Done did it!!

Looking south toward Granite Pass in the N. Cascades.
Just days later is was covered in feet of snow.

  It was sweltering hot, about 200 miles from the Canadian border, and I was cresting a very small climb. Actually, a very insignificant climb in the scope of Washington climbs. It was a gorgeous section of trail just south of Stevens Pass and I was saturated with sweat.  Somewhere around mid-morning I had started dragging my feet and all of the sudden it all hit me at once:  the miles, the heat, the months of walking, the sheer exhaustion.  I sat down alongside the trail with my pack still on and put my head in my hands.  Siesta, my hiking partner, came up behind me with a questioning look on her face.  We'd just taken a break and had scoped a lunch spot about 2 miles further up the trail.  I looked at her as my face crumpled with tears in my eyes and I said, "I'll be right behind you. I just need a minute." She carried on and I put my head in my hands and briefly cried.  I was so tired. Not "I Had A Long Day At Work" tired, but tired to the very core of my essence, weary bone marrow tired.  Somehow letting go of some stoicism and shedding some tears seemed like the only thing that I could do.  Putting one foot in front of the other seemed insurmountable. My tears only lasted for a few minutes and I closed my eyes, collected my breath, and got right in my head.  I had no option but to walk. At that point in the hike, on that specific day, just standing up, gathering the gumption to move, was my biggest challenge.  I put music in my ear and put one foot in front of the other.
  That was hands down my most difficult day on the Pacific Crest Trail this year, mentally or physically.  I arrived at the lunch spot and laid down and was completely uncertain how I would muster the energy to eat food much less get up and start hiking again.  But I did.  Actually, I had two big ascents and one big descent to do before my day was over and I just let my brain turn off as much as possible and put my body on automatic pilot.  I resigned myself to being exhausted and that I wouldn't truly be able to absorb the beauty around me. It was a tough but necessary.
  The last 500 miles of the Pacific Trail were, for me, a concentration in being in the now. I knew very well at the time that I was living the moments and the lifestyle that my nostalgia would be made of, but I still had to muster the energy to actually finish the trek. It's a tricky balance.  I arrived in Stevens Pass the day after the exhaustion and re-evaluated my attitude.  I had a talk with myself (while laying horizontal on the bed) and made a conscious decision to not be too tired to enjoy the rest of the hike. Despite the fact that my brain was bursting and overloaded with images of beautiful mountains and valleys, abundant blueberries, and quiet lakes, I would continue to stop and look around, taking in even more of nature's own bad self.  There is an argument for mind over matter and the proof that it is possible lies in my trail experience in the last 10 days of my PCT hike:  I felt energized, excited, and present.  Standing up from breaks was no longer monumental.  I no longer questioned how I could possibly finish my walk to Canada because I was so motivated to finish and enjoy the show.  I blazed up 3000 foot climbs knowing that my body is a machine, made for walking;  that in few days I'd have more than enough time to rest and recoup and relax; that in a mere few days I'd long for the quiet solitude and routine of the trail.  The wilderness of the Northern Cascades did not disappoint and I was able to respond in kind with appropriate praise, awe, and adoration.  Generally I dragged my jaw along the trail behind me.  It was awkward.  I feel very satisfied in the way my trip ended.  High spirits, a big sense of accomplishment, and a healthy body make for a happy WeeBee.  The last morning of the entire trip I was camped at 4800' about 3 miles from the US/Canadian border and awoke to falling snow.  The small group that had assembled there packed up as swiftly as possible and set out to walk the final three miles of our epic journey.  Siesta, Caveman, and I walked in a tight unit and spoke of excitement, future, favorite trail days, desert memories, and the unreal fact that today was the day we were actually walking to Canada.  After all the miles and smiles, September 27 turned out to be our day to reach Monument 78, a place I'd hardly let myself envision for most of the trip for fear of unforeseen circumstances taking me off the trail yet again.  The giddiness was palatable. When we reached a set of descending switchbacks we knew we were nearly there and we let out a set of shrieks, whoops, and cheers and we careened forward.  Then, suddenly it seemed, there was the open space containing the monument itself and not a wall, but an infinite and ridiculous-looking clear cut denoting the border.  My already huge smile got even bigger and I found myself laughing and crying and hugging bearded men in shared admiration and mirth.  I set my pack down and we all continued to hug, shout, and glow.  Siesta and I had each carried a bottle of champagne 80 miles from Stehekin and a cork was popped and we toasted our success.  A million photos were taken and I ignored the cold as I stripped naked and had a picture taken next to the monument.  How many times is a girl going to finish the Pacific Crest Trail for the first time? It was a joyous event and properly celebrated.  There was one last climb in the post-PCT, 8-mile, Canadian portion of the trail and the three of us powered up in and then walked three abreast on a long decline down an old forest road.  We were already reminiscing about the experience.  I think I will be reminiscing about this experience for quite a while.
  As it turns out, September 27th may have been the last best day to finish the Pacific Crest Trail for 2013.  The light snow that was falling on me at 4800' was just the beginning of a series of big storms dumping snow on the North Cascades at elevations above that.  Many many hikers have had to turn around and take refuge in small towns near the trail to wait out the weather.  Mountain passes that were bare or with only an inch or two of snow on them when I crossed now have 2, 3, or more feet of snow on them and are nearly impassable.  People are renting snowshoes, bulking up on winter gear and attempting tiring, harrowing efforts of breaking trail to get through.  People have called it quits for the year.  The government closing has thwarted efforts of lower alternate routes.  Already tired bodies and minds are now frayed and exhausted with exploring alternative, decision making, and frustration.  I really feel for all my PCT brothers and sisters who walked so far only to be denied the border experience only 50 miles (or less) from the goal.  And I feel so fucking lucky. And grateful.  And blessed.  It would be impossible for me, even with my gift for gab, to try to verbalize what finishing this quest means to me.  Not just finishing what I set out to do, but the journey of the whole experience.  I don't think I'll even know how the trail has effected me until some time has passed.  I do know that it will always be special to me and I will always share a unique bond with the friends I've met along the way.
 And thus closes the Pacific Crest Trail adventure of 2013.  Victory is mine!

We are the champions, my friend! 

My Body of Work

   As I sit in the lobby of the Timberline Lodge, on the shoulder of Mt. Hood in northern Oregon, full as a tick, I am taking stock of my body.  I only have 47 more miles to walk until I cross the Bridge of the Gods and into Washington, my final state of this epic journey.  Alternately, I have walked more than 1,600 miles from where I started in the desert of California.  You are probably thinking to yourself, "Wow, WeeBee! You must be in great shape!" Yes, well, I'd have to say that is debatable....let's discuss the state of my physicality, starting at the top, shall we?

As far as I'm concerned this is what I actually look like.

Hair:  While I've never been accused of having an actual hairstyle, I do think I generally have healthy hair.  Not so much "kempt" as "shiny." Regardless, having it long makes it easy to put in a braid and forget about while I'm hiking.  Seems easy enough, right? Well, my hair seems to have a mind of it's own. It wants to let it's freak flag fly.  Mere seconds after I tightly braid my tresses and put on my "Spread The Awesome" trucker hat my braid migrates to the left side of my neck, resting on my left shoulder for the remainder of the day.  Stray hairs spring out behind my ears and subtly, very sneakily, my braid loosens and resembles a toilet brush.  It's as if each individual strand of hair wants to catch the view, to feel the wind in it's....self.  This has left me with somewhat straw-like hair that will need to be dealt with at the end of this odyssey.
Head/Face:  I don't see myself in a mirror very often, so I can't really comment on what I look like.  I can make one observation though:  according to the scale in Sierra City (approximately 900 miles ago) I'd lost nearly 17 pounds.  When I see photos of myself I'm convinced I've lost most of this weight from my cheeks, jowls, and wattle.  My normally cherubic cheeks have apparently been hiding cheekbones all these years. Who knew?
Shoulders:  Considering that my shoulders heft the weight of my current worldly belongings on them for about 10 hours a day they are in good shape.  And by that I mean I can still use my arms and do not shout out in pain every time I put my backpack on.  They, too, seem a bit thin, but otherwise sturdy.  The only alarming thing about my shoulders seem to be a permanent pink discoloration above the collarbone and perhaps a "lumpy" texture at the bone itself.  My collection of sleeveless gowns will remain in the closet for a while.
Arms/Hands:  While I do use my arms to lift my pack onto my back and I hike with trekking poles, the lower half of my body is doing all the hard work.  My strong Alaska-girl arms have atrophied into tiny T-Rex-like appendages and I'm finding it more and more difficult to do basic tasks like feeding myself and taking my hat off my head.  I have developed a fetching tan from below the elbow to the tips of my fingers which I like to display in a short sleeved t-shirt on laundry days.  My career as a hand* model is indefinitely on hold. My hands are constantly filthy. Not dirty, but filthy.  My trekking pole handles are generally dirty which leads to grime getting ground in to every crevasse and line in my palm.  Particularly dirty are the two triangle-shaped calluses in the webbing of my palm between my thumb and forefinger.  Overall, it's amazing I use these tools at the end of my arms to eat with.  On the bright side, because I use trekking poles and keep my hands moving and generally around the level of my heart, I avoid the dreaded "sausage fingers" that many hikers traditionally get. 
*Also true for feet and bikini line, but for different reasons.
Torso:  While my waist has shrunk, I feel like I have zero core strength.  It may seem as if I'd use my core a lot while climbing a hill or something, but I think that the hip belt just holds everything in place and lets it get lazy.  I'm actually convinced that my core and back muscles would just allow me to collapse and therefore I need to strap myself in to my pack everyday just so I can walk upright.  I will be a wet noodle walking around sans pack in late September.  I have no bruises or tenderness on my protruding hipbones, but I do have a permanent bruise-colored discoloration on my left hip.  Thank goodness bikini season is almost over.
Butt:  A shadow of its former self.  A lot less junk in the trunk.  Gluteus muscles are often painfully tired while trying to sleep at night.
Legs:  From the waist to the knee I am a tree trunk.  From the knee to the ankle I am a hamhock.  I could crush the average human with a twitch of my calf muscle.  Knees are feeling fine.  I'm trying to keep up on my stretching to maintain my ability to walk, but there is no doubt about it:  no matter how long you hike and how strong you are there will always be the "hiker hobble."  While I'm hiking I feel fine, no problems.  As soon as I sit down for a break, eat a meal, or get up in the morning I'm like a little old lady shuffling from one place to another.  You'd look at me and wonder how I manage 25 miles per day.....
Hooves:  Oh, tiny hooves.  I'm so sorry.  While the blisters long ago hardened into calluses, the feet just put up with sooooo much. I walk so far. Carry my world on my back.  They generally feel good, but of course they tire.  At this point I start to worry more once I stop hiking.  The balls of my feet feel like someone wailed on them with a paddle and the overall foot and ankle are swollen.  I know what it means to be a "tenderfoot." My toes don't want to bend in any direction other than the walking movement therefore pointing my toes or sitting back on my heels with my toes on the ground is nearly impossible for any amount of time.  I am curious to see how long it will take for my hooves to get back to normal after this excursion....
  So, yes, in some ways I am strong and fit!! And in other ways I wonder what damage long distance hiking does to one's body.  I doubt I could ride a bike very far, hold a yoga pose for long, or run down the block.  But when it comes to walking I am an expert! A whiz! A machine! But it's also a strange existence to only be good at walking and eating...there is little energy for anything else these days.
 I will head into Washington on Wednesday and have no clue if I'll have access to a computer again. If I don't, please root for me to make it to the border!! My hopeful finish date is September 22, the Equinox.  I'll let you know how it goes afterward....until then, I'll be walking north!!

Smilestones

Time to pick up where I left off.

  It was shortly before six in the evening when I approached the Forest Service road.  I'd hiked about 600 miles so far and had been enjoying revisiting terrain that I had first seen last summer on my first attempt on the Pacific Crest Trail.  I had endured the heat and winds of the Mojave desert (again), climbed Mt. Whitney and all the high passes of the Sierra Nevadas (again) and made it back to this one road.  I had reminisced about old campsites, remembered difficult climbs, recalled terrain that lay ahead of me for the day and it all led me back to this one road.  I'd anticipated the road, looked forward to what it meant for me.  What I hadn't anticipated was my reaction when I got to the road.
  I moved energetically to the crest of the ridge, where the road was, and saw the sign.  It was a standard Forest Service sign marking a trail head, but this was Barker Pass and it also marked the place on the trail where I'd had to limp off the trail for good last summer.  It is mile 1,126 on the PCT and as I approached the sign I suddenly felt so much emotion boiling up in me that I hadn't realized was in me.  I knew that I was excited to see new stretches of trail, but the reality of stepping onto that road had me feeling like I had come full circle. There was not one part of me last year that believed that I was off the trail permanently when I decided I needed to rest my body.  I thought I'd rest for a few days, maybe a week, and would be merrily resume my hike to the Canadian border.  I thought I'd see that Forest Service road much sooner that one full year. And so, when I finally stepped in front of the big sign just shy of a year later I stood below it, wide-eyed and full of awe that I was finally indeed back where I'd left, and whooped and hollered with joy.  At the same time unexpected tears sprang from the corners of my eyes.  I mourned for the sad, limping girl of last summer, for a dream delayed, for the miracle of healing, for the support and understanding I've had along the way, for being hard-headed and dedicated enough to come back and make this happen.  I realized that I'm so happy I hiked back to that spot rather than just picking up where I'd left off;  the new steps I was about to take meant so much more because I'd retraced my path to get there.  I felt like I'd earned the unknown. The tears were brief and my smile was huge.  My hiking partner, Siesta, came to the road shortly thereafter and I said to her, "Ask me where the next campsite is." She did so.  I smiled and replied, "I DON'T KNOW!! I'VE NEVER BEEN BEYOND HERE!" All the steps past Barker Pass have been wonderful and unknown.
  The next milestone for me was crossing the midpoint mark of the trail.  This is in northern California and unbelievable that I've come so far (1,330 miles)....and have the same amount of miles yet to hike.  Yikes! But just knowing that I'm closer to Canada than Mexico is very exciting.  Closer to poutine than ceviche. Closer to "ay" than "aye aye aye!" Plus, it should be all downhill from there, right?
  Now I'm in Etna, California (PCT mile 1,606) only one town stop away from the Oregon border.  There are a lot of hikers here right now and the general feeling is weary.  People have been pushing big miles on the relatively "easy" terrain, it has been very hot (95-100 degrees around Hat Creek Rim), and California is one long freakin' state.  Crossing into Oregon will be an inspiration and energy change for everyone.  There will also be less than 1,000 miles left to the Canadian border! Triple digits! They will practically walk themselves! Well....
 Today I'm enjoying my first full day off since South Lake Tahoe.  My body is tired and thankful for the rest! My hooves are kicked up. My hiker hunger is in full swing and I definitely had a milkshake with breakfast. Only the first of the day, mind you.  I'm grateful for the milestones I've celebrated along the way and look forward to those to come.  I also look forward to my next milkshake.

Ray(s) of Sunshine

  *Attention Gentle Reader: There is a well-meaning, non-vulgar F-Bomb in this entry. Brace your tender selves.*

  The way I see it, when Death visits your life you can either think about Life or you can think about Death.  Some people probably begin thinking about mortality and what might happen to themselves after someone they know passes.  Unfortunately, I recently had the occasion to know that I am not one of those people:  Death makes me think about Life.
  Alaska contains a unique mix of people and we are very tight knit.  We are a Tribe.  And a month ago our Tribe lost one of its Elders, ending a life before its time.  I saw this news on the internet shortly before arriving in South Lake Tahoe and had no details of what had happened to Ray Garrity for the last 25 miles or so that it took for me to hike to town.  My mind reeled.  Ray had been in Alaska since the 70's and was part of the heart of its music community.  For years and years I've heard stories of the early days in Fairbanks and the antics of my Elders, who were not so "Eld" at that point, and wished that I'd been around for those days.  Rumors of a traveling Medicine Show.  People who now live in homes with flush toilets living in dry cabins with outhouses. Early music festivals.  These days seem wild and glorious and I feel lucky to hear these stories from friends of mine who see me as a "youngster" and have accepted me into their Tribe as one of their own.  Ray migrated down to Homer and has been an institution there for years.  He and his partner, Jen, host amazing parties full of decadent food and homemade music.  And though you may have been sitting in an unfinished house, tapping your toe on a plywood floor, and maybe even a window might get blown out, you never felt like you were anything less than in the company of the best people in the world.  And at the center of this, in his continually in-progress home, was Ray.  I can't claim that Ray and I were close, but I can tell you this:  Ray was the guy who brought life to a room without trying. People just wanted to be around him, to know him.  He didn't need to be the guy louder than everybody because people would quite down to hear what he had to say.  As part of the "younger" generation of Alaskans, I can confidently say that we all look up to him.  His talent playing music or playing host are talents we aspire to.  He was friendly and encouraging and interested.
  So as I sat in South Lake Tahoe, staring at a computer screen and trying to write a blog about my hike through the Sierras I just couldn't focus.  I couldn't stop thinking about Ray. My times with Ray. And my Alaskan Tribe. The simply amazing group of people that I have been lucky enough to not only call friends, but think of as family.  My hike seemed smaller at that time. I wouldn't say it felt unimportant, but my mind was in Homer, with my friends, mourning and celebrating the life of Ray.
  As I absorbed the news of Ray's accident and had hundreds of miles to think about it and what it means to me I inevitably thought of Life.  If I ever had an impact on my friends the way Ray has it will be a life well spent.  If I can be as welcoming and hospitable as Ray, I'll be glad.  I know I'll never be as good of a musician, but I sure can dance and celebrate and enjoy the music of others as well as play what I can in earnest and have fun with it.  I guess what it comes down to is that happy people make for great inspiration.  That is how I've tied this journey I'm on on the Pacific Crest Trail into Ray's life:  being content and happy makes for a better world, no matter what you are doing.  Ray was happy and spread that to those he encountered in his world and I'm fortunate to have been a part of that.  The PCT and the fact that I came back to it after a debilitating injury makes me ridiculously happy, therefore I'm doing my best to Be Like Ray.  I want to share his generous spirit in whatever way I can for his impact is lasting and he will be a part of our Tribe wherever we go. 
  Some called him Brother.  Many called him Uncle. We all called him King.  Our Tribe is missing an Elder, but we will all live out his spirit and his life will carry on in all of us.  Long live the King!
  There is a favorite, bittersweet event at the end of every festival or gathering of our Tribe that lingers in my mind and is a dear memory for me:  all of my friends, generally in a circle, arms around each other or holding hands. Some have their eyes closed, some are looking around the circle giving eye-contact and smiles.  All of us are shout-singing the chorus to our anthem, a grateful prayer to the Gods of Fun, emphatically meaning the words: "We are so fucking lucky." And we are. 
Go. Be Like Ray. It will make the world a better place.

Live life with your Fun Meter in the RED!!

 I just had to get that off my chest. Now, about the Pacific Crest Trail.....Life is grand!  I'm currently in Dunsmuir, California with only two more stops until I reach the Oregon Border!! I've logged over 1,000 miles on my tiny hooves and I'm feeling fabulous.  I'm hiking about 21-24 miles per day right now and still managing to have a 2-3 hour siesta to sit out the heat of the day.  Turns out Northern California is HOT.  I've enjoyed the views of the volcanoes, Lassen and Shasta, as well as the ever-growing forests...the trees are getting taller and everything is lush! I'm pretty much hungry all the time but have still managed to lose about 17 pounds eating nothing but Pop Tarts, Snickers, and Ramen. Go figure. All body parts are functioning and really the best I feel is when I'm walking.  When I crawl out of my tent in the mornings I'm pretty sure I look like a grandma/zombie, but once everything loosens up I'm all good. I've got a really fantastic hiking partner who I met and have been hiking with for about 950 miles and we laugh a lot and certainly help each other through the challenging moments.  Like when she dumped her just-cooked Ramen lunch on the ground. That was a rough one..... I'm happy, healthy, and headed for the border!!

Hello, Old Friend

May 15, Cantwell, Alaska:  I went to my last day at work at Denali National Park and had not packed a bag nor cleaned my cabin.

May 16, drive to Anchorage, 215 miles away.

May 17, fly to California.

May 18, pack for PCT.

May 19, drive to trail head at mile 478 in Southern California, near the Andersons.

May 20, begin hiking to Canada.  

 While all of this was indeed a whirlwind, this year's hike on the Pacific Crest Trail really began last July when I limped off the trail at Barker Pass, barely able to make camp much less walk down the path.  In an 8 day span from Tuolumne Meadows to South Lake Tahoe I had damaged my body beyond convenient repair and sat helpless and in pain while my fellow hikers marched toward Canada.  My dreams of walking from Mexico to Canada were dashed and I only hoped to walk normally and pain-free once again.  

  Fast forward an entire winter and the PCT never left my mind.  While I applied for summer jobs in Denali National Park, I always kept the option of hiking again open as my unfinished trek was never far from my mind.  Not only do I not like to leave a goal unfinished, I would look at photos from my hike, keep in touch with trail friends on the interwebs, and think about the simplicity of trail life frequently throughout the long winter months.  The PCT was never far from my mind.  

  As the time got closer and closer to make a decision about what I would do this summer, I absolutely knew what I had to do:  get back on the trail and go for it again, no matter if I succeed or fail.  I knew that if I didn't hike again this year I'd have to wait an entire another year to find out if my body was up for the task.  One thing I knew for sure: my mind wasn't up for the task of waiting to find out.  I had so much momentum and steam built up last year that my injury, months of recovery, and exceedingly slow build up of my strength was eventually only a bump on the trail to Canada...in the big picture.  

  And so, after all the hemming and hawing and deciding, suddenly there I was walking away from my parents who had driven me back to the trail, as far south as I could reasonably start considering the date, and I felt like it had all happened so fast.  My heart was beating and I was....nervous?  I have a new backpack and been doing training hikes in Denali while all my friends were still skiing, but I really didn't have total confidence in how my body would hold up.  There really is no way to know how thru-hiking will affect you until you put yourself out there and do it.  Hike. Every. Day.  Will I hike a day and feel the familiar pain in my hip? Will I make it 3 weeks and then begin limping? 

  I anxiously walked the short distance along the road until I came to the very familiar Pacific Crest Trail marker that those of us who have spent any significant time on the trail know and love.  I turned left and took my first steps back on the trail in many months.  An amazing thing happened:  after about 5 steps up the trail I was overcome with the feeling of being welcomed back by an old friend.  This trail that goes through so many environments and can be affected by weather and mood is one thing: consistent.  It is there for everyone, no matter what you have going on with your body, in your heart, or in your mind.  The trail isn't there to judge or try you, it just is there for you.  People bring their own joy or drama with them to the trail and as I walked those first steps up the first hill I felt my worries melt away and realized that once you hike this trail, whether as a thru-hiker, a section hiker, or someone who has done their first backpacking trip, you have a personal relationship with this trail.  This one trail means so much to so many people and no one interpretation or experience is definitive or superior to another.  The trail reminded me of my strength, of the wonderful people that are drawn to it, and that it was there for me any time I decided to return to it. If I choose to turn this into some sort of personal test of strength or success, that is my choice.  The trail that I spent so much time on last summer was just happy to have me back and I broke into a huge grin as I reacquainted myself with this glorious adventure of a trail. 

 Of course things are a little different this year.  Starting at mile 478 made me a stranger and a late-comer to those who had started at the Mexican border this year.  While I understand them seeing me as the "new kid," they could not possibly understand, yet, the relationship I had already established with this trail by walking 1,100 miles of it.  And because it was only a year ago that I had been walking the exact same steps, it all felt so familiar to me.  The trail knew I was no rookie.  But I also remember that feeling of ownership and hard work of having walked 500 miles and then seeing a new face on the trail.  It's OK. I don't mind. The trail and I know the truth. 

  Amazingly, my mind and body fell right into step and I have felt fit and healthy thus far.  The largely waterless desert section makes it difficult to start slow and work your way up to bigger mile days and I quickly found myself hiking an average of 20 miles per day:  the same exact miles I hiked in the same location last year when I had 500 miles already under my tiny hooves. I amazed myself.  I am faithful to a stretching routine and try to keep my muscles loose and happy.  I've got 21 days on the trail so far and have hiked over 300 miles including to the top of Mt. Whitney and over Forrester Pass, the highest point on the PCT.  Since entering the Sierras I have dropped my daily average of miles down to 17 and am delighting in the leisurely pace it feels like.  I have so much more time to linger with my feet in a brook!  Time to splay out in the high alpine meadow and watch marmots run around.  Time to lounge. At this pace, the trail practically hikes itself and I find that I am not crashing into camp with just enough energy to set up my tent.  I feel refreshed and energized by the sights of the day and the leisurely pace.  It's truly delightful.  

  I am constantly monitoring my body and every single twinge and tweak sends my mind into evaluation mode.  But I have had no major pains.  No unusual aches.  No dramatic blisters.  If it is possible to will something to be--mind over matter--it seems I have willed my body back into shape and am quietly kicking ass on the Pacific Crest Trail. But I mean that in a humble way. I will not let myself get comfortable or cocky. I will not take for granted that I am strongly hiking the same trail I weakly limped off of less than a year ago.  I will continue to stretch. I will continue to put my health first. I will continue this friendship with a trail that feels like an old friend not only to me, but to the thousands of people who have hiked it. It is here for everybody. And I will not blame it if my body gets bent out of whack again.  No matter what, it will always be here for me and it does not care if I walk the entirety in one summer or if it takes the rest of my life....it'll be here. 

 And so. I had no reason to be nervous on those first few steps back on the trail on May 20th.  I just needed my old friend to remind me of that. 

Facing Fears

Zella Brown, Wolf Point, and Broad Pass: these are a few of my favorite things.

  A year ago today I set off with high hopes and realized dreams on the Pacific Crest Trail.  I'd barely slept the night before and I was excited and relieved to finally be walking on the trail that I'd been conjuring in my head for years.  Two and a half months later I was off the trail with a severe limp and sharp pain in my body with every movement.  I swiftly had gone from lean, mean walking machine to a couch-bound invalid.  I don't think I need to rehash the myriad of emotions and physical challenges I went through after my injury last year, but there is one thing I can tell you:  I never, ever stopped thinking about the trail.
  All winter I've been contemplating whether I would return to the trail this summer or spend it at home enjoying summertime in Alaska.  It's hard to find an Alaskan who winters in Alaska and takes off in the summer.  Summertime in these parts is hard-earned!  Many mid-winter days I'd find myself looking at the screen saver on my computer and watching my photo library flashing images of the scads of adventures I've experienced in this great state.  A picture of a river trip on the Copper River, backpacking in the Brooks Range, music festivals across the state, bonfires with the neighbors, a walk with Zella Brown along the Jack River or to Wolf Point all made me resolved to stay home for the summer, restock the coffers, get some work done around my cabin, and enjoy the fruits of summer in Alaska (literally and figuratively).  It's such a short season and a shame to miss it, particularly after what has been undeniably a long winter.  We've been joking that April is the new February, though it's finally showing signs of warming.  That's it, I decided, I'm staying home and finding a job for the summer.

This is what content looks like.  (photo by R. Choi)

  The very next day my screen saver would catch my eye again and I'd see pictures of brilliant blue skies against gray granite, cacti in bloom, my tent in scenic repose, blisters on my feet, a sunrise from the top of Mt. Whitney, a distant hiker walking north, gnarled pine trees in the Sierra Nevadas, and dirty, grubby faces that I walked hundreds of miles with.  The stunning beauty of California, the consistently awesome weather, the joy of seeing new terrain every day, the simplicity of carrying everything I need on my back and just putting one foot in front of the other, the camaraderie and friendships formed over a shared experience:  these images and memories triggered an unrest in me.  They were wonderful reminders of what I accomplished and also bitter reminders of my injury and inability to finish what I'd set out to do:  walk the entire Pacific Crest Trail.  It nags me that I couldn't finish.  I'm pettily jealous of my friends who made it all the way to the Canadian border and proudly changed their Facebook profile picture to one of them at the northern terminus monument, giddy and happy.   That should have been me.
 While these two options (Alaska vs. PCT) bounced around in my head endlessly while contemplating my summer, the Pacific Crest Trail started dominating my thoughts.  It's not just the trail itself that commands my musings, but the plaguing feeling of incompletion.   Having loose ends.  Not meeting my goal.  Failure.  I rationally know that I'm not a failure, I'm human.  My body broke.  But I want to finish what I started; to redeem myself; to prove that I can do it.  These feelings grew and grew to the feverish pitch they are at now and have only subsided since yesterday when I actually purchased my ticket back to California for the summer.  I'm already antsy to get back in the groove of trail life.
  Because I'm working as a ranger at Denali National Park at the moment, I have to wait until mid-May to begin walking.  This means that I won't be able to start at the Mexican border, but I really want to hike the Sierras again so I will start somewhere south of Kennedy Meadows.  There is a big internal disappointment at not being able to start at the southern border, but I can't imagine holding onto these feelings of unfinished business for another year.  I just need to do this.
  This time around feels much different than last year when I set out on this journey.  Not only do I have experience on the trail, but I'll be covering ground I've already seen.  But this time I'm setting out with fear:  fear that my old injury will flare up and I'll have to get off the trail....again.  Uncertainty was just not in my repertoire a year ago.  I feel good physically and am actually doing some training this year, but knowing that my body could fail me so monumentally has me a little anxious.  The fact that the injury occurred while I felt so fit and strong spooks me.  And so I eagerly look forward to stepping foot on the Pacific Crest trail again, but this time around I've got well-founded reservations and doubts.

Home away from home.

  But do you know what terrifies me more than the thought of potentially hurting myself again?  Of potentially not making it to Canada again? Not living my dreams;  existing with the nagging feel of a goal unrealized; putting off what I can do now;  choosing the safe route;  settling for the known; giving up.  I can't live with that.
  A year ago today I set off with high hopes and realized dreams on the Pacific Crest Trail.  A month from today I will set foot on that trail again a different woman than I was a year ago.  A woman who has reservations, doubts, fear, and disappointment associated with this epic, wonderful trail.  But these things only weigh heavy in my head, not in my backpack.  I won't know how my body will hold up until I go find out...so let's do this.  I'd rather fail than to have never tried in the first place.....

Kickin' Up My Tiny Hooves: Vacation in America

In Alaska on the Parks Hwy; snowing at the Anchorage airport; sunrise over Washington

  Inexplicably, as my sternum slammed into the snow, a fraction of a second before my face, I thought, “I’M FORTY!”  My younger friends might laugh at me and my older friends might be able to explain it to me. I have no idea why that was the first thing I thought as the air was forced from my body and my face met the ground with alarming power. The only justification I have for this is that I was in a good deal of shock and pain and nothing in my tiny, rattled brain made much sense. It all happened so fast. And so slow.  I’d been whizzing down a great hill at Eldora’s Nordic Center with a smile on my face and at the bottom of the shaded hill a patch of trail was warmed by the Colorado sunshine and my skis literally just stopped in their place in the warm, sticky snow.  My feet stuck in place but the rest of my body continued to move through time and space at the great, fun downhill rate I’d been traveling at. Flat out on the ground, I gasped the empty breath of someone who’s just gotten the wind knocked out of her, audibly moaned, pushed myself up out of the groomed Nordic trail, clumsily knocked off my snow-laden sunglasses, and wondered if I could have given myself an irregular heartbeat or a heart attack by landing directly on my chest in what is one of the arguably most idiotic falls in my skiing career.  While my lip quivered, the tears welled in my eyes, my head pounded, and my heart found a new pace I thought to myself, “You’ve got to get up and get your act together and you can’t let the boys see you cry.” Story of my life. 

I was on vacation.  What exactly I was vacationing from is hard to say since I hadn’t been employed in 15 months or so, but you’ll have to take my word for it:  I was definitely on vacation.  With potential employment on the horizon, fully dependent on the government sequestration, I felt like I should get back to California to visit my folks and while I was at it do a little exploring.  Conditions at home in Alaska were beyond perfect to the outdoorsy, winter-loving local, but I also knew that if I began working in mid-March and end up working through the summer season that ends in September, I run the risk of not getting out to see my parents until then and that would be nearly an entire year which is entirely too long.  So, I booked the ticket to California with few solid plans, a hankering for a road trip in a 1978 VW van, and a great excuse to not cut firewood for a couple of weeks.  My weary back would thank me!! Hahaha, what do you know, Weary Back? Ha. Ha. Ha.

After just a couple of days at my folks’ house in Salinas, I set off for the mountains.  It’s almost impossible for me to explain the subtle stress and anxiety that I feel when I fly to the Lower 48.  Beyond a feeling of not belonging and General Hickness ©, I just feel the frantic pace and universal importance of everyone else and where they need to be and what they do.  Everyone seems so focused and busy and fashionable. I’m someone who finds Anchorage to be the Big City, so California can really stress me out.  I set out in Kermit, our family’s 1978 VW van, and by the time I hit the Central Valley I was already feeling myself relax.  Taking all backroads, rolling through small, farm towns, I felt like I’d escaped the hustle of coastal California. 

I headed to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains to spend time with a friend I’d met while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.  He’d recently relocated and, with a few other hearty folk, was starting up an organic farm.  From scratch.  I met him in a small, rural town and followed him through winding, narrow backroads to reach the farm and ended up on top of a beautiful ridge with a nearly 360° view of surrounding hilltops.  The next few days were spent living out of campers, filling water jugs out of a communal cabin, digging yards and yards of trenches to lay water and power lines in, planting seeds, cooking shared meals, and hanging out by a campfire at night.  A hard day’s labor meant early to bed and early to rise.  Meeting one of the local neighbors meant listening while a lonely recent widow with questionable dental hygiene prattled on about local events and alliances.  She raises sheep and brought over ground lamb and lamb chops for the crew.  It felt very much like home with its slow pace, rural setting, “local color,” and my aching lower back.  I could no longer conjure the underlying anxiety and stress that had bogged me down only days earlier. 

In the saddle at Rhona's ranch...just the right pace.

From the farm in the foothills I traveled to a ranch in the hills of the western edge of the Central Valley.  I reunited with an Alaskan neighbor who winters on the ranch and the impressive cowgirl who is an old friend and runs the place.  Located amidst the rolling green hills of California, blooming with wildflowers and dotted with grand live oak trees, it is another slice of hillbilly heaven far from strip malls, Marie Calendars, and Costcos.  Almost as soon as I parked the van and threw some groceries down my neck, I was on the back of a horse enjoying fresh air, traveling at a saunter, and chatting endlessly with my girlfriend.  Girls on horses with no worries.  Afternoon beers turned into steak on the grill by the campfire and cowboy songs with guitar and bass.  We would find ourselves mesmerized for minutes at a time by Gus, the enthusiastic, working ranch dog who wanted nothing more than to fetch a Frisbee, herd the free-range cows, or catch the blades of the ceiling fan he’d already demolished by circling the coffee table and jumping 7 feet in the air time after time.  One day flowed into the next and the Alaskan wrangler and I did a mini-van adventure on a remote, little traveled backroad of California that evoked images of cattle ranches of days gone by with nary a trace of the modern features and functions that has made California so monetarily rich.  My legs ached from horseback riding, but every awkward step was a reminder of how alive and relaxed and happy I felt. Surrounded by friends to laugh with, confess with, wear cowboy boots with. 

  By the time I returned to the crowded Monterey Bay, I was in a much better frame of mind to be there.  I’d found a way to cope with America by being there but surrounding myself with down to earth people who are not only not afraid to get dirty but are used to it.  People who live at the slow pace I’m accustomed to.  I enjoyed my visit much more after I was able settle in to California and do my own thing.  Despite the achy back and the use of the unfamiliar horseback riding muscles, I was relaxed and settled as if I’d been to a hayseed spa.

From California I flew to Colorado where, after visiting a lifelong friend in Denver, I spent time with good friends in the mountains above Boulder.  They definitely live in a neighborhood of sorts, but it is rural and their little abode is very reminiscent of cabins found in Alaska.  A delightful, raucous, outdoorsy family of 5, they are tucked into a tiny cabin-like home which serves as a basecamp for ski trips, raft trips, mandolin practice, bike adventures, and communal raising of a beloved 18-month-old little girl.  Days were spent cross-country skiing at Eldora, cooking meals or grabbing pizza, puppy-piles in front of a movie, and the crazy hubbub of an active family in a small, but cozy, home.

It was during one of these Nordic ski days at Eldora when I took my epic digger.  I was skiing out in front of the 10 and 12 year-old boys while their father was behind them towing 18-month old Hollis in a sled.  The sun was shining and the novelty of skiing at a groomed area had me on Cloud 9.  I was so happy to be spending time with my friend Tracy and her family and my mind merrily wandered.  And then I hit the sun-softened patch of snow that grabbed my fast-moving skis near the bottom of a hill like Super Glue and I found myself in an instant flat on my face and gasping for air.  One minute I was flying downhill and the next I was hugging the snow. Beyond that, the impact with the ground left me feeling like I’d for sure done something really bad to myself.  I felt my brain hit my skull;  my heart hit my ribcage;  my face hit the snow.  I gasped.  My lip quivered.  I wanted help.  I wanted sympathy.  But more so, I didn’t want those boys to find me on the ground crying. I’m forty! I sat up, took off my sunglasses and removed the snow from them, and crawled to a stand.  With one last whimper (honestly, I’d been whimpering out loud) I picked myself up, dusted the snow off, and put one foot in front of the other.  Eventually, eventually I skied it off and got back to normal.

As I flew back to Alaska and reflected on my awesome vacation, I mused at how I am happiest and most relaxed when I’m dirty or sore and in touch with nature.  Some people go to fancy hotels and sit by the beach.  Some girls go to spas and pamper themselves. Some folk eat out at fancy restaurants.  I tend to be happiest vacationing in environments very close to those I live in (which says a lot about where and how I choose to live, methinks). I can relax and let go when I’m sleeping in a camper, close quarters, or a tent, working in the dirt, riding a horse, exploring a backroad in a minivan, or doing face-plants in the snow.  As long as I’m visiting dear friends and close to nature, I’m happy.  Somehow I tend to end up being sore from these experiences, but I like to think of it as a “good sore.”  My achy back made me think of the farmers and wonder what the farm will look like if I ever find my way back there;  my sore legs reminded me of the leisurely tour I took of the farm on horseback, book-ended with laughs with old friends; my humiliating and painful full-body fall reminded me that I can get up and shake it off and I don’t need to be coddled….and I still don’t want the boys to see me cry.  I had a wonderful, if unconventional, vacation.  Very old friends and very new friends converged in my experience to create a perfect stasis of reliving the past, savoring the present, while all the time wondering and anticipating what the future will hold.  I may be atypical when it comes to vacationing, but if it takes a few bumps and bruises to signify that I’m living life and not being catered to, then so be it.  That’s what makes me happy. And that is what vacation is all about.

Reality Living; Living Reality

 

 When I think of all the reality shows out there that are based in Alaska, I inwardly roll my eyes and groan.  Sure there are some extreme jobs and people in Alaska, but there’s just nothing inherently dramatic about sifting through a creek looking for gold for weeks on end, driving a truck on an ice road, flying a small plane, or pulling over drunk snowmachiners at Arctic Man.  Moments of drama? Perhaps. Potential danger? Sure, but before this craze for all things Reality, nobody in any of these professions went around bragging about how extreme they were because of their jobs.  There were just miners, slope workers, pilots, and State Troopers. 

I could tell you a story of being charged by two grizzly bears in Denali National Park while on patrol as a backcountry ranger there that would curl your toes, scare the dickens out of you, and cause you to vow never to get off the bus in this 6 million acre park.  In reality, much of the duties of being a backcountry ranger take place in a small visitor center mindlessly reciting procedures, rules, and safety concerns with park visitors.  I have not worked in the capacity of ranger since 1999 and to this day could competently issue a backcountry permit with confidence and accuracy. We called going over the permit and rules our “spiel” and we each had one and said it over and over and over. And in the miles and miles of backcountry patrols that I conducted, this one incident was the only dramatic event that I can recall. Sure, you could probably round up a few interesting incidents from several rangers that have occurred over several seasons, but for the most part things are fairly pedestrian.
  My point is, properly edited, cut away, and voice-overed, nearly anything can seem exciting.  Yes, from time to time there is excitement or accidents, but those shows make all of Alaskans out to be daredevil adventurers whose lives are at risk every time they clock in at the job or leave the house/camp/tent.  I had some folks say to me that a reality show should have been made out of me working at a ManCamp. All I can say is that I would be horrified to have America watching me wipe down hairy showers, scrub toilets, and make the beds of grown men.  Nope.

I guess what I’m getting at is that in this day and age, when no one has to drive an unpaved Alaskan Highway full of potholes to get here; people flock here in droves during the summer arriving on boats, planes, and railroad…and yet, Alaska is still a mystery; it has mystique; it’s a wonder despite the fact that it is easily accessible to anyone with a ticket or a remote control.  And though you can tune in to a reality channel or a nature channel on your TV for a slice of life here, you can’t really capture the true essence of Alaska. The real essence of Alaska is the cold, beautiful reality of it: every day, every moment, no voice-overs, no editing, and, a lot of the time, drama-free in a traditional, televised sense.

The ski conditions in my neighborhood have been phenomenal lately.  The way the rivers froze, our wind conditions, snow conditions, all of it, has created some of the best, most consistent backcountry skiing I’ve experienced here in all my years.  Every day is a new thrill on trails I’ve been skiing extensively for the last 11 years and I’ve been supercharged by it.  To me, going out the front door with a couple of boards strapped to my feet is reality “TV”.  I can follow the same trail I skied the day before and recreate the story that is happening in the real Alaska while I’m tucked away in my warm cabin at night.  On tracks I’d created the day before I may see petite fox tracks carefully staying in the narrow rut of just one of my skis.  Or I might find large canine prints the size of my hand covering yesterday’s path.  I’ve never been so excited to find a fur-filled turd as I was when I knew that a wolf had left it on my route within the last 24 hours. That really happened!

Just today I headed north on the Jack River, where I’d skied yesterday, and because today felt like I was inside a snow globe—beautiful, gently falling huge flakes of glorious snow—there was absolutely no sign that I’d been there the day before. Today’s reality would be written in the snow. I was with one of my best friends and was excited to share the experience with someone. I realize I spend a lot of time alone and to have someone to share the joy of discovery with was invigorating.  I normally just absorb all my thoughts and gratitude and amazement and dorky comments, but today I had a partner in crime.  And while we skied north in amazing, perfect ski conditions we praised the pristine nature and ease of the river travel; the warm weather; the dumping snow; the newness of it all. After skiing as far as we felt we could, knowing we had to ski back equally as far to return home, we turned around on the Nenana River and headed into the snow.  We hadn’t seen any signs of animals, but thrived on the ease of travel and splendid conditions. 

As we left the Nenana and veered south back onto the Jack River I halted in my tracks.  My eyes wide, I looked back at Cyn to make sure she’d seen what I’d seen, and I swung my head back to look at the nine tiny reindeer standing in the middle of the river.  When I say “tiny reindeer” I’m only making ironical reference to the Christmas poem, which actually only mentions eight tiny reindeer, if I’m not mistaken.  (But we all know that’s foolhardy, because Rudolph is the most famous reindeer of all…<--another reference there).  Beyond that, they were not tiny at all…they were gorgeous and majestic.  Only two days after having a showdown with two moose on Windy Creek, Cyn and I were waiting to find out which direction this small herd of caribou would go so that we could pass by.  After several minutes of silence and eyeing each other from a distance in the falling snow, the herd moved west and I could hear, even at a distance, the click-click-click of their ankles moving and the swooshing of the snow making way for them.  It was a moment of magic disappearing into the willow and alder… As we made our way upriver and across their tracks I thought to myself: this is reality.  This just happened. Whether I saw it or not—and I’m happy I did—this is reality and it’s always happening: the tracks were here to prove it. There are no ads and it doesn’t happen in quick cuts. It’s slow and purposeful. And the way it’s meant to be.

Skiing on in companionable silence, periodically sharing thoughts and laughs, Cyn and I headed upriver on the Jack, both aware of the gift we’d just been given. Not ten minutes later I catch sight of a canine standing out in the middle of the river before us.  Again, eyes large in a “can-you-believe-this” kind of way, I look back at Cyn to make sure she sees it.  I look forward again and the animal is just as aware of us as we are of it.  I’m trying to figure out if it is a wolf or a coyote.  With our distance from the animal it’s difficult to tell, but it is easy to see it is a healthy specimen with a big bushy tail.  We were able to observe it for many minutes while it watched us, moved, watched again, moved again, until it was eventually out of sight.  I had perma-grin the entire time.  It didn’t matter if it were a wolf or a coyote, a canine sighting is rare and a treat…I could wait until I got to the tracks to find out.  I skied in perfect balance until I saw the tracks and determined that they were far too small to be wolf tracks…it must have been a coyote we saw.  I’d had my gut feeling when it seemed to have a fox trot to it rather than a more dog-like movement, but despite my years of experience here, I like to see evidence.  This is the reality of here. I see it and I believe it.

I don’t know what is going on with me.  Am I high on daylight?  Am I crazy about skiing?  Am I so simple-minded that I don’t need more stimulation than this? Or is the rest of the world so fast—too fast—that these events would not deem them Reality TV worthwhile?  A show based on seeing prints in the snow, perchance a real animal, would never be a hit.  I didn’t even feel an urge to eat the caribou, despite how tasty I know they are.  OK, maybe a little urge. But the reality of Alaska is that things happen how they happen, at their own pace.  The pace of my reality show is particularly slow and deliberate and not without a keen eye….Fairbanks has it’s own flairbanks, Talkeenta has a community to envy, Anchorage is the smallest big-city there ever was, Homer has it’s own pace.. Reality happens at it’s own pace all over the place.  But it never happens with the editing and cut-aways and drama-inducing craziness that the TV producers create.  Alaska has many, many faces and I just accept, and am grateful, that my Alaska goes unnoticed to the commercial eye. Reality is so much richer, and worth the wait, than what you see on TV.

A Call, A Tank Top, and A Case of Beer: Life Lessons

Add shrieking wind and then imagine yourself in a purple tank top.

 I tucked my chin to my chest to deflect the wind as I trudged down my path toward my warming truck.  I’d plugged it in about 2 hours earlier and then had let it run for about 15 minutes before getting in, giving the heater a slim chance to stave off the worst of the negative 15 degrees outside. It is a beautiful, bright, sunshiney day, but the wind has been whipping for two days and to say it’s brisk outside might be a bit of an understatement. Before my little jaunt into town today I hadn’t driven anywhere in…well,…I’m not sure how long. I’ve been majorly nesting at my cabin and puttering around the neighborhood either on skis or with a chainsaw in my hand.  It’s a luxury to not have to drive anywhere.  But today I was eager to make the four-mile trip into Cantwell to check my post office box and get a little gas.  Realistically, neither of these were imperative, but I wanted to see beyond the forest of my neighborhood, enjoy the open views of Broad Pass, and catch a glimpse of Denali. I put my truck into 4x4 and punched through the lingering snow drifts then turned south into the bright sunshine and the ice covered highway.

To say Cantwell is a one-horse town might be crediting it with one too many horses.  There is no town square, no shops, not much of anything.  It is an intersection with one gas station, a post office, and a few shells of buildings.  Sure, if you look deeper or know where to go you’ll find our one bar but even that is off the beaten path of the George Parks Highway.  So I had no expectations of running into people in “town” and I just enjoyed the fact that I needed to use my sunglasses for the first time in months while driving into the southern sun. 

I pulled into the Post Office and left the truck running while I popped in and picked up my scant spoils.  Having forgotten that it is Saturday, I was out of luck at the window as it was already closed and I was not able to pick up the package I’m expecting. [insert sad trombone sound here] I shuffled back to my truck and thought to check the voice mails on my cell phone which does not get reception at my cabin.  Believe me when I tell you that I almost never have messages waiting for me, so when I saw 3 messages I could hardly believe it.  All of them from unknown numbers as well.  One was a computer call, one was about a job interview, and one was from someone I’ve never met.  The first two were deleted immediately, but the last one had me sitting in my truck with a stupid grin on my face.  It was so out of the blue, so unexpected, so random, so thoughtful…I was simply dumbstruck.  I’ve got some decisions to make about my future and a few days ago had thrown something out on the tide that is Facebook that it would be nice to have someone to bounce ideas off of.  I had some hen pecks online, but it really surprised me that someone had earnestly taken it upon themselves to actually call me up and even more surprised that it was someone I’ve not met in person.  I received a weather report, amount of daylight hours, and an activity update from another part of the country and that was all.  For some reason just the simple gesture of a random phone call left me grinning.

I turned into the blinding sun and drove the hundred yards to the gas station.  There was one other car at the pumps, a red sedan of some sort.  With the wind grabbing my door and throwing it open, I braced myself for the frigid act of putting gas in my tank.  As I squinted into the sun, a silhouette came out of the station and toward the red car.  It unhooked the gas pump and inserted it into the car.  Because of the sun I couldn’t see anything properly so I made a visor with my hand so I could see if I knew who this figure was.  I could not have been more surprised. My jaw dropped open a little and icy wind filled my gaping mouth.  In front of me, hair whipping in the fierce north wind, was a heavyset black woman.  Wearing a purple tank top.  A tank top!!!! She is squeezed into a pair of large black jeans not quite zipped all the way up, is wearing silver-rimmed sunglasses with a silver chain draping down below her chin across her ample, visible cleavage, and she’s wearing a freaking tank top. It only took me a split second to assess the situation as I stood there in my bunny boots, wool long underwear, crotchless wool britches (not sexy crotchless, but practical, well-loved, worn every single winter day for work and play since 1997 crotchless), capilene shirt, huge poofy down coat, neck gaiter, beanie, and lined leather gloves.  I smiled at her and said, “Girl, you’re CRAZY!!” I saw a huge set of pearly whites smiling at me out of her dark face and she said, “I’ve been driving for 20 hours and it’s hot in there!” indicating her car.  She exclaimed how freezing it was outside and reached into her car for another layer.  She emerges with an over-sized, black hooded sweatshirt that zipped up the front.  Again I couldn’t have been more taken aback when I saw that printed in white on the front and back of the garment were the bones of a human skeleton torso.  Like a large, animated anatomy lesson.  She pulled the black hood up on her head and we chatted about her trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks and road conditions.  She was very nice and as we both finished at the same time, I headed inside to pay and she got in her car to leave. We wished each other safe driving.  I stepped in to the warmth of the gas station and shook my head in disbelief.  A tank top!!  The cashier and another old man were watching her drive away.  It was a “she’s not from these parts” moment, but for some reason exhilarated me.  Her well-meaning carelessness, her huge smile and friendly demeanor, her excitement over her first winter road trip, her easy laugh… she was a breath of fresh air.

I enjoyed some banter with the men at the store and drove home to my ‘hood feeling light and enjoying the beauty surrounding me.  As I pulled off the highway and onto my driveway I could see that my neighbor who has been away for a week was home, snowblowing the road.  So happy to see him, I parked my rig and walked down to say hello and welcome home.  After chatting for a bit I mentioned that I might drive up to Healy to grab a few staples and some beer and he just looked at me and said, “I’ve got two cases of High Life in my truck for you.”  I could not believe it!! Hallelujah and pass the snakes! He just saved me 75 miles of driving!

Gentle Reader, you may be asking yourself why the heck I’m telling you about any of this and why my knickers are in a twist and I’ve got a goofy grin on my face.  The reality of today was that I got a random phone call, saw an inappropriately dressed stranger, and my neighbor knew I would be out of beer.  Is my life so tiny and boring that this is all it takes for me to get excited?  Have I become so hermitic and isolated that I’ve gone a little loopy? Do I need to get out more?  Well, that could be one interpretation.  But I’m here to tell you that I am content in my life.  I’m happy on a daily basis.  My cluttered little cabin is cozy and it’s all mine.  I recreate for free, in my backyard, in one of the most beautiful places on earth.  I can go for a week at a time without driving my truck.  I haven’t been in civilization for over three weeks and I don’t desire it. Simple things make me happy and perhaps I just don’t ask too much of myself.  Maybe I should.  But I love being surprised by an unexpected phone call, bonding with a new friend who I’ll only ever know for those 4 minutes this afternoon, but who I’ll remember with a laugh, and knowing that a neighbor was thinking of me after not seeing each other for a week.  These are truly simple joys that a lot of people in this busy world might overlook or take for granted or not even notice.

I appreciate that my life is simple and slow enough to make joyous mountains out of molehills.  It’s winter in Alaska for Pete’s sake!  I’m in hibernation mode! As the light returns I feel my energy returning and I know the busy season is around the corner.  Soon I will have days full of skiing, working, hiking, visiting, biking, and being constantly on-the-go.  But I have deliberately created this room in my life to breathe; to kowtow to the season and be still and contemplate and simplify.  Perhaps at another time of year I would have listened to those same messages while driving somewhere with other things on my mind and briefly wondered why someone I’ve never met left me a message. Or come across a kind-hearted woman at a gas pump that I paid no mind to because I didn’t want to lift my head to notice the tourists.  It happens.  I am just grateful at this time, in this place, that my life is so slow that these simple occurrences made my day.  Life can be busy and full-on all the time and I appreciate the chance to absorb the ebb and flow.  That being said, I anticipate the energy and action of the already returning daylight.  Opportunities are presenting themselves.  Decisions are being contemplated and mulled over….soon again I’ll be on the run, but hopefully not passing up these unique occasions to laugh out loud and be grateful over the small, random golden chestnuts life offers up to us.  It makes for happier living to be easily pleased.