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.

Reflections in a Honey Bucket

Cantwell mascara at -32 degrees

   When the time comes for me to celebrate my liberation from the womb (because I'm pretty sure even my mother would tell you that I've always been independent and a wanderer) and another spin around the sun, I like to look back and reflect on the year gone by.  I always ask myself, "Self, what was the best thing that happened to you this year?"  And by "happened to me [sic]" I really mean what is the best thing I made happen for myself this year.  I have to admit, hopefully without sounding boastful, that bright spots and high points are generally not hard to find.  But this last year was particularly stellar.  In some sort of Freudian, conceptual, interpretive dance adaptation of an incident, I was liberated and therefore born again into unemployment by quitting my job at ManCamp at this time last year...a re-birth into my natural state of not working for someone else.  Fast forward a year and numerous adventures later and I finish my 39th year by missing the peg when going to hang up my puffy pants and affectingly drop them into my honey bucket and soaking the cuffs in my own urine.  Later in the evening I cut out pictures of ermine from magazines and assembled them into a Nativity scene.  Gentle Reader, while you may sit reading those last two sentences shaking your head and pitying the poor girl who is foolish enough to go without the guidance of a Good Man, a Decent Job, and a Normal Home, I consider my year a total success.  And my life....well, I might not have won the Nobel Peace Prize. but if I expire tomorrow I wouldn't change a thing.  Adventures have been plentiful and I'm satisfied.
  I will have you know that in the slow motion seconds that it took for me to reach out, puffy pants in hand, and think I was hanging them on the peg only to have them fall lifelessly to the ground, I only cursed myself for a blip of a second.  I knew where the pants were headed.  My eyes got huge as I lifted the pants to see both cuffs laying in the honey bucket  and in one swift motion I grabbed the black, puffy mass, opened the door, and threw them out into the arctic temperatures to freeze.   As soon as I shut the door to the -32 degree weather that was clamoring to get in the cabin I began hysterically laughing.  Once I tamed my giggles I only erupted again.  Now please believe me, I do not talk to myself.  I live on my own in the middle of Alaska and I do not speak out loud to myself.  Oh yes, there is a constant dialogue in my head, but I rarely utter anything out loud.  Not for any good reason, that's just the way I am.  So to find myself in a state of unhinged laughter, only makes me laugh harder. It was such a great episode.  In no way did I get angry, disappointed, or frustrated...I just saw this as a hilarious accident because really:  everyone can drop an article of clothing, but not everyone has a honey bucket.  It was just one more thing, besides the temperature outside, that makes Alaska a unique place to live.
  My year consisted of awesome music from Alaska to Mardi Gras to California and the Pacific Northwest.  From amateur hour in a Denali cabin to touring professionals.  From friends to idols and some who blur the line in between.  I skied my first race (though I was only "racing"...ahem) to an 8-day winter tour with my lady pardners and had an awesome tour of the proverbial front yard on a snow machine trip.  I hiked 1,100 mile of the Pacific Crest Trail and spent my first summer outside of Alaska since 1994, met awesome folk, and made at least part of a dream come true.  I learned to have patience with myself during an injury and spent quality time with friends I wouldn't have seen otherwise.  I can take the good with the bad and even seek it out (the good that is!). 
  I have learned again, for the hundredth time, that Alaska is my home like no other.  I can be happy other places and while I love, love, love adventure and am in quest of new places and experiences and being on the road and meeting fresh faces and challenging myself ....nothing can replace my home, my heart place, my people.  That while I need change and challenge, I'm equally content with a small birthday gathering of friends and neighbors with no big hoopla or bright lights.  Not everything has to be an event nor do I have to be at every event.  Or maybe just the bright lights of bacon grease soaked paper aflame above magazine cut outs of ermine posed in a creche tableau.... this is enough bright lights and hoopla for me.  And that this scene,--with nothing going on and no where to go-- this place that so many people fear and don't understand, is the place that nourishes me and makes me feel alive even in the most mundane of activities such as taking a walk (at -32) or going #2 (at -32). 
 

Lo! An Ermine is borne unto them! 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my big, lofty accomplishments of the past year of my life are super exciting and wonderful memories, but are a part of a pretty exciting and wonderful life.  Of course I have times where I'm stuck in a rut, don't we all?  But overall, I endeavor to make every day an adventure, a wonderful day. I aspire to make dropping my pants in a bucket full of my own pee a laughable experience.  I strive to find paper cut out figures of ermine, and posing them as the Holy Family, a hilarious task that brings a smile to my face at any moment.  I attempt to be content reading on the couch for hours when I know I should be outside cutting firewood.  I try to remember how lucky I am that I even have a choice to live this lifestyle;  all the hardships of living where I live and living alone are still a luxury.  [Please note:  I mean that being able to live alone is a luxury in choice.  Years ago I might have been married off the the first fella that asked my ma and pa and I wouldn't have had a say in the matter!  In the more immediate sense, sometimes living alone is a luxury and other days I lament single living in a labor intense environment.] 
  On that note, I am super excited that I turned 40 and have a whole new decade to look forward to.  I still feel like a sprite, so a number doesn't mean much to me.  I have hopes and dreams to work toward coming true.  I have unfinished business with the Pacific Crest Trail.  I have lofty aspirations and I aspire to make even mundane days have lofty moments.  I want to see the uncommon in the common.  I want to laugh at my own private jokes.  I want to be more motivated.  I want to be gentler with myself.  I want to be gentler with others. I want to take the amount of fun I had in my 30's and double it.  I want to stay on this path.  I want to be open to new paths.  I'm satisfied.
  I'd also like to thank Alaska for the birthday present of warmer weather:  after a week or more of -20's and -30's it has warmed up at least 40 degrees to around 10 above and we got a dusting of fresh snow which at least gives us hope.....it also snowed in Salinas, California on the day I was born in 1972.  How ya like them apples? 

Home, Sweet Home

Hard not to feel at home with a backyard like this.

  I know it seems unconventional, but I knew I was home when I walked up to gate C4 at the Portland airport earlier last month.  I’d been Outside for 6 months (that means anywhere Outside of Alaska) and as I approached the gate I knew I was among my people.  It wasn’t that I recognized anyone in particular, but I identified with the motley crew assembled and waiting for our Alaska Air flight.  Not many, if any, tourists are clamoring to visit Alaska on the cusp of winter, so those heading north at this time are generally of a local breed:  a skinny guy in a black Salty Dog Saloon sweatshirt and work boots;  several variety of bearded men—from beanpole to beer belly—with the name of their drilling/mining/construction company (see also: fishing vessel) embroidered onto their denim jackets; a harried-looking couple apparently returning home with their infant baby after a trip to visit the family; a woman holding a coat with a fur ruff around the hood.  Also of note was that not one of these people looked at me twice for being a woman wearing Carhartts, nor did I feel conspicuous for doing so.  Because even in uber cool Portland, a girl can feel like she is not cool in double-kneed work jeans (please Carhartt, please do not make skinny jeans. Ever.).  Instead, we all just milled about the gate until our flight was ready and headed to Anchorage. 

  Upon arrival in Anchorage I also felt like I had arrived home. I couldn't tell if my mind was playing tricks on me or if my olfactory nerves were projecting nostalgia, but I seriously smelled salmon in the baggage claim area. Not cooked salmon, but raw, barely dead, still twitching because even s/he doesn't know it's dead, just off the river fresh salmon.  I knew it was crazy, but I embraced it because I'd been gone for so long.  As I waited for my humongous bags to come around on the carousel, I admired what is indisputably strictly Alaskan decor at almost any airport:  a stuffed polar bear on it's hind legs, a wolf posed in a lifeless snarl.  To top it off I thought of what a small place this is because I know the people who built these dioramas.  Talented carpenters and musicians one and all and outspoken political whiskey drinkers on occasion. I knew I was home when a friend volunteered to come pick me up from the airport and that conveniently, and coincidentally, another friend was arriving 10 minutes after me so we could all ride together (I doubt that happens in New York City). 

  I knew I was home long before I stepped foot in my cabin 215 miles north of Anchorage.  Because in Anchorage there were giggles with girlfriends, smiles with babies, brunch for fifteen people including, but not limited to, bacon waffles, cheesy grits with shrimp etouffee, an egg pie with moose sausage, homemade muffins, and a mimosa or two, music of the old timey variety, walks at the dog park, falling snow, and bundling in down; reuniting with old friends, sharing stories and catching up; being in a place where I feel part of a community.

  By all means that community stretches across Alaska.  From my own home in the Jack River Nation and the Denali area to Fairbanks, Talkeetna, Juneau, Anchorage, and Homer I feel like I’ve got friends, confidants, and allies.  While I enjoy my time Outside and people I know there, I do not feel part of a larger community there.  In AK we always joke about the population here being the biggest, most spread out small town ever and that feels true.  Whether from my Denali National Park ranger days, the bluegrass community, outdoor enthusiasts, or just next door neighbors (or a combination of these interests/experiences) it is amazing how many people a girl can get to know across this vast state. 

  After a jaunt to Homer--beautiful, beautiful Homer—I finally made it back to Cantwell and back into the cabin I built for myself.  But even before I arrive at my log cabin in the spruce forest, I feel settled because I know I'm home when I'm not even to my cabin yet. It's when I arrive in Broad Pass and look around at the 360 degrees of mountains that envelop me: Denali book ending one side and the Deborah gang of mountains on the other. The Alaska Range and the Talkeetna Mountains forming a carousel of summits that make me dizzy. And on that early winter day I witnessed a sky full of every blue hue on the chart from bright and perky to smoky and nearly purple. The ring of snow capped mountains surrounding me were all shades of white from sun lit and shiny to the indescribable muted white and shadowy that only occurs at this time of year, the contrast with the sky always drastic. These mountains, these colors: these are as familiar and welcoming to me as an old friend. 

  Of course being in my cabin and among my neighbors has been wonderful.  Walks in familiar woods, seeing the way the Jack River has changed course after fall flooding, checking progress of our local beaver families, admiring the crystal-clear, glass like condition of the ice on the slough, walking in the winter sun with a romping brown dog, impromptu dinners with neighbors, wine with girlfriends:  all things that I missed while away on my adventure (and mis-adventure).  It’s just really nice to know that this cozy, comfortable, safe feeling that one generally feels in her own home is not limited to my physical dwelling…sometimes that feeling can start at an airport gate far, far away and stretch across the biggest state in the union.

Pride After the Fall

Pastoral bliss.

Last weekend I finally mustered the gumption to download most of the photos from my PCT bid onto my computer.  I'd been reunited with my laptop the week before with intentions of doing this, but continuously found excuses not to do so:  I've got to do my physical therapy exercises, I should make dinner, I am going to watch one more episode of The Office on Netflix, I'm going to take a nap.  All milquetoast excuses, I know, but I didn't want to admit that deep down I was reluctant to look at all those photos and relive the hike.  In my mind it seems a reminder of failure.

Wee Bee in a rock garden

  I've experienced a range of emotions in the last two months regarding my experiences on the PCT and the abrupt end of my quest to hike the entire 2,650-mile trail in one season.  I was initially bummed to fall behind my hiking buddies, but confident that I'd be back on the trail after some time off for recovery.  As the pain in my body intensified and lingered, I could not even think of getting back on the trail because all I wanted was to be able to take a step without shooting pain throughout my left hip.  I soon became acquiescent to the fact that returning to the trail was either a long shot or impossible.  I tried on patience, resignation, desperation, contentment, sadness, mourning, joy, denial, acceptance, drunkenness, frustration, and zen.  Overall I feel that I've been in a good head space, but I'd be crazy if I didn't feel the whole gamut of emotions after such an intense experience and aftermath.

Good morning new day!

 One emotion I never felt after leaving the trail was pride.  When I would talk to people about feeling sad about leaving the trail, I would inevitably get the response: "You walked 1,100 miles!! You should be so proud of yourself! That's awesome!" I understand why people would tell me this as I would do the same for a friend, in a totally earnest fashion.  I know that response comes from a genuine place, but when I heard it it felt slightly condescending and as if I was being treated like a child.  I know my reactive feelings are ungrounded, ungrateful, and super stubborn, but the last thing I wanted to hear was "Nice try!"  I even knew at the time that friends who would utter those words to me in no way were they trying to placate me but to encourage and support me because, indisputably, 1,100 miles is a long way.  There is a rational part of my brain, after all.  But hearing those words solidified the fact that I was not going to be able to continue hiking, that I hadn't met my goal, that the dream was over (for the time being).  That I had failed.

So many great campsites to be had.

  I've been off the trail for two months now and am just now starting to walk normally, no cane, with only a slight limp that only a physical therapist would notice.  I tire easily.  It's been a long process with highs and lows along the way.  It's depressing to feel my body go from lean, mean walking machine to couch potato, but encouraging and uplifting to know that no permanent damage was done and that I will get back into shape.  While riding this tide of emotions I have not thought too much about my failure on the PCT.  It felt like just too much to handle emotionally when I was already feeling so much.  Reading Facebook updates from friends that I'd been on the trail with, seeing their progress, was bittersweet:  I felt happy for them and sad for me.  (Pity party: table for one!) I was not in a hurry to look back at the photos from my journey.
  I finally got my mitts on my laptop and was confronted with the option to download, review, and edit the photos from my hike.  Normally I'm very excited to look at photos from my adventures, critique my own photography skills, and share them with friends.  In this case I was literally and figuratively dragging my feet.   Finally I hooked up my camera and began loading the thousands of pictures I'd clicked while walking.  Sort of reluctant to look, I sat down to face my trip, the sights I'd seen, the people I met, and the fact that I'm no longer taking pictures of beautiful places because I'm not walking through them.  What I saw was a pleasant surprise.

How could you not want to hike this trail?

  As I assessed the photos I felt a smile grow across my face and a flurry of excitement as I began reliving my trip from the very beginning.  The desert of southern California seems like a long, long time ago and as I looked at the pictures from the first couple of hundred of miles I remember the excitement and nervousness before setting out; aches, pains, sore muscles, blisters, and blistering hot weather; the desert and new friendships in bloom; funny incidents along the trail, and the hard work that was put in to building up the strength and stamina to walk mile after mile, day after day; awesome camp spots and afternoon siestas with a view.  It made me really happy to see the beautiful places I'd traveled to, step by step.  Memories and emotions were evoked by the colorful images popping up on my computer screen.  And I liked it.  I felt like I was getting reacquainted with an old friend; one who had been so close and so special to me at one time but whom I had been separated from. It felt good.

No, seriously...how could you not want to hike here?

I yearn for places like this.

Just another day hiking in paradise.

   I also, for the first time since leaving the trail, felt pride in what I had accomplished.  I looked at the changing landscapes, the mountain peaks, and the mile markers and finally realized that even though I wasn't able to finish what I set out to do, what I had achieved was indeed remarkable!  I walked 1,127 miles in a row! And while it is not the 2,650 I set out to do, it is a freaking long way.  I saw amazing scenery, I carried my world on my back, I fell asleep under the stars for over two months, I walked in complete solitude through some of the most jaw-dropping country that is accessible to (wo)man, I contemplated my own luck while sitting by myself on top of Mt. Whitney and several other mountain passes in the Sierras.... I don't know how else to express myself...I just feel proud.  Sure, my companions are only 200 miles from the Canadian border right now and I am so happy for them.  If I could go back and change something, anything, so that I could have continued hiking I would do it in a minute.  I know I can do it.  But I also look back at what I did accomplish and I have finally given myself permission to feel proud about how far I hiked along the Pacific Crest Trail and the experiences I enjoyed on it.  Not too shabby,WeeBee, not too shabby.....

Another magical moment in time.

See, look how proud I can be! 900 mile marker!

From Mountains to Molehills

 Sometimes my physical therapist treats me while her hair is in curlers.  Sometimes her children are asleep in the next room.  Sometimes we've both had a couple of glasses of wine prior to treatment.  She's almost always in her pajamas. Most of the time we are both laughing uncontrollably.

Just a smattering of photos from our lifetime of friendship...

 You see, I'm living with my physical therapist.  She is also the person in my life that I have no memories without.  As a small child, Beth's family lived one door down from my family on San Vincente St. in Salinas until we moved away.....to Greenwood Pl. which is half a block away from where we began.  We toddled together, posed for first day of kindergarten pictures together, fought over Barbies, did each others' hair, choreographed elaborate dances for everything from Grease and Fame to Jesus Christ Superstsar and Godspell (sometimes on rollerskates, as in the case of Sound of Music), practiced piano lessons together, and often got into the bickering fights that are usually reserved for blood sisters.  I'm fairly certain we walked to school almost everyday together from kindergarten through eighth grade at which point her mother would drop us off at Salinas High School on the way to her teaching job.  Then we lived together for our first two years at UC Santa Barbara.  Since college we have kept in touch sporadically, but no matter how much time passes between conversations we automatically pick up where we left off and are soon enduring fits of laughter and catching each other up on our lives.

I flew down to Southern California a little over a week ago.  Beth had urged me to take advantage of her expertise in physical therapy and stay with her and her family for a visit to boot.  I could feel that my body had finally relaxed enough to be able to have someone work on it.  After seeing the improvement following the visit with physical therapist in Seattle I was anxious to get here and get to work.  Little did I know that healing the pain would involve way more pain.  Oh, the agonizing irony.
  My room here in Orange County doubles as my physical therapy chamber.  I've ousted a 6 year old girl from her room and here is what I see on the walls when falling asleep or being worked on by Beth:  the pinkest of pink paint, three different Justin Bieber posters looking down at me on the single bed, Cinderella and her birds on one wall, a poster with two animated dolphins jumping out of the ocean with the phrase "Making Waves" under them, several quotes from what I assume to be Bieber songs ("Feel it, Believe it, Dream it, Be it"--JB), and the words "Girls should be two things: Classy and Fabulous".  Hello Kitty waves at me from one corner. This makes the Holly Hobby wallpaper I had in my room at Sophia's age seem blase. There is a three story doll house on one side of the bed that my 6 year-old self covets.  The dolls inside resemble exotic Barbie and Ken dolls on steroids.  Tiny white cowgirl boots await their owner to choose them for an outing. It's the 6 year-old American dream.  My 39 year-old self finds it endearing and bizarre at the same time. 

We still laugh just as much....and I still have chocolate on my double chin.

    Beth has been treating me every day I've been here, minus two days of respite.  As ready as I was to be treated upon arriving, I now know what is involved in each treatment and have to brace myself for each round in the Pink Room.  I lay down on the single bed and Beth lays into me with her elbow or forearm, trying to work my tight muscles into any state of relaxation.  Because of my twisted pelvis, many of my muscles froze up and were not used, causing muscles on the opposite side of my body to do all the work.  Beth is "reawakening" and trying to engage muscles that were out of work for many weeks.  Lazy sons of guns. I don't think I can really do justice to how painful this process can be, but at times it feels like my leg is being crushed in a trash compactor.  I'm fairly certain this is not the case, but it sure feels like it.  I look to The Bieb and smiling dolphins for help or sympathy, but he continues to look pouty/sultry and they continue to smile.  Beth relentlessly works on my ground meat muscles while I laugh-cry on the child bed.

I love my physical therapist....

  The best part about this private treatment is that I can really express my true emotions during this treatment without feeling self-conscious.  Sometimes I'm laughing uncontrollably at the mixture of tickling and pain that Beth impinges on my muscles.  Sometimes I'm just squeezing my eyes shut, sucking air through my teeth, spewing everything but curse words ("Mother Scratcher" and "Fa fa fa fa fa fa frick!" are among my favorites---there are children in the house after all), and begging, hoping, and wishing for it all to be done.  I also wonder (and occasionally ask aloud):  Beth, when did you get such pointy elbows? Beth, when did you sharpen your ulna? Beth, are you paying me back for being a brat when we were kids together? It turns out that none of these are the case, it just feels like some sort of punishment for something I don't even know I've done.
  I don't think I'm the only one benefiting from these physical therapy sessions:  Beth is constantly laughing with and at me.  As painful as it is for me, we are having a blast.  She can laugh, giggle, inflict more pressure, tell me to buck up, and say all the things she'd ever want to say to regular patients.  It's pretty much a win-win.

Good night, roomies!! 

  The good news is that the therapy is working.  Between daily sessions with Beth and a regular exercise regimen, I'm slowly working my muscles back into shape and waking them up from their slumber.  My limp is ebbing away at a leisurely pace, but easing nonetheless. I'm awed that I could go from feeling so strong and on top of the world, hiking 20 miles a day from mountain to mountain, to feeling so weak and incompetent (*not to be confused with incontinent, y'all*) and feeling fatigued after stepping onto a curb 20 times in a row.  It's incredibly frustrating and disheartening.  The thing that makes all of this bearable is that none of this is permanent damage.  I can and will heal from this with no lasting effects and I WILL be able to finish the Pacific Crest Trail, go on my Denali Ladies Ski trips every spring, raft the Grand Canyon, bicycle-tour Europe or any other dang thing I want to do.  Eventually. I feel so grateful for that!  No, this is not what I had in mind for this summer, looking at photos from my hike are bittersweet, but in the bigger picture I had a grand experience, have made new friends, have had the chance to spend really quality time with old friends and see some really kick-ass music.

  So for now I'm staying in Southern California, enjoying the company of my bestest friend, hanging with her family, cooking dinner for them, doing my exercises and enduring cruel/kind treatments, making jokes so bad that 6 year-olds roll their eyes at me, and falling asleep under the watchful gaze of The Bieb.  I'm also taking applications from anyone who would like for me to convalesce at their house.  I'm beyond the point where I need someone to get every glass of wine for me, but am still rather stationary and useless.  How could you resist?