Reward

I went running the other evening, and I was pretty cranky about it. I'd put it off all day. When you don't do it a lot, running hurts.

This is what I saw when I got to the top of the ridge.

I smiled, ran down crunchy snow in the dark, and drank a really tasty beer.

Open-mouthed berry

Lucy

The other morning it was snowing gently. It was so pretty that I grabbed the camera and walked down to Lederer Park. I like it there and felt like I'd find something interesting to photograph if I kept my eyes open.

I ended up at the statue of Lucy Lederer. She's a spry old lady, legs planted about shoulder-width apart, no-nonsense bun at the base of her neck, right hand holding onto a cane placed resolutely in front of her like she's staking a claim on her little pedestal. She has a kind smile on her face, but I'm sure that she could raise hell on mean people and bluebird-stalking cats with that cane of hers.

Lucy must have loved green places. There's a small space between her fused bronze fingers and her little bronze thumb. I've never actually seen anyone slide a flower or branch or colored leaf into that space, but I almost never see Lucy without some kind of bouquet in her hand.

This day she was holding a branch of white pine. I bet she likes color, so I picked a berried sprig off a nearby rose bush and added it to the greenery.

Brainstorm

Brian hadn't called me in a really long time. I only answer my phone about 50% of the time, but I was intensely curious so I picked up.

"What are you doing right now, " he said.
"Heading to a doctor's appointment," I said. "Why?
"I'm thinking of going to Black Mo to make some turns," says Brian.
There was about three quarters of an inch of snow on the ground. I asked him if he'd wait an hour so I could come too.

One hour and twenty minutes later we're in the car driving to Black Moshannon. Black Mo is a state park with a defunct lift-served ski area. They hadn't mowed the slope this fall, so we made the first turns of the season in about five inches of powdery fluff coating about twenty inches of warm wet grass. It was so good we took two laps.

This is my problem. Brian is, oddly, looking for a job elsewhere. Somewhere with whiter pastures. Steeper pastures. Pastures that require a snorkel and an avy cannon to navigate. I don't know anyone else besides Brian who would have the desperation and vision to drive to Black Mo and hike for turns when there's less than an inch of snow on the ground downtown. It takes a odd sense of humor to be a skier in Pennsylvania. Appreciation of the absurd is helpful.

So I'm thinking that if I can find Brian a really classy girlfriend in the next month or so he'll stick around. A single, attractive, sane lady that's willing to share her living space with a super-size quiver of skis and won't mind playing second fiddle on a powder day.

Little Red Newt

Not Having A Lot of Money is Fun Sometimes

If we had a ton of money, the four of us would have gone to Bacchus or the Gilded Otter to eat, drink beer, and hang out in noisy warmth all evening before going back to hotel rooms to fall asleep with the television on. I'm pretty sure we wouldn't be cooking mac and cheese in the dark by the overlook, passing the headlamp back and forth to see what we're eating or fetch more beer or look for another warm layer in the stinky climbers' disorder of the Subaru. We wouldn't be drinking ourselves warm with scotch, talking about chickens and Yosemite and grad school while a gorgeous sliver of a moon slides up the sky over Millbrook. We would have bought ourselves out of a familiar dilemma; the cold is finally too much for scotch or fleece or 500 fill-power down to manage, but it's too boring to admit defeat, drive to Russ and Amy's, and crawl into the tents we've pitched in their yard.

Constraint breeds creativity. We decide to hike shivering up to the boulders on the carriage road, sharing three headlamps and the flask of scotch. Doug and Michael work the Gill Egg, taking turns climbing in the headlamp's tunnel of light while two of us spot down below. The Uberfall is dark and cold and quiet and entirely ours while the Taurid meteor shower streaks the night sky. Michael, Doug, and I monkey on the boulders until we're sweating and removing layers, following each other on multiple traverses of the warm-up boulder. Scott takes photos and, as a reward for his patient effort, comes away with the shot I'm posting here. Later that night, after we're stuffed into sleeping bags in our tents pitched under the bright cloudy arc of the Milky Way, a pack of coyotes must have just cornered a rabbit in the field next to us. The dissonant, sinuous harmony of their banshee-dog chorus wafts over the field as we fall asleep.

This really isn't anything that I have a whole ton of experience with, but I'd imagine that having enough money to consistently purchase comfort on every climbing trip can be really expensive. There are worse (much worse) things than a sitting down to enjoy a grass-fed cheeseburger, some sweet potato fries and a pint of porter with a group of climbing friends in the guaranteed comfort of a brewpub. But it would have cost us each at least twenty five dollars, a midnight send of the Gill Egg, a really neat photo, a rare experience of solitude at the Uberfall, a Taurid light show, and a crazy avant-garde piece of coyote choral music as a lullaby.

The Obama Campaign's Secret Weapon

I rode my fixie all over town today, hand-delivering flyers with the specifics of how and when to vote to the homes of registered Democrats. Today marks the very first time I've ever volunteered in an election campaign. A really good day for a couple of different reasons.

Back when I used to work at the shop, my bicycle commute was reliably the best part of my workday. Early mornings I'd generally flirt with sloth and crankiness, but once I was sitting on my bike with shoes clipped in and iPod wailing, I'd get superhero powers. I felt fierce and fast and agile. I got to push hard on my mean and lean and classy bike. I felt like all the important parts of my brain were awake and alive. And then I'd arrive at work and realize that the destination was most certainly not part of the journey anymore. Since then I've missed that ride. I've missed being a superhero.

I walked into the Obama office today with a bit of trepidation. I was worried they'd laugh at me when I said I was a new volunteer. That they'd be like, nice of you to show up the DAY BEFORE the freaking election. That they'd say all the important work has already been done by more worthy people than myself (which is actually probably true) before making me sit on a stack of phone books in the corner and cold-calling old people. So you can imagine my delight when I was handed a bunch of flyers and was told to go forth and deliver them to Democrats, and, whatever I do, to make sure I don't litter. I still kind of felt bad about the flyers, though, and felt a little shady stashing my bike in the bushes and slipping political junk mail onto Democrat doorknobs. Then I actually read one of the flyers. Good stuff, really. I was giving these people info on where specifically their precinct should go to vote. I was telling them what kinds of ID they need to bring and what their rights are as voters. That if they're in line to vote and the polls close, they'd better keep standing in line until they've voted for whoever they want to vote for. That they have the right to vote even if they have unpaid bills or parking tickets. I started to feel pretty good about what I was doing. I started smiling at people I passed. I got to tell an old lady that, if she didn't have a ride to the polls, the Obama campaign would find her a ride. Heck, I told her I'd give her a ride myself, and I wouldn't even make her ride on the handlebars.

I'm back at it tomorrow. This time for at least eight hours. I will be fierce and fast and just a teeny bit relevant. A little tiny newborn fragile activist on a superhero bicycle. I'll be leaving my cynicism at home tomorrow. See you at the polls.

Things that Scare Me

Bees


Logs

Fros

Do You See What Happens, Larry?

I received this in the mail the other day. I guess the good news is I've been added to Scott's health insurance policy. The bad news is the de facto rulers of our health care system are snarky merchants of greed who thrive on a mental diet of illogic and rigidity. Doesn't matter that I've barely climbed outside in the last year. Doesn't matter that, for the first time in big while, I can actually say that I spend a majority of my climbing time bouldering indoors. Doesn't matter that, statistically, indoor climbing is safer than indoor soccer. Doesn't matter that Scott's policy is unencumbered by any dour riders and they know he rock climbs and they don't care. Doesn't matter that I'd be fully covered if I was an avid four-wheeler with anger management issues, a Glock, and a torrid affair with Jack Daniels. Doesn't matter that we're paying hundreds and hundreds of dollars per month for a policy with an almost eleven grand (that's right) deductible. When confronted with a flawlessly diplomatic and polite "WTF?" from Scott, the underwriter noodled nervously before putting down her iron heel of sociopathic irrationality. We think she made up some rules on the spot. Ever the level-headed negotiator, Scott asked if I could at least be covered for any injuries incurred while climbing indoors. She told us that if we're such safe climbers we shouldn't be worried about climbing coverage in the first place.

Anyhoo, after hitting the single malt and witnessing Scott be angry for maybe the twelfth time in his whole life, we started talking about how we should show those vile bags of avarice over at Assurant that they could only invigorate our funhog quest. We would be clever and do something outrageous AND be fully covered. Like jump out of a plane.


Actually, it really didn't happen like that at all. We did in fact go skydiving. Scott took this shot that weekend of a couple of the lucky folks from the sunset load. Our plans, though, had nothing to do with retaliation against bureaucracy and everything to do with scratching a big mental itch. Doing something conceptually audacious but acceptably safe if combined with a little mental discipline. A common theme for us, it seems, tempered but certainly not diminished by the ripening sense of our own mortality that we've acquired over the last fourteen years we've been together. And pretty resilient to any bureaucratic garbage thrown our way by the scavenging orcs over in the health insurance industry.

Odd jobs

My friend Cathy took pity on my newly-unemployed self and asked me to answer phones for a week at Alpine Sales and Rental, which basically sells the penultimate sandbox toys for grownups. Attached to the office is a warehouse with some contents that have been undisturbed for so long they've acquired a dusty and muted glamour. I spent some time in there with my camera and my favorite lens.

The Winds (abbreviated)

I've been miserable at posting lately. I've been meaning to write a hilarious, concise, complete account of my trip to the Winds. It was a great trip. It deserves a great post. But I'm realizing that if I wait for the perfect storm of inspiration and motivation to generate something to match my ambition, I'll never post again. So I'm just providing the basics. Some photos and some words:

Moonrise over Seneca Lake. This was our first campsite. We intended to walk 14 miles to Titcomb Basin the first day, but our heavy packs defeated us, and we barely lurched 7 miles before hollering uncle, pitching the tents, and grimly slurping the Wild Turkey.


Approaching basecamp in Titcomb Basin on Day 2. The next day, I'd meet a couple fishermen that, with utter seriousness, would ask me if I was camped in "Titty Comb Basin". That, combined with the fact that Tom kept running into a female backpacker with the most enormous gazongas any of us had ever seen in the backcountry, pretty much guaranteed we'd never refer to this astonishingly beautiful area by it's rightful name again.



The most amazing fish ever. My first solo, Western fishing experience. An absolutely fabulous day for me that I'll think about for the rest of my life if I feel like I need to smile. I am a wholly novice flyfisherman (flyfisherwoman?), and I really had no business catching this fish. It was about an hour after I took this photo that I stopped hyperventilating. I didn't keep the fish for two reasons. First, it was just super and absolutely part of the experience to watch this guy swim away. Second, we were already struggling to consume the insane overabundance of food we brought with us, including multiple cans of tuna in oil, a can of escargot, three bottles of whiskey, two bags of jalapeno Cheeze-its, one package of Oreo Double Stufs, a rather large container of olive oil, what must have been three pounds of Grape-Nuts, and at least two billy-club sized sticks of pepperoni. I'm not sure what we were thinking.



Eric and Jon on the summit of Gannett Peak.


My Asolo-clad feet in front of a view of Gannett from Bonney Pass. The boots were a last-minute gift that made the trip infinitely more pleasant for me. Thanks to Tom for bravely throwing a request into Asolo and, most importantly, to Bill Lockwood, an Asolo sales rep and a very good, extremely generous friend of mine.



Basecamp squalor in Tittycomb Basin.


Sunset over Fremont Peak. We camped at Seneca Lake again on our way out of the backcountry. The next day we packed out to the car, stopped at Pinedale for naughty tasty burgers and beer, and drove the 31 hours back to State College.

Tom

This is Tom. Tom has been a good friend of Scott's and mine for a few years now. And, up until recently, I guess technically I was Tom's boss. True to Tom's generous nature, after my plans to pry my burned-out self out of the App House head buyer's chair became official, Tom concocted an all-expenses paid climbing trip to the Wind River range that coincided nicely with the end of my term.

The trip to the Winds was super. Two other State College characters also came along, and they were super as well. But I'll talk about those guys later.

Tom likes to suffer. I've heard him talk about how much he likes to suffer, particularly how much he likes to suffer under a really heavy pack, many many times. I kind of believed him, but I also thought there was a small chance that he was full of shit. Apparently, that's not the case.

Tom (suffering mightily under approximately 95lbs of Cheeze-its, Wild Turkey, Double Stuf Oreos, and mountaineering gear): "I think. . . .(deep breaths). . . that when God made me. . . (deep breaths and small groan). . . he had . . . chess player in mind."

Tom is about 6' and weighs 135 lbs. 95lbs is 70% of Tom's body weight.

Tom really likes heavy metal and hair bands. If the band's still together, Tom probably doesn't like them.

Tom actually makes those old-person wrap-around sun protection Star Wars-type over-glasses look good.

Tom is a force on the karaoke floor. He goes well with Billy Idol and Guns and Roses.

Tom is wicked generous. If I didn't know him so well, I'd be suspicious. Tom paid for 100% of the gas to get us to Wyoming, coaxed a free pair of mountaineering boots out of Asolo for yours truly, and, on a day when three of us monkeys were slogging up Gannett, transported 85lbs of gear to our next camp so we could spend the next day frolicking under feather-light 50lb packs. To repay Tom, I ran out of gas in the most desolate stretch of Wyoming, developed a snoring problem while sharing his tent, kicked him in the face a few times, and left him with a big pile of unfinished work at App House.

Tom suffers while maintaining a supernaturally good attitude. If I didn't know he was so smart, I'd think there was something wrong with Tom's head.

Tom is single. He's a homeowner and has a sweet job as the new head buyer at App House. Ladies, contact me for details and I'll see about booking some time with Tom. Qualified applicants only. Ability to carry a heavy pack a must.

Sad day

Luther was a wonderful, stubborn, enormous, exceedingly flatulent, exceptionally good-natured bouvier des flanders. He loved bunny poo, kielbasa, and taking up vast amounts of floor space during his epic naps. Famous for his uncanny gorilla stare and profound attachment to his little herd of people, he will be sorely missed

Tropical Storm Hanna

Surf's looking good. A little heavy on the inside. . .

Eureka

It finally happened. I get it. I understand why people quit their jobs over this whole thing. Scott and I woke up for our usual sunrise session, and a slow walk down the beach revealed the kind of waves I had started to think were made-up stories generated to get me into the watery mosh pit for the enjoyment of the peanut gallery on the porch. Kind, friendly, and glassy with crumbly whitewater breaks. I caught some waves. I actually stood up on couple. I think what really did it for me was the fact that every surfing member of the house was out that morning, also having a funhog day, yelling every time somebody got up and generally having a purely stoked romp in the waves. It's one thing to have a really good session and enjoy some surfing progress, but when I'm in the midst of a bunch of my friends on a morning like that, the joy is amplified and living feels so good it hurts.

Surfing is Harder than Cimbing

About two weeks ago, I remember thinking that climbing was really hard. I still believe that it is. However, surfing, that almost overly mythologized soul-sport that my little-girl self imagined I was born to conquer, is beating me so thoroughly that I'm considering throwing in the towel. So to speak.

Scott and I load our free plastic surfboard (compliments of Michal Stewart), three bicycles, and not nearly enough sunscreen into our Camry and drive a fuel-efficient 60mph down to Bogue Banks, NC. We scoop our good friend Nick at the airport and plunge into a seven day binge on poshness at an extravagant beachfront house with a psyched group of surfers.

The surf is big. Big and burly with steep faces and gnashing roiling whitewater jaws of turbulent doom. My quietly resolved husband, who until recently has been a bit nervous around open water, charges into the foamy maw and embarks on an almost supernaturally steep learning curve that, within days, deposits him into a happy land populated with wave after wave of long face rides on dark green faces. He is humbly grateful for this gift.

I am a teeny bit jealous and stunned at my lack of competence. Most upsetting is the fear. I have never been apprehensive swimming in big waves or turbulent ocean, but as soon as I'm belly-down on a surfboard I am afraid. So I don't commit. I only pretend to try hard to catch waves, stubbornly remembering the sickening plummet over the front of my board to the bottom of the ocean, waiting for the surfboard to stop spinning above my head and start dragging me by the ankle in the direction of the shore. I only halfheartedly paddle into the break. I turtle roll and turtle roll in the impact zone until I'm exhausted, telling myself I'm too nervous to paddle past the breaking waves to the serenity of the big green swells. I want the joy that's bundled with this sport so bad but I'm too lazy to stop pouting, turn on the fierce grin, and start charging.

Good thing there's so much beauty around me. Enough to penetrate my entitled little sulk. I can sit on the porch at sunrise and watch the dolphins surf in the big waves that scare me. And see the pelicans fly overhead in gorgeous silent formation with their ironic prehistoric smiles. I know I'm lucky girl. A lucky chicken girl with great friends and eyes that can love the world around me.

Late Summer on Tuxedo

I went for a solo ride the other evening and was treated to a sprinkling of ruby-colored blueberry leaves among the usual proliferation of green. I was so happy and amped that fall is around the corner; beautiful long rides in crisp air, trail runs in a riot of color, dramatic weather with a tinge of melancholy. Pumping up the singletrack, I was starting to get that delighted, almost smug feeling about fall here on the East Coast. There are definitely times when I want to throw in the towel, pack up the '93 Camry, and head to the real mountains out west. This usually happens in the winter when I get letters forwarded to me from Delaney. But fall is the absolute best, almost painfully sweet time to live here. And it's coming soon. I know this because my smug east coast self was surprised by the increasingly early sunset and enjoyed a long pedal home in the dark.

Climbing is hard

After a voluntary and nearly total two-year break from climbing, Scott and I were coerced into a weekend Gunks trip with our supremely motivated friend Doug. Doug is a good climber. And he has an amazing attitude so it's difficult to be all huffy about the fact that he's so freaking good.

As I was saying, climbing is hard. Harder than mountain biking. Harder than running. Definitely harder than skiing. This weekend I was morbidly scared on the sharp end, and, sometime during the last two years when I wasn't paying attention, somebody replaced all my core muscles with Little Debbie snack cakes.

I miss climbing. I miss the weird folks inhabiting the fringes of the sport, the seedy overcrowded free camping, the stoically psyched and reliably hardcore Germans that always seem to be around just in case I start feeling like I'm climbing really well. I miss plugging in cams. Lots and lots of cams, in my case. I think I'm going to keep climbing. Noncommittally. At first.

Scott, thanks for reading this.