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| 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.
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| 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.
