the  political undertones. Past TV scenes of large groups together not wearing masks stirs an ache in me. Wow, it used to be like that... we could do that without ramifications.

I am super-curious of what we'll learn in the years to come. Why do some people who get COVID-19 end up on ventilators while others suffer only mild symptoms? Shoot, why do some people have a stronger adverse reaction to the vaccine than others? I hope some investigative journalist will canvas this virus's path and write a book like Randy Shilts's, And the Band Played On, chasing down every thread and weaving together the psychology of how Americans reacted to the threat of this virus. There are definitely parallels between this pandemic and the AIDS epidemic: people who want to deny the bad news, people who don't want to change their lifestyle if it doesn't directly threaten them - or even if it does. Then there are the ones who understand early, and try to get out ahead of the virus, the champions for reason and health and science. In both epidemics, Anthony Fauci is/was a key player. In both, the reaction to the virus became highly-politicized. Which saddens me. I wish humans could be more objective about health issues.

And I think where I have been with this... super-scared at first. I remember going back to WI in March the week that "Shelter-in-place" entered our vocabularies. I was shopping at Home Depot with my elderly father (who is already vaccinated, yes!) and was making sure I was the one touching items and not him and trying to hurry through the store to get him back to the safety of his van, receiving texts from family members warning us that the virus could live on surfaces for days and that we should wipe down everything... To fights with my Quarantine Partner over how safe we needed to be... To now where I barely worry about surface spread, but wear a mask whenever I am indoors with other people. To now where I am comfortable being at school with half of our students reporting each day, and look forward to feeling safe when 100% of them are in person. The dream of 100% in-person was unthinkable until vaccinations. 

That is the other piece. The students through this. Some have played a yearlong game of hooky; others have reached out to their teachers and are thriving academically. Most have found a way to get their social fix - whether it be in the Zoom calls with me (!) or connecting with cousins or friends. Tiktok needs a medal. It gave students a place to be goofy - or glamorous, as they presume. In either case, it has connected kids. And we will need to reconnect many of them to academics. What will this look like? I'm ready to figure it out. 

Rolling up my sleeve and ready.

FireBelly

 It's starting. The fire in the belly. I signed up for the Elephant Rock century ride and two weeks into training has taken me places... 

Ouch places when I first got on my bike, my old reliable Burley Pine Grove. No longer made, it's vintage and catches the eye of every bike dealer who I let work on it: "Oh, they only make bike trailers now." Sexy. 

Anyhow, the ouch was between my shoulder blades. Excruciating after 20 miles in the saddle and the pain staying for 2 days. So, I started looking for a bike fit and a new bike. My local guy took one look at me on my bike (outside of the shop for COVID safety) and suggested two tweaks. Some hundreds of dollars later as there were other issues, I had a new-looking bike on my hands - and much reduced shoulder pain! Miracle worker.

Ouch places... riding with my sister and our other friend who are in much better biking shape than I am. I have to qualify this. I am not coming from the couch, but I am coming from the mountains in 2020. I climbed a record 25 last year. Woot! 

Buuuut, that is a different kind of conditioning than saddle time. So, ouch. On the hills they killed me especially hard. I am not clipped in because of my chronic knee issues, but after years of religious PT (and HATING to suck wind behind those two other old bags), I might be ready to try my clips again. Which means back to the bike shop for me. My other ones are so old, I have to believe there are looser-riding, easier-unclipping ones in the world.

And finally, ahhhh places... places where I'm on my bike and I feel fast. Not one with the bike, not that yet, but I remember that I used to have that feeling. I get glimpses of it and know I'll get stronger and feel faster.

Places like last night, rolling up and down the hills around the countryside, reveling in new roads to ride. 

This morning... waking up and wanting to ride. Ready to ride. Ready to do this thing. I have a good case of fire in my belly.

Mask On, Eyes Open Wide

Trying to get out before all the others, I took an early walk this morning. Very few people were out, but the only other two women I saw reached a narrow bridge at the same time I did. I veered off on a dirt path that followed the creek more closely. I hadn't gone that way before and opened my eyes wide, turned my head this way and that, soaking in the new view of my backyard.

There was still frost on the ground on this quiet side of the creek.

This is how it's going to be for the foreseeable future. This social distancing. All people aren't complying and so this will go on longer. I will not be able to return to Wisconsin to help my parents with their health needs; it's too risky that I'm an asymptomatic carrier. School will continue to be online for the rest of the year. No high fives and reading my students' faces. (No weighing whether or not they're crossing the naughty line enough that I need to intervene either. That I do not miss.) I won't go to stores or restaurants or enjoy in-person happy hours with friends.

But I will go to the quiet side of the creek. I will live a deeper inner life. I will reflect and write and read. I will pick up my guitar. I will try to create beautiful things. I will try to grow and understand.

I heard an invitation this morning. It's an invitation to the quiet side of life. To step out of the hustle-bustle, hurly-burly rat race. To step back from the noise of politics and other people's decisions and to live deeply in my sphere of control. I heard the invitation.

RSVP: Yes.

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.