wild rivers, steep cliffs and storm clouds on the horizon

in early july, i had an itch to get back to upper relief valley. we had worked that trail up and down, from relief reservoir down at 7,000 feet all the way to the whitesides meadow junction and back. the steep climb to upper relief became routine, and i had enjoyed our daily hike through a patch of mountain sagebrush. now as we turned toward the lunch meadow trail and inched our way closer to our final camp at emigrant lake, i felt the urge to return to something familiar.

we left in a group of six, my friend grace and i the only women. our supervisor, brian, also joined us on this weekend trip. we made the easy, familiar way through hot, exposed granite stairs and cool, shaded ponderosa pine paths. john, our foreman, had described how to find an old ccc camp, down in lower relief valley near the base of granite dome, and we found it easily.

the next morning, i woke to a crisp clear sierra nevada sun. it was early, and the light was still blocked a bit by the mountains that rose up around us in all directions. checking in, i saw that i was the first one up, as usual. i grabbed my journal and my turquoise beanie and scrambled up the granite rocks near our camp to get a better view of the rising sun. i knew i had at least an hour before anyone else awoke, and so i began some sun salutations. my body was sore from a week of trail work and a fast hike with all my weekend gear, but it felt good to stretch out my tired muscles. it had been two months since i joined the crew at our strawberry camp, and i'm sure if i could have looked at myself in a proper mirror, i would have been shocked by the tanned, muscular girl in front of me. nothing can make a girl prettier than abundant sunshine, fresh mountain air and miles and miles of hiking for months on end. that morning, stretching and breathing the crisp alpine air, i felt beauty emanating from me, from the depths of my soul. it was time to write.

as often happened on our weekends, i was soon joined in my solitary morning by owen, or professor ridings as we like to call him. in fact, there were many times when i was startled by his presence; he had awoken and was meditating twenty yards from me on another rock. sometimes our eyes would meet and we would simply smile, and return to our private thoughts and meditations. this morning, he sat in silence for a long time. he had suffered and fought so much in his life; i thanked the universe that this morning he knew peace.

after a quick breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, and my failed attempts not to wake everyone else up, we all slowly made our way to the river, and those magnificent waterfalls.

the water was freezing cold. snowmelt. it fell fast over several pools that were walled in on both sides by steep rocks. we played in the crisp cool water for more than an hour, swimming under the falls and taking pictures as the water pounded down around us. it was slippery and the whole time i was there, i felt on the edge of danger...deliciously risky. life in the wilderness often feels that way. we are wild creatures in our deepest core, and survival instincts begin to show themselves in the face of wild rivers, steep cliffs and storm clouds on the horizon...

as the morning slowly crept towards noon, justin, mike, owen and i found a small plateau of brilliant white granite on which to sunbathe. i had spent so much time with these boys that i felt only a bit bashful in stripping completely and lying fully nude on the hot rocks. they did the same. we lay there for an hour, drying off and warming up after our exhilirating time in the waterfalls. sometimes the wilderness gives you too much time to think. especially on a saturday afternoon smack in the middle of a summer in the mountains, i blissfully thought about nothing. not a care in the world...

eventually our stomachs beckoned us back to camp. the boys headed down the rocks to follow the river back, but i had to cross over the falls to get my towel. i made it across the water without too much trouble, but i found myself in a tough position. the spot where i had left my things was a bit downstream, and although i had climbed down from this point, it was much more difficult to climb back up. in my sandals and underwear, i scrambled up a few rocks, grabbing roots and small cracks in the granite to help myself up. eventually though, i was almost entirely cliffhung, sliding on an angled platform. there was barely enough room for me and my sandals did me no good on the sandy rocks. precariously, my heart beating fast and thoughts of imminent death racing through my mind, i loosened my sandals and slung them around my wrist. using my bare feet for better grip i awkwardly reached for a handhold on the rocks above me. somehow, thanks to my survival insticts, i made it up to the top of the rock face, and sat panting in the hot sun. and for the second time that day, i thanked the universe for her mercy and saving grace.

gathering my things and carefully climbing the rest of the way down the granite rocks, i noticed some dark stormclouds building up. we would not escape this storm, i knew.

the rest of the afternoon was spent under a tarp, in sleeping bags, listening to music and laughing at dumb jokes and silly stories. grace, mike and i had become pretty close and we had fun waiting out the rain in our makeshift shelter. not much rain fell that evening, but by the next morning the rain was inevitable, and we wondered when we should head back to our camp.

rain fell around ten in the morning, and by noon we figured there would be no break. loading our already damp packs on our backs, we started out on the relatively short hike home. by the time we reached the stanislaus river crossing, the rain had been falling for hours, and the river had risen significantly. it was too high and too fast to cross. we waited by the river, heating some water for hot chocolate and using what dry wood we could find to make a small fire. we had no idea what to do. john had advised us to wait it out if ever we found a river too high to cross. it would be better to return late than to attempt such a dangerous crossing. but it was pointless to wait. besides, we were hungry.

at brian's suggestion, we swung on our packs and hiked back about a mile and half up the trail to a wider point in the river. it would be slower and shallower, for sure. but would that be enough for it to be safe to cross? brian, our resident "captain america", dropped his pack and inched out into the river, testing the current to decide whether we could cross. he determined it was possible, and we prepared to cross. the boys went first, with very little trouble. then it was my turn. at five foot two, the river was more than waist high on me. the boys made a sort of assembly line to pass my pack over to the other shore. we sent across grace's and brian's as well. as soon as i stepped into the swift river, my feet went out from under me. by this point i probably weighed no more than 115 pounds, and could not get a grip on the slippery rocks beneath me. brian grabbed me and tried to straighten me out, but it was hopeless. i could not get a firm stance in the river, so the men passed me down the line, gripping me by the lapels. zach yelled, half jokingly, half worriedly, for me to stand up. i laughed and looked at him hopelessly. there was no way i could. they safely passed me off until finally i reached the other shore. they saved my life. and we all were in fits of laughter. grace fared a bit better, though not much. finally we all gathered on the opposite shore, tried to dry off and then began the cross-country trip back to camp.

it was a rough hike, scrambling over rocks and slipping on slimy, mossy logs. at one point i was lost in a patch of tall bushes next to the river, stepping into deep pools and getting caught on pokey branches. we were all tired and wanted to get home, so we scattered and then got frustrated when others went in different directions. at last, we made it to the trail that would take us back to camp.

despite the danger, despite the setbacks and despite the unforgiving nature of the wilderness, we managed to live through these trials not only safely, but laughing all the way. we survived because of the intense commitment we had to each other, and because of the individual fires that burned inside each one of us. we had a personal desire to survive, and a collective desire to succeed.

i never made it all the way up to upper relief valley that weekend, nor anytime for the rest of the season for that matter, but i made peace with that reality. the first moment i had seen upper relief was etched in my brain forever, and no doubt it would never again be as beautiful. you can never go back to those moments. especially if you're looking for something that was there before. we must live each day to the fullest and take what we can from the time we have. no use looking for what was there before.

i finished desert solitaire today, and i'm happy and sad, feeling empty and full, all at once. it was wonderful, albeit tough for me to get through. mostly because i didn't want it to end. i didn't want him to have to leave arches, to go home and wonder, when he goes back, if he goes back, will it be the same? will he be the same?

i sat in a cafe for an hour, eating a croissant and sipping on delicious coffee with lots of cream, and i pondered these questions. of course, i don't plan to return to the backcountry to do all the same things, to be with the same people and see the same sights. i know it would be different, just as i would be different. but in some ways, the wilderness that i left behind is more dependable than anything i could hope to find here in civilization. and the girl that left the mountains was more confident, more energetic, more alive than the one sitting here now. if i did return, i would be older, wiser. i would look at the time i have there in a different light, knowing how precious it really is. if i returned, i would know better than to ever leave again...

if only...

my saving grace (which is also the bane of my existance) is my routine commute by foot around the city of rochester. today, i tried to catch the bus home from teen city, but, realizing i was really early for the bus, i decided to walk part of the way. that turned into ALL of the way. it was just easier, faster, and cheaper than waiting 20 minutes in the cold for a bus that would take 2 minutes and cost me a dollar. my hands weren't numb, so i continued on. i'm proud that i walk everywhere. it's actually not as cold as riding my bike, i've found, since the wind blows so cold on my face. and it gives me time to think. too much, maybe.

i, like ed abbey, like to be alone. my sister is gone with charlie to seattle until next week, and i'm starting to savor my solitude, and the silence it brings me. in silence, in solitude, i have room to stretch my brain. to think long and hard, and sometimes to think of nothing at all. mostly to daydream, a skill i honed from needing something to distract me from 2000 ft climbs up a mountain with tools on my back. i had lovely daydreams while hiking. when it got REALLY bad, i would just think of those damn sheep that surrounded gage and me and woke us up on the morning of the summer solstice. the thought of those sheep would make me smile and even laugh, even on the most grueling hike to work. now, i think of a lot of memories of the backcountry, and dreams of returning to the sierras. i plan wild escapes in winter to warm places with no people, just me and the sky. i can almost smell the sagebrush and juniper and cedar, hear the wind blow through the canyons and taste the dust from the trail in my mouth. i can feel the mountain air. i also think a lot about trails we worked for weeks at a time. i go over in my head every turn in the trail, every incline, switchback, obstacle and view, picturing each step as if i had taken slides of the whole way up the mountain. i don't think i could ever get lost in that part of the stanislaus. i probably know it better than the back of my hand (who ever studies the back of their hand, anyway?)

i started out just wanting to mention that i finished desert solitaire, and that i wished ed abbey had offered me a better handhold out of this hole i find myself. "a hole as deep as my regret." i wish he hadn't left me hanging on the hope that he would return, so that i might return, and find things not necessarily the same, but more familiar than this strange world in which i find myself now. i wish i didn't have to read about all those beautiful arches and rivers and sunsets, and then return to this icy white jungle. i wish i didn't have to wake up at 4:00 in the morning tomorrow. peace...

lifenow radio

my church produces a radio show that is simply fantastic. the shows are a little long, usually about a half an hour, but they're well worth the time. i recommend them to anyone, especially those who are interested in living this life to the fullest and not focusing too much on the next. the show is called LifeNow because that's exactly what they look at: your life, now. mostly, it's what npr could be if they felt bold enough to put a little heart and soul into their stories. check out the website and browse through stories that seem interesting. i just listened to "heart buzz" and loved it. i downloaded a couple and plan to listen to them on my mp3 while i walk to work and run. definitely worth checking out...

let there be peace and peace and peace

have i mentioned that i love sunday mornings? i really love them. today i'm thinking about a lot of things. i'm listening to andy mckee, a favorite from this summer. one sunday morning, one of our last at our relief reservoir camp, and the last time that we saw peter, we all sat around eating breakfast in near silence, drinking tea or coffee and listening to andy mckee's happy acoustic guitar instrumentals bouncing off rock faces and enormous pines. the fire was down to a low crackling and clouds drifted slowly across the sky. we hardly EVER had clouds, and it would eventually rain that day. but at that moment, in the clear july sun, we were completely at peace.

i sit here this morning with my coffee (made in a french press, not cowboy coffee) and listen to andy mckee stream through my laptop. i am alone, and indoors. but i am still happy. i'm about to go to church, and i can't wait. kaaren is preaching today and it's sure to be inspiring. the theme for this month is "think", and i'm looking forward to this challenge. i'm glad that spending time with this church is turning out to be everything i hoped it would be, and more. i love the ministers, and feel inspired in everything i hear and see in my beautiful little church across the street. i couldn't be more blessed to have found these people at this point in my life.

i'm going to finish my coffee, get dressed, bundle up, and take a little walk up to church. i love sunday mornings...

spur of the moment

i never realized how much i love the phrase "spur of the moment." or rather, i never noticed that there ever was anything to love about it. but what is the "spur" of a moment? according to the dictionary online, a spur could be something that serves as a "goad" or "incentive." that's the closest definition i could find. so if i bought something spur of the moment, what would that mean? that i justified it based on its current incentives, what i thought valuable about it in the present moment? maybe.

or, you could picture turning on your spurs, or spurring your horse faster. the "spur of the moment."

i'm starting to kill the phrase in my head (you know how they cease to have the same connections once you say it over and over or ponder the meaning too long? yeah, i'm getting there...) but i'll end on one last intuition. because that's how i understand words...i intuate (i made that up) their meaning based on their context.

i thought that spur might mean "cusp," like the edge of a moment. maybe, there was a split second bunched up in the multitude of inter-moment spaces in which you decided you were going to do something. you were standing on a precipice, and, spur of the moment, you decided to go for it.

whew. pretty powerful.

winter hours

i'm finishing up mary oliver's "winter hours", a book of prose, prose poetry, and poetry. it's lovely. and i had to put this excerpt in here:

"morning, for me, is the time of best work. my conscious thought sings like a bird in a cage, but the rest of me is singing too, like a bird in the wind. perhaps something is still strong in us in the morning, the part that is untamable, that dreams willfully and crazily, that knows reason is no more than an island within us."

p. 98.

grace.

i have stood in front of impressive cathedrals, awe-inspiring paintings and gigantic skyscrapers.

but nothing will ever compare to the moment i stood in front of a three thousand year old juniper tree, and watched birds flit from branch to ancient branch. when will we ever learn that the only true beauty in this world is a gift of grace, something we don't deserve or expect? it is an ancient conifer, a weather-worn mountain peak and an anthill. it is nothing we can create. it is nothing we can imitate. we can only stand in the presence of grace and soak it up like light from the sun. isn't light the ultimate gift of grace, anyway?

por un razon u otra, he pensado mucho estos dias en cuanto echo de menos hablar en espanol. es horrible. ayer, escribi a cinco o seis personas en espanol, para practicar. sin embargo, no es solamente para practicar. es un impulso, como algo necesario. no puedo continuar con el tiempo pasando sin hablar en espanol. ves q apenas perdi nada despues de mas de dos anos fuera de espana.

asi que, escribo en espanol aqui. de vez en cuando. no siempre, pero me siento contento tener este recurso para practicar y satisfecer el impulso de hablar en espanol.

ayer escribia con yotzin por email, y hemos decidido intentar quedar por skype para platicar. me gustaria hablar por un tiempo extendido, aunque deberiamos hacer un "intercambio" asi que durante un parte debemos hablar en ingles. aunque el ensena ingles en la uni, asi q tiene mucha practica. whatever :) seria bueno para nosotr@s dos.

tengo hambre. ves que no puedo soportar escribir tanto en espanol. pero mejorare :) desayuno, y tal vez vuelvo a hablar en espanol.

"half acre" by hem

half acre on youtube...to listen while you read...

i am holding half an acre
torn from the map of Michigan
and folded in this scrap of paper
is a land i grew in

think of every town you've lived in
every room you lay your head
and what is it that you remember?

do you carry every sadness with you
every hour your heart was broken
every night the fear and darkness
lay down with you

a man is walking on the highway
a woman stares out at the sea
and light is only now just breaking

so we carry every sadness with us
every hour our hearts were broken
every night the fear and darkness
lay down with us

but i am holding half an acre
torn from the map of Michigan
i am carrying this scrap of paper
that can crack the darkest sky wide open
every burden taken from me
every night my heart unfolding
my home

rant from the wilderness

ben evans, fellow americorps volunteer and occasional email correspondent, asked me recently to rant about the wilderness. i mentioned that ed abbey in desert solitaire does just that, and he was interested in knowing more about it. what follows is a flow of consciousness that i wrote in a cafe, tweaked out on caffeine and with a few precious hours to kill in between jobs. some of it is based on, or, let's be honest, flat out stolen from the pages of, ed abbey's most beloved memoir. a bit comes from my other dear mentor and favorite agricultural essayist, wendell berry. some of it is from my personal experiences living in total wilderness for 11 weeks straight. some of it comes from my imagination....

"rant from the wilderness"

ed abbey says "they" are pushing us into the cities to prepare for the imminent authoritarian regime. "they" will trap us in the cities, surround us, mechanize our agriculture, take away our guns and make it impossible for us to survive without complete submission to the government. no more guerrilla warfare, for there will be no more jungle in which to stage a rebellion and to hide from our enemy: the industrial authoritarian. but we've arrived at this point and don't even realize it. we can't grow our own food, we are flooding the cities and cannot fathom wilderness survival (that is the stuff of experts seen on the discovery channel, certainly not your everyday joe). industry has the ultimate authority over our entire existence and we are listfully passive about all of this.

some things i have learned:
1. any person can build a fire that is capable of cooking food...even meat.
2. with the right equipment and in moderate climates, any person can survive entirely outdoors.
3. it takes a surprisingly short amount of time to get in tune with nature and to sense changes in the weather and seasons.
4. showers, and especially soap, are entirely overrated.
5. when left without cds, mp3s, i-pods, computers, and other sound devices, humans will make their own music.
6. community agriculture is one of the most rewarding and unifying social endeavor. so are community cooking and community eating.
7. nudity is not shameful.
8. obesity would cease to exist if cars did too.
9. children should absolutely participate in subsistance farming and all household chores. that is not child labor, it's socialization.
10. we all deserve to see the sun rise or set, or both, every day.

while we're at it, i might well describe the problem i have with the word "wilderness," which implicitly separates itself from civilization. we know the word to mean "that which is untouched by humanity." therefore, it is not our place. how are we to feel at home in a world that is expressly scary and unknown? better to stay in the safety of our industrial cities, where we have "reliable" water, heating, and food supplies. who wants to risk bears and unexpected thunderstorms, drought and black flies??

the natural world must be revindicated by humanity, but not in the traditional, patriarchal, dominating way. it must not be conquered, partitioned and lorded over. we must humbly return, ask for forgiveness, and listen to the heart of nature to begin again. we must sit quietly for a long time among cedars and does and ground squirrels and yarrow, and learn from them how to behave.

i am disgusted by industry, manufactured materials and "good deal" (the-cheaper-the-better concept). we are poisoning ourselves with our cut-corners and our mindless complicity. we don't care where our food comes from as long as it is cheap. we don't want to pay for the hidden costs in this global economy, and yet we feel betrayed by those who drove us into our impending depression. we don't want to earn anything, we want everything for less, and the less time anything takes, the better. so that we have time for celebrity gossip, self-absorbed primping internet comas, sport stats and one more beer, bartender.

numb the pain, nurse the wound, alienate others, forget about that earth-shaped hole in your heart (an earth-shaped hole in the universe). and whatever you do, don't got out alone at night. bad things might happen to you...

a few times this summer, i had the chance to bathe alone at sunset. most days i did it in the afternoon after work with some of my crew, sometimes naked but most often with underwear. but those few times at sunset, the water was warm on my bare skin and the sky was pink beyond the mountains in the west. silence surrounded me as i slipped quietly into the blue water. there was only me in all creation, performing ablutions, a sacred cleansing ceremony, among my friends the junipers and ponderosa pines.

i was not lonely. i was not hurting. i was at peace with my body, at peace in my mind, heart and infinite spirit. i felt whole and healed by the simple act of washing myself clean after a hard day's work. the water cradled me in the womb of Mother Earth, and i floated in the stillness of that infinite moment. back in the womb of my Mother, safe and warm and complete.

in the city, the pavement is hard and cold under my feet. i can feel the heartache of industrialism through the sole of my hiking boots. i feel strange wearing them in this urban setting, soiling them after hiking hundreds of miles in them on backcountry trails. cars with their cold, hard, steel shells separate me from every human in view. they whiz by, hardly noticing me and my hiking boots, and all the others around them. we do not acknowledge our kindred, earthly connection. we are estranged or long-lost and never-found sisters and brothers, unaware or indifferent to our universal familial bond. we are afraid of contrived dangers and insecurities, an alleged failing economy and increasing risks of terrorist attacks, and yet we have created these scary scenarios through our own capitalism and nationalism (love of money and love of boundaries, respectively. both divide and neither unites). we choose to believe the illusion of business and individualism instead of the universal truths of cooperation and community. the city is a giant corpse still pumping oil through its disintegrating heart and is falsely dictated by a mechanical, money-hungry brain.

our souls are hiding in the trees, waiting for us to retrieve and restore them. we have only to look in earnest, and the world will reveal itself to us. and we will hear the music to which we have been deaf all these years, the music that resounds through our liberated, naked bodies when we commune with the wild. one day, we will come home.





i'll end with a nice excerpt from desert solitaire, one of many brilliant and inspirational passages in his beautiful book:

"we are obliged, therefore, to spread the news,
painful and bitter though it may be for some people to hear,
that all living things on earth are kindred."