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?

Twisted Sister

  It turns out that having a twisted pelvis is hilarious! Not just giggle funny.  Not conspiratorial cackle funny.  Way beyond a polite teehee.  I'm talking smiling so hard it hurts, eyes closed, no sound, can't catch your breath, whooping, potentially pants peeing, stomach clenching, tear producing, you know you shouldn't be laughing but you can't help yourself gut-busting laughter.  Who knew?
  Actually, I predicted this act of inappropriate chortling before I sat down with the physical therapist.  Five out of six health care providers that I've been to since my injury have witnessed me break down in tears and/or uncontrollable spasms of raucous laughter.  I can't help it, this unforeseen affliction is intertwined with my emotions to a degree that any and all treatment is not just a physical adjustment but a trip to the psychologist as well....whether those care givers intend it or not.  Perhaps I should have tipped more....
  My first three attempts at pain relief were in S. Lake Tahoe.  Painfully limping into the massage therapists' studio I was fairly certain that a massage wasn't going to cure me, but I thought it might loosen up my frozen muscles and, really, since when did a massage hurt?  I waited in the swanky spa waiting room looking at skin products I would never allow myself to spend so much money on and felt somewhat out of place.  Once ushered into the room, the massage therapist was very welcoming and friendly and put me at ease right away.  When she asked me what she could help me with and I began explaining to her about hiking the PCT and the extreme pain I was in I just burst into tears.  At that point I was just freshly off the trail and was very distressed at falling behind my thru-hiking pals and worried about how long it would take for me to get back on the trail.  I had, after all, dreamed and planned for this trip for many years.  So as I described the pain and the trip I just spontaneously began blubbering.  I don't cry easily or often, much less in front of strangers. so I cried, apologized, justified and laid down on the table and shut my dough hole.  The masseuse was very understanding and did an excellent job of not making me feel like a nitwit.  The massage was nice, but not miracle-working.
  The next step I took in seeking relief was going to a chiropractor.  I walked in with no appointment and he agreed to see me immediately.  I think he could hear the desperation in my voice.  Again, while explaining my predicament I got the quiver lip and cracked voice and had to bow my head for a second.  It's like I was already mourning not being on the trail.  I regained my composure and he took me through a battery of tests. At that point almost everything caused sharp pain, but I sucked in my breath and sucked it up, letting him know what hurt and what was OK.  But here's where things get quirky:  when I'm anticipating pain or when I'm in shock and pain I react with sheer unadulterated laughter.  As the doctor was pressing on my taut muscles, he might as well have been tickling me under the arm.  Seriously.  He looked at me like I was a) crazy, b) crazy, and c) crazy.  Between shrieks of laughter I assured him that he was not hurting me excessively and that I was OK, but that, yes, that was a tender spot. Only one minute later I was weeping with pain, not laughter. He took it in stride and gave me his diagnosis.  As I left his office I thanked him profusely and went to shake his hand and he opened his arms to give me a hug.  I accepted it gratefully as it felt like we'd been through a lot in just 50 minutes together.  He chuckled when I told him he was better than "Cats."
  The very next day I went to see an acupuncturist.  Again, anticipating an emotional explanation of my situation, I was nearly able to get the words "I may cry" out before I started crying while describing my journey and ailments.  Having had acupuncture treatments in the past, I know that they often tap into emotional outlets and I knew this injury was very closely attached to disappointment, pride, sadness, and some fear.  As the practitioner placed the needles in my body I tried to relax.  And then she hit The Spot.  Whatever channel she tapped in to, it let the tears flow freely.  She looked concerned.  I lay on the table weeping and reassured her I was totally fine.  No, really.
  I did not get any further treatment, other than a shot of honky-tonk, an injection of old-time, a splash of bluegrass, and a dose of cajun, until I got here to Seattle where I've been on the down low with friends formerly from Alaska.  I found a sliding-scale acupuncture clinic and made appointment.  I made it through the interview process just fine, but once the needles started going in the emotions started flowing out.  As I lay in a comfortable recliner with a total stranger using me as a pincushion, my tear ducts turned on and the waterworks began.  Again I tried to assure the woman that I was just fine....really.
  Finally, with high accolades from my hosts, I found my way to a physical therapist who could see me on short notice.  As my three tiny hooves (don't forget the cane!) made their way up the stairs into his work space I prepped myself for an outburst of emotions.  My body seemed to be finally, finally, starting to heal and loosen up, but I was anticipating the quakey chin and visions of a trail so far away that it made me sad.  I hobbled to the table, hopped up onto it (a la "Young Frankenstein"-style hopping...if you know what I mean), and told Mike the PT that I very well may cry.  He seemed amiable to this.  The appointment proceeded.  I made it through the introductions with nary a pout or wetting of the cheek.  Everything felt in check and straight forward.
  Here's the skinny:  somewhere along the trail my pelvis started twisting.  Yup, just what it sounds like.  My left hip twisted forward while the right went back resulting in my left leg being 1/4" longer than my right.  This caused my horrendous limp because essentially all the muscles on the left side of my body, from my lower back down my leg, threw up their hands and quit working.  They weren't happy with the working conditions and went on strike. Froze up.  This caused my right side to have to pick up the slack, compensate, cross the picket line and become the scabs of the muscle world. My left side didn't want to budge and my brain was powerless to fix the problem.  As a matter of fact, my brain had been wooed by my left side and totally forgotten that it had any say in the matter.  Oh powerless brain...so easily wooed.
  So what Mike the PT did was reprogram my brain, remind it that it is in charge, by pressing into muscular channels along my back and legs.  No problem, he said.  As he delved into some deep tissues and put pressure on some extremely high strung muscles, my hysteria function was triggered.  I started out giggling and proceeded into full-fledged belly laughter as if I'd just been dosed by the dentist with laughing gas.  I kept apologizing and he assured me it was no problem.  The more I tried to stop laughing the more I laughed.  Tears were streaming down my face but not because of sadness, longing, or even necessarily pain. It was certainly tender in those poor tense muscles, but it just genuinely tickled.... I think it's one way I process pain and panic.  When you see a man reach under your hip bone to reach a buried psoas muscle, one can kinda freak out.  As my more superficial belly muscles contracted with my gales of laughter, his fingers would be popped out of the deeper area he was trying to reach. "Sorry!" (again) "No problem." (he waited until the current spasm receded and reached back in for the aggravated muscle). I truly tried to take deep breaths and calm down, but the laughter kept winning.  And by gosh, it was super fun.  Laughing is fun.  I just kind of felt silly for being the only one in the room having a fit.  Ah well, Mike took it well.
  The good news is that I walked out of that building with two legs the same length.  Slowly, and with precision and still needing the cane ever so slightly, I am walking with a nearly normal gait. I've got exercises to practice to strengthen those panicky left side muscles that froze into place and wouldn't budge for weeks on end.  With (more) patience, practice, and PT I'll be back to normal eventually.  No permanent damage and this incident shouldn't affect future physical ventures.  Yay.  I've come to accept that I won't be getting back on the PCT this season.  Tough one.  But I'm grateful that my body will recover and that I will be able to finish it in the future.  Question is:  start where I left off or start all over again?  That's one to ponder....
  I believe this injury was the result of gear failure.  My pack was extremely heavy and worn out and was adjusted by a well-meaning hiker just as I left Yosemite.  Not an hour later I was fidgeting with it, it was cutting into my shoulders, and I was constantly shifting it while walking.  I never could get it back to just as it was for the first 942 miles which was good enough.  Also my shoes wore out on that 8 day stretch from Yosemite to S. Lake Tahoe and my feet and knees were taking the brunt of that piled on top of the uncomfortable, heavy pack.  Can't go back and change it, but I can be prepared for this kind of thing in the future.
  I can say that that trip to Mike the PT was one of the most hilarious doctor appointments of my life.

Cane and Abled

As I sit with the doors of the Gospel Ship wide open, trying to catch a breeze, Dirk Powell is giving a workshop and playing banjo about 30 yards away. The Gospel Ship is a van that has a stenciled picture of the Carter Family on the bow, also named for one of their songs, and is the tour rig for the Foghorn Stringband and my home base for the last week. If you’re reading this in hopes to hear how my hike on the Pacific Crest Trail is going, go ahead and sneak out of here now, because all I can report on is my journey in healing. No longer can I relate tales of glorious mountains, clear alpine streams, and the cultish family that is the PCT community. Now I can relate tales of sitting still, being patient with myself, and trying to accept the situation I find myself in. Boooooooooring! Don’t feel bad.... go ahead, leave.... inner journeys are dull compared to fantastic tales of climbing mountains at midnight. Still, and all, there is a journey still happening in my life and I’m trying to adjust to it, understand it, and accept it for what it is. I even try to be grateful for it in it’s own right. Dammit.
It turns out that during my 8 day hike from Yosemite to South Lake Tahoe I developed severe tendinitis and fasciitis in my left hip/IT band. All I could really do was take it easy. Yes, apply heat or cold (heat felt better), get acupuncture, try massage, up my magnesium.... all of these were tried coupled with extreme sitting and taking it easy. My gracious hosts in Tahoe made me feel welcome and right at home, but I felt like a useless lump of coal and felt I should move on after nearly 2 weeks in their home. My friend Nadine invited me to fly up to Portland to join her for some music festivals that her band, Foghorn Stringband, would be playing in. Because music is a passion of mine and when I’m not in the backcountry you can often find me at a music festival and because Nadine is one of my favorite people on Earth, I accepted her offer. Warning her that I’d be a useless guest, I got on a plane in Reno and found myself at music central in Oregon.
Over two weeks later, at my 4th festival, I’ve seen hours and hours of live music. From on stage at a festival, to bar gigs, to house concerts and backyard jams all of it has been amazing. Not only have I enjoyed music made by my friends, but made new friends and heard new bands that melted my face, as the kids say. I haven’t been able to dance which is a crying shame, but there is something about a backstage pass at a big festival that makes you feel like one of the cool kids. After being in Portland for a week, I hit the road with the members of Cajun Country Revival for a mini-tour of the Northwest.
While, yes, I’m having the time of my life there is certainly an underlying current of sadness. During a blistering mandolin solo or rousing Cajun version of “Lucille” I may look down at my flip-flop clad foot and suddenly have tears in my eyes. My feet look horrid: the hard-earned calluses that developed over a thousand miles of hiking have dried up and are cracking in an unsightly manner. A small toenail on my left foot completely changed shape and texture and is a constant reminder of my time on the trail. I look at my tiny hooves, their sad shape, and am reminded of all those days on the trail, the painful blisters I endured to get those calluses, and what curiosity must’ve happened over the months of walking to make a nail arch up on itself like that. So while the music rocks and rolls, my mind often wanders back to the trail, to the hot days of the Southern California desert, to the jaw-dropping views in the High Sierras, to the beloved routine of walking, eating, map consulting, and camping everyday and the incredible simplicity of it all. While people around me are dancing and smiling, I’ve secretly shed tears to mourn the end of my Pacific Crest journey. At least for 2012. It’s very confusing to feel so incredibly grateful and happy to be where I am and to also be constantly reminded by my dreadful looking feet that I’m here because I’m not there.
Not having begun the Pacific Crest Trail in any kind of effort to “find myself”, “lose myself”, or “look for meaning” it was a very physical journey for me. The physical demands of the trail, the effect it had on my feet, the knee injury I overcame...it was work every step of the way, as enjoyable as it was. My journey is not over by a long shot, but it has come to a physical halt and is now more about my emotional travels. Of course I’m still on the move, physically, but now I’m focusing more on patience with my body, being at peace with not being able to be on the trail, accepting what I can’t change or hurry. At those times when I am undoubtedly happy and in a good place with friends and amazing music, I’m trying to not focus on why I am here, why I’m not hiking the PCT. Sometimes I’m better at this than others. I also think that mourning the end of my hike and inability to finish this season is just fine. While I don’t dwell on it, I periodically let the tears trickle because the bottom line is that while I know how lucky I am to have amazing second choice options and very supportive friends and family, my dream of thru-hiking the PCT during my 40th year has been aborted.
As far as the hip goes, I’m finally, starting to see progress. It’s honestly been weeks and weeks of pretty severe pain and a goofy looking limp, but things seem to be loosening up in the area. At a festival in Demming, WA, a friend who used to be a Physical Therapist saw my awkward gait and recommended I start using a cane or a crutch so that I could relieve the pressure and pain in the affected hip. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? I picked up a cane at a Walgreen’s and immediately felt far more mobile. I really feel this will quicken the healing process. Plus, the cane is camouflage and now has a Foghorn Stringband sticker on it with their signature skull and crossed banjos, so I think it’s pretty cool. As far as canes go. I’m relieved to be able to move without pain and confident that my recovery is actually going in the right direction.
While my tiny hooves have not been able to aid in my travels, the Gospel Ship has provided my mode of transportation and good times. Being able to travel with friends is a blessing, but having those friends be amazing musicians and performers is beyond lucky. If I can’t be on the trail, I can think of nowhere I’d rather be than sailing on to the next adventure than in the comfy, sometimes crowded, often too warm, good natured, instrument-filled vessel on her way to the next festival.

*Bands you should know: Foghorn Stringband, Cajun Country Revival, The Cactus Blossoms, Kitty, Daisy, & Lewis
Caleb Klauder Country Band, Dirk Powell.
You won't regret it.