Write-Wild

Happy Thanksgiving! And an Update.

2010-11-08T09:13:00.000-08:00

To my friends, some of whom I have not seen in years, some of whom I have recently had the pleasure of visiting: As I relocate every six months or so, I miss the friends I have been incredibly lucky to meet along the way... I met you in New Jersey, New York, Colorado, Pennsylvania, Washington and Abroad. Even Montana, Florida, California and more. As I think about our good times together, I wonder, would you be willing to share with me an update about your life? If you are curious, here's some news about mine...

Spring started with a leap westward, to Leavenworth, Washington, to a job for a whitewater rafting company. The new job title, Director of River Yoga Retreats, sounded amazing, but in reality, was not all that glamorous. Never the less, I met some fun river guides and explored Leavenworth. Whitewater, climbing and skiing surround the little, Bavarian-style town. I even reunited with my long-time river guide friend, Jamie Weaver, who has been guiding on the Wenatchee and other nearby rivers for several seasons. She will soon begin studying to be an environmental engineer, a career that suits her nature-hippy core. And she's a mechanic! Having someone like her tend our natural resources would be a relief to my mind.

Fate had a funny way of turning me back to Colorado. After only a few weeks in Washington, I was offered a dream job, one that I had been pursuing for over a year... River Ranger. With tent and kayaks packed, my rickety old truck, Bessy Mae, carried me along another migration, this time to the Western Slope of Colorado. As I drove through Washington, I visited my friend Philippe, a Climbing Ranger at Mount Rainier National Park. We skied in June, one peak across from the massive, white Mount Rainier. As luck brought me through Utah, I also got to visit more river guides. Clark and Kelly Gallo are long-time kayakers and snowboarders who relocated near the Wasatch Mountain Range in pursuit of ultimate powder. They are an amazing couple who get to work and play together... Congrats to the new home-owners. I hope to build a loving relationship that works as well as theirs, someday.

My summer went by quickly as I settled into the role of River Ranger for the Bureau of Land Management. Almost every workday was spent on the Gunnsison River. The best parts of the job were driving big, new, government trucks on remote, dirt roads and frequent kayaking. I worked with a crew of five other rangers, the most gentlemanly river-folk... A cowboy, a sandy-haired ski bum, a red-bearded sage, a noble officer, and a big-smiled, tropical traveler. They took great care of me as I learned my new job.

We patrolled in pairs. Our most frequent patrol was a two-day trip which began with an epic, off-road shuttle drive, then a hike. We carried our kayaks and gear on our backs, down a mile-long trail into the Gunnison Gorge. The gorge is a delicate, wild place: desert cactus and pinion junipers up-high, lush riparian grasses and willows down-low along the river. About halfway down the 14 mile stretch of river, we spent our nights camped in a teepee on the sandy beach. Shooting stars were frequent and dazzling. With the coming of autumn, the numbers of fisherman began to dwindle and the timid desert big horn sheep came down from their rocky cliffs to drink from the river as we floated by.

As the seasons change, so do my jobs. I have been thoroughly enjoying the fall interim between river job and ski job. This fall was full of exciting firsts. I participated in my first elk hunt, really more of an assistant than a hunter, watching and hiking up above 12,000 ft. on Hayden Mountain. No elk was bagged, but I wore camouflage and saw many bugling bulls and mewing cows. Then, I was invited to the rock climbing Mecca, Indian Creek for the first time. The dessert colors were unlike any I had ever seen: pale golden greens, red rocks under a double rainbow. As a novice rock climber, I had some important firsts with my climbing guru, Neil Backstrom: my first multi-pitch climb in the Black Canyon and my first lead sport climb. I have not yet ascertained Neil's secret recipe for his healthy, morning greens-shake, but I am working on re-creating the elixer.

Now, I am in Northwest New Jersey, visiting my family and friends here and anticipating Thanksgiving. I caught the fall leaves in full color-- bright reds and yellows with a punch of orange and mature brown, even a hint of deep purple in the reds-- just before cold rains and wind swept them away. In search of the rural Jersey, "the Boonies," I knew as a kid, I went to pick apples in an orchard with my parents. Most apples were on the ground, giving us a sweet, slightly vinegar smell that reveals everything about the location. We have been snacking on fresh cider and maple sugar candy.

Ski season is just around the corner, so I have been spending almost every day in the gym getting ready for my return to high elevation. While visiting two of my tribal families, the karate dojo with whom I trained for nearly fifteen years, and the river guides at Whitewater Challengers, I realized how similar the two groups are. They really ARE tribal families; they work hard together and play hard together, often at the same time. They inspire me to keep up the shenanighans... I plan on living and working in Telluride this winter and hiking up Palmyra Peak every day that the ropes are open. Once I am settled in, I hope many of you, my friends, will come to visit. See you on the slopes!

Wheels Are Turning

2010-05-06T10:23:00.000-07:00

Blog Entry 5-4-10, Tuesday.

My 1986 4Runner (I call it a truck) needed a test voyage before taking the big leap into the Rockies. The (!) BREAK light has been glowing red for months. I drove down Boulder Canyon, coasting most of the way. The wind teetered the truck, my two kayaks on the roof acting like sails and catching scoops of the cold air. Even though it is early May, on this morning, fresh snow dusts the shaded canyon wall. Today, I'll go to a garage and have the oil changed.

Despite the fact that I have driven East to Boulder, Colorado, my Westward journey to Leavenworth, Washington has begun. Everything is packed in my truck. I am motivated by the notion that it is much warmer on the eastern slope of the Cascade Mountains than it is here along Colorado's Front Range. In these mountains, it has been a long winter and is no time to be sleeping in my truck.

Right now, the wind is howling and shaking the walls, even this chair, here at Neil Backstrom's house.

Last night, Neil hosted my goodbye dinner with his "Chicken Soup for the Soul." Neil and I made schemes about stopping on the Dolores River, Ruby Thief, the Ark, the Colorado. However, neither of us got out the maps. My epic road-trip has dwindled, over the last few weeks, to a solo endurance race with an overpacked, poorly maintained truck.

Neil is my climbing guru. He looks just as I imagine a guru should. His long white hair is pulled back into a small knot at the back of his head. He has trimmed back his mostly-white beard since I saw him last. He wears flip-flops. He is tall and lean, and crazy in just the right way, in a smart way. Inside his house is a historical museum sized collection of climbing tools, boots, shoes, ropes, ice axes and other various, brightly colored stuff sacks and gloves. All the other walls are lined with books.

Neil drinks green shakes every morning and goes to a hot yoga class like he has found religion, except it is not religion. It is just yoga. He has taken me for my most favorite climbing day ever. Now, it is time for me to leave Colorado.

Neil's finger is broken. He talks about doing aid climbing, something he never thought he'd get into. If there ever was such a thing as an iconic old-school climber, it's Neil. But that is too cliché for Neil. It's time.

I dread going back out into the wind; one last box to the storage unit, a visit to the Cash-For-Books counter, one more box to mail back to my parents in New Jersey. Maybe I will return to Neil's for tea after I finish my parting errands. It is good to know he is here.

This road trip to Washington has been the hardest one yet. For the last six years, spring has been my time to make a seasonal migration, eastward toward my original home and Northeastern whitewater. This spring, the seventh spring, I go further West. My cargo is heavier, my truck is older, and I am somehow surprised that I am doing this alone, again. Yet, during that test-cruise down the canyon, I yelled something like "Yeeeeyhoo," excited, free, and on my way.

The wind shakes the roof of Neil's trailer. I stay inside a little longer. Winds are reaching 80 MPH, the local public radio reports. My kayak, visible from Neil's window, lifts off the roof-rack when the wind gusts. Under my teacher's roof, under the high shelves of snowshoes, a rolled sheepskin and a book about Shackleton's Arctic Expedition, I can happily affirm, I have learned to pick my fights with mother nature. On wind-hold, my trip is delayed. (You can learn more about Mercury in Retrograde here.)

5-6-10

Soon to be in Wyoming. I have not bathed in about a week. The truck is packed like a complicated game of 3D Tetris. Sorry to everyone who has left voicemails... I will call you back when I get to a phone. xo - M

Food For Thought: Traveling Tea

2010-04-22T18:00:00.000-07:00

My housemate Tim, who is moving out at about the same time as I am, gave me his beautiful Japanese tea set and black samurai pants. I am honored. What struck me most about the gift was the wicker basket that houses the delicate pottery, all packed up and ready to go. The art of tea is an important part of my life. I have hopes I will enjoy the finery of tea while on the road, and not break the blue tea pot and cups.

With most of my possessions loaded in the back of my 4-Runner, even my kitchen cupboard is bare, except for a few useful items. I stow the wicker box tea set and re-organize the space. I am ever wondering how it will all fit in my truck. Committed to my tea, I have designated to it an entire drawer in a mobile cabinet in my truck. Whole chamomile flowers, dong quai, jasmine green, French black tea blends infused with plum and vanilla.

Fascinated with the effect that packing has had on my life, I notice that I am reconditioning myself at the most basic levels. Even my diet is affected by my nomadic lifestyle. I buy food in smaller quantities because less can be stored. My rations are simpler. A few select grains and legumes. They store well, are healthy, and make an easy meal. Quinoa, barley, oats. Dahl, black beans.

Oil gives flavor and makes cooking easier. Olive, walnut oil.

I go to a grocery store almost daily, to pick up fresh produce. I eat it right away. I must let food stay refrigerated at the store until I am ready to prepare it. Apples travel well. Fresh vegetables add to my grains. Kale. Onions. Strawberries for dessert. None of this will be stored in my truck.

I fit a few dried mango slices, almonds and raisins for a snack.

A taste of meat or eggs is a special occasion. I cannot store them. I will only buy something from outside my food storage box if I am able to cook it right away.

I travel with spices: cumin, coriander, fenugreek, cinnamon, asafetida, anise, fennel, cardamom. I try to keep alive a few captive plants clustered on my passenger seat: mint, chives, rosemary. They make for a mobile apothecary. I study Ayurveda as I cook. It ads life to the food.

And then, there's tea. I have about as much space allotted to tea as I do the dried food that I'm packing. 1/3 space for tea, 1/3 dried rations, 1/3 cooking tools. It is the tools that make the simple foods taste gourmet. A press for squeezing oranges to juice. A fine, wire mesh strainer for soaking and sieving the quinoa, removing its outer, soapy residue. A good chopping knife. And now, the tea set itself, which ads specialness and quality to the tea experience.

Tea is not just about ingestion. It is contemplative, social and medicinal. A quiet morning, sitting on the tailgate, reading alone. A gathering, sitting on logs around a fire pit. This is a special tea set, even more so because it is now one for traveling. A little preciousness amidst the roughness. I hope somewhere we get to share in its luxury.

A Sunny Day in Ned.

2010-02-11T15:36:00.000-08:00

I have been contemplating the launch of several new blogs. Up and running is "Training Blog: The Mongolia Project," covering the logistical planning, physical conditioning, mountain skills education and philanthropic aims of an expedition to Mongolia, planned for May 2011.

Today I soaked up some of the sun while strolling through town. We have a guest in the Medicine House named Craig. We stopped in to visit Andrea at the rock shop. Andrea tends beautiful crystals during her day job, but tonight, she will be making music and singing live on Radio Station KGNU with the base player from Mountain Standard Time, a favorite local mountain-grass band. We talked about what

Balance

2010-02-09T16:44:00.000-08:00

I snuck in five runs today, starting just past noon, when the light was golden and the shadows where starting to lengthen and turn blue. I met a friend by chance at the lift. We found soft pillows of snow in the trees. Riding on the lift we shared the stoke. Now I'm back at the laptop writing again, sipping tea. A perfect day!

Priorities

2010-02-09T08:47:00.000-08:00

I am missing a powder day after a long, dry mid-winter. This is because I want to finish grad school. I am writing stories today. I am counting on another snow day, somewhere in the future. Where is my loyalty? Skiing? Writing? Today, I am torn.

2010-02-04T19:02:00.000-08:00

So, winter hasn't quite lived up to my early season expectations. It's been dry and the little snowpack we have is sketchy. To archive my optimism, I've saved the below preface to the Write-Wild blog from the opening of the ski season.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Woha there! Three feet of snow brewed up on Nederland Halloween, starting off the 2009 ski season with a bang.

My bones are predicting the "Winter of Ned..." I can feel snow in the air. Ski conditioning began early this fall with several CobraBalance Snowsport Conditioning sessions. Climber's pull-up grips hang above my staircase. I dream of a season with 100m wide underfoot, but before I float on water-ski fatties, my most practical pair of skis: the 190's will transport me on daily jaunts along the Jenny Creek Trails.

Newsflash: An X-Ray reveals screws in my bionic knee. Learn more about how the doc will use his screw driver! Check out ski journalism at its finest y'all... RIGHT HERE.

Wooden skis.

Active bindings.

Adrenaline Rushes.

Hot Ski Patrollers.

Ice Skier Symphonic Bliss and Other Music Mixes.

Ski Lifetsyle: It's in the Family.

East Coaster Gets Schooled.

Rocky Mountain Medicinals and Ski Town Follies: Driggs, Idaho to Nederland, Colorado

The Migrational Seasons of Gypsies: Whitewater to Whitesnow

ACL Injury Prevention and Repair

Balances

2010-02-04T16:41:00.000-08:00

This morning, I skied for an hour and a half while it snowed. After lunch, I spent the rest of the day writing and corresponding from the café.

I am brutally tired, my lower face is windburned, and I feel spent in the most delightful way. Today was one of balance, the first one in a while in which I was able to fulfill myself both athletically and scholastically in the same day.

Scheduling my time well has been an interesting challenge lately. My motto has been "Something's Gotta Give." Knowing myself, who I am, has helped. My creative thesis: Focus, Courage, Orientation, is a segue into a much larger, long term project. As I balance my time and energy between writing and preparing for the Spring 2011 expedition to Mongolia, I'll be making posts to the Project Mongolia Training Blog... here.

Finishing Grad School

2010-02-01T09:14:00.000-08:00

I dropped out of high school two months or so before graduation. Right now, being a grad student feels like... I'm in the ninth round in a Heavy weight pro-boxing match.

I've committed to make the best out of these last two months before my April thesis deadlines by finishing my first collection of short stories:

Focus, Courage, Orientation: Stories for Ski bums and River Guides.

I am also training for a Mongolia Expedition at least five days a week: skiing (all types), and mixing in some cross training: ice climbing, rock climbing, and Crossfit (TM) training, yoga, CobraBalance (TM). Today I'll be skiing with a loaded pack. The goal is 50lbs.

Right now, Monday Morning at Blue Moon Café, Nederland, CO, I am drinking tea in high style. Rosebuds flavor my tea. I'll be skiing, writing, and, just to maintain the glamourous cliché of starving artist, waitressing in an exotic red restaurant where people really do speak Nepali.

Find out more about the Mongolian ski mountaineering project here!

Seafair's Song

2009-12-15T16:13:00.000-08:00

I travelled long cross that stormy sea,

just long enough to know its just you and me.

That asphalt sky

that long embrace

just long and wide enough for the sky.

That salty taste

upon your lips

just far enough

for two ships to kiss.

Good night my love

under stormy sky

rocking o'er your bow

like a temptress queen.

Good night my love, find your way,

cross the salty sky and the dark grey.

Deep Below,

under dark blue nights,

carry me my love

from your salty throws,

I came to bare, cross this blue sea,

a moment of reckoning,

'tween you and me.

Good night my love, Good night my love,

good night my love, good night my love.

Good night my love, Good night my love,

Peace be with you love, good night my love.

Salamo a'likum

News: Thesis Update

2009-11-26T21:02:00.000-08:00

Yes, I am working on it. None of this is really edited yet.

The Nepalese Tavern

2009-11-26T14:16:00.001-08:00

My job is exotic. I sit in a chair tucked into a little nook besides shelves of white ceramic mugs and metal water cups. I can see the booths and tables when I peak over the partition counter, but prefer to let my gaze open, meditatively, as I face the bar and sip my bottomless mug of chai. American families and young couples are in my peripheral vision, eating their Vegie Chow Chow, Chicken Jal Fregi, Saag Paneer, Tikka Masala and Lamb Korma, content for now. Outside the large windows, snow blows sideways, pelting the entire little town of Nederland. There is just enough light diffusing through the thick sky that the town glows blue.

Wind here is merciless. If you cannot muster the strength to howl back at it, it will blow you away until you settle down in milder climates. I have heard quips from long time residents about how often couples move here in the summer and are happy in their mountain chalets, until they meet an alpine winter. Then they move away, back to California or down to Boulder. Just about everyone who lives here seems proud of Nederland's harshness.

Several times, walking home at night under bright stars or heavy clouds, I have crossed the bridge on Bridge Street, over Upper Boulder Creek. The wind concentrates along the creek bed, rolling downhill like water. The ancient wind is furiously surprised when it reaches the bridge obstructing its path. The blast has pushed me sideways. In those terrifying and icy cold moments, I must yell back at the wind. I yell like a Vikinga, a warrior-woman, so that if the wind where to pick me up into the air, it would be a great ride; I would fly like a Valkerie.

The wind comes to town just after it skirts over the Continental Divide. The Indian Peaks, over 13,000 ft. in elevation, rise up from behind Katmandu Restaurant. It is no coincidence that families from Nepal and Tibet, countries, monarchies, nomadic zones around the Himalayan Mountain Range, and the Guruk family of restauranteurs from Nepal's capital city, Katmandu, have settled here. There is a link between high-country cultures. Imported, colorful prayer flags are everywhere, releasing their prayers to the wind. Tattered thin ones hang from the flagpole up at Caribou Excavation, besides the fence of old skis. Another garland of flags drape over the entrance of a large orange home on one of the unpaved backstreets of town. (Rumor has it, that house was a whore-house for miners passing through during the gold rush.) There are even more flags above the doorway of the old hostel in the center of town.

And of course, the prayer flags drape over Katmandu Restaurant. The sign bearing the restaurant's name has a background of cartoon-ish blue and white painted peaks. It is hard to be sure if the mountain range depicted on the sign is the Himalayas or our local Indian Peaks. In addition to the similar dry, cold, high-elevation climates, there are two other easy reasons for the merging of our cultures.

Strongly influenced by neighboring Boulder, just down the canyon, we Nederlanders, a.k.a. Ned-heads, are the funkier, small, mountain-town version of what Boulder once was before it evolved into the full-on, progressively green city it is today. Boulder has been an American hub for Tibetan Buddhism since the 1970's. For hippies seeking inner-peace, Tibetans have imported a style of meditation and ceremony fulfilling an American fascination with the exotic and oriental.

Naropa, the Buddhist University founded by guru-monk Chogyum Trungpa Rimpoche, is one of the core institutions of Boulder City. Tourist shops on every major thoroughfare in Boulder sell imports from Tibet and Nepal. One can buy religious statues, mala beads, tonkas, insence and, of course, prayer flags. Up a little further into the mountains from Nederland is the Shoshoni temple, a stuppa. When Beshall, the restaurant owners' son, turned four, everyone at the restaurant was invited to a ceremony at the temple. The proud family came back to work with tikka, red powder, on their foreheads. A tray of marigolds was layed out on one of the tables. Later, we ate birthday cake together.

Mountain climbers join American Bhuddists in creating a bridge between these Colorado Mountains and their larger Himalayan siblings abroad. Boulder has world class climbing, the Flatirons, REI, hundreds of other outdoor-adventure-type sporting-goods stores, and, well... lots of climbers. These climbers, the ones who are die-hard enough or rich enough, leave their Boulder County homes for overseas expeditions, sometimes for mountaineering expeditions in the Himalayas. Some Sherpas, those famed guides who carry the heavy equipment of the lesser American climbers who hire them, have followed their clients home to Boulder, setting up import shops or restaurants. For example, "Sherpas" in Boulder has both delicious Nepali-Tibetan cuisine, and an interior decorated with retired mountaineering equipment, some used on Himalayan expeditions by the restaurant owner, Pemba Sherpa.

For the Boulder-based adventure seeker, the highest mountains in the world are a must-do hot spot. There are plenty of climbers here in Ned, too. They just usually come across as a little less flashy than Boulder fitness-types. Boulderites are easy to stereotype. They spend more time in climbing gyms than on real rocks. Climbing indoor fake-rocks is quite the social scene in Boulder, where the spandex-clad go to flirt and show off their muscles. Boulderites tend to wear new, expensive down and high-tech, synthetic jackets from Montbelle and Patagonia. Ok, I am re-enforcing stereotypes, which are shallow and get boring. Just visit Boulder if you really want to know.

A person's appearance, weather Boulderite, Nederlander or tourist, matters to me in so far as the details help me play a game as I waitress. Between fetching food, fetching dirty plates, and re-filling the oil lamps, my mind is searching for some interesting idea to play with, and so, my game: I anticipate what kind of a tip a dinner guest will leave based on the details of their initial appearance. I only have a short time to assess each dinner guest. I am sure that there are many rich layers to their being. They are much more complex than the brief impression they make upon me as I greet them and hand-out menus. Still, I have to occupy myself somehow. Guessing what kind of tip they will leave is a practical way to direct my thoughts. I always calculate what percentage of the bill is left at my tables.

Nederland men usually look a bit grungier than the out-of-towners. They wear what I would call "work clothes." Coming from a family of manual laborers, I consider work clothes to be worn, maybe dirt-stained, thick cotton, like Carharts and blue jeans. The men are often bearded or long haired. Despite the fact that they are not wearing glossy, high-tech, maximum performance fashion, they tend to tip better and be less fussy. I guess it is because they might know someone who works as a waitress, or can imagine what it is like to run around serving people. They tip better because Nederland is a small town. People who live here expect to see me again somewhere, outside of the restaurant.

I dress up for the young mountain men who come in here for dinner, especially the ones who are eating alone. I wear beads in my hair, trace my eyes in the kohl I brought back with me from Morocco. I wear my peacock feather earrings. One dinner guest, a woman wearing a flowing dress and quartz crystal necklace, complimented me on my peacock earrings and asked if I was wearing them with the intention of creating prosperity. In Japan, she explained, peacock feathers are a symbol of prosperity. Then, she asked me if I meditate. I wear the earrings for oriental flair. I dab on my neck essential oils imported from Madagascar, musk from Egypt.

I look for clues on the dinner guests: a wedding ring, rough hands. A carpenter, rock climber or mountaineer? Windburned cheeks, a skier? Well-worn hiking boots, a world traveler? I have met several "trekkers," people who walk for months with heavy backpacks. There are two men who come in regularly and speak to the restaurant owners, Resham and Malla, in Nepali. One of these two American men has been on an expedition to Mt Everest. I will go to Nepal too, and even up to base-camp.

Lately, the restaurant has been slow. We are waiting for the ski season to start. The local ski resort will open in a few weeks and we will have a dinner crowd passing through town on their way back down to Boulder. In the mean time, I have brought with me to work two library books, "A Course in Nepali" and the "Let's Go Guide to Nepali." My co-worker, Shanti, teaches me a few words. The running joke at the restaurant is my reply to "How are you." Instead of saying, "I'm fine" in Nepali, I mispronounce the tongue-twister and say, "I'm having sex." Kali, the cook, is so embarrassed that he will not ask me how I am doing in Nepali anymore.

My nickname at Katmandu is Maggie Chow Chow because "Maggie" is the name of a popular noodle dish in Nepal. We serve the noodles under the other name for the popular dish: chow chow. I practice the few words I know: Danibat. Suva Ratri. Ramro. But sometimes, on a busy Friday night when there is no time to study Nepali, I start to feel like I am really just a waitress. I reach up to the rack above the bar for a wine glass, hold it to the light and polish out finger prints and water streaks with a paper napkin. Then, tired, from a delirious frenzy of orders to take and dishes to deliver, I start to daydream about Marion Ravenwood's scene at the start of the movie Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The heavy wooden door with iron hinges swings open to a tavern in Nepal. You can tell there is a blizzard outside because Hollywood snow blows into the fire-lit room. Large Nepalese mountain men in traditional fur hats and coats and sit at rough-hune tables. Marion is their waitress. Indy has abandoned her there. She makes a living serving cocktails and winning bets, out-drinking the patrons. She slams down her empty shot glass, victorious. It is only the start of the movie. Soon, Indy will return. She will curse at him and another adventure will begin.

The Pit and the Screw

2009-11-22T15:57:00.001-08:00

When it snows, I get excited. When I get excited, I always try to do too much. The way I look, my body overloaded with ski and snowshoe gear, all precariously balanced over a mountain bike, I could be a mannequin on display for a used sporting goods store... and still, through it all, I'm thinking that I might still look cool.

Just before 8:00 A.M., not particularly early for a backcountry ski adventure, I mount up. Locating bike petals under my feet becomes a difficult task while I wear ski boots. I pull the waistband buckle of my backpack around my thick girth of layers: long underwear, Nordic wool sweater, down vest, windbreaker, then, click the buckle. I push of, rolling my bike down the snow. Down the mud mottled side street. It's all downhill from my house to Andrea's.

While sharing the road, I give Saturday morning drivers a big grin. With all this gear on my body, goggles down, it must be obvious to people in cars that I am biking towards extreme outdoor adventure (an activity with caché in this small mountain town). As I whir down Bridge street, my ski poles create wind resistance, sticking up from inside my pack. From either side of my pack, beside my shoulders, dangles a snowshoe, attached by a carabiner to the little loop where my skis should be attached, but are not, despite the circus sideshow freakishness skis would add to my already overloaded display of snow recreation equipment. My gear is not just for show. It will be used.

This illustrates a common theme in my life, I am trying to do too much, all at once. Luckily, on this bike ride, it seems to be working out. Hooked by my index finger is a coffee cup full of cold oatmeal, stabbed in the center by a spoon. On my bike, I am careful to keep perfect balance and brake smoothly with my one free finger. Spraying slush, I zip through the center of this snow-crazy town. When I go fast, my snowshoes begin to flap at my sides like angel wings.

I arrive precisely at our rendezvous time. Andrea and and Robert are fuddling around for the next half hour, getting their gear together. While they get ready, I will sweat in my layers and daydream about our purpose. We are going to drive up to a local, favorite backcountry ski-spot. It is a popular enough place, so that I may divulge its location without feeling guilty. I am guessing it is probably the spot to which everybody in this town visits for their first backcountry ski slope. Still, it is local enough that I won't tell you where it is. Still a newbie backcountry skier, I am selfish and don't want to share my spot with a bunch of folks driving up from Boulder. Moreover, I am not ready to pimp myself as that kind of ski journalist, you know, the ones that wreck local spots by publishing articles about the secret stashes to which they have been made privy.

Anyway, we are not skiing Caribou today. We are going to dig pits. For those of you who know nothing about backcountry skiing, "digging pits" is just that, digging big holes into the snow in order to expose layers of the snow pack.

Like the sedimentary layers you might have seen trapped in the rock cliffs above your car as you zoomed along some highway in Utah, the snow also has layers. Every storm deposits a new layer. By looking at the different layers of snow, whether icy or fluffy crystals, etc., an experienced snow Scientologist predicts the likelihood of an avalanche. No one knows for sure when an avalanche will run its course, but there are calculable risks. We ski in avalanche country, Colorado being the #1 avalanche fatality state in the lower 48. It is hard to compete with Alaska, the other #1. But the snow outside my backdoor is still way too shallow for avalanches. It is early November. There are large rocks poking up though the snow. There will be no skiing today. We are going up the mountain with a singular purpose: to dig pits.

I have never seen the snowpack develop over an entire season. Usually, I just go into the backcountry with other people who know, presumably, what they are doing and will tell me where and when it is safe to ski. But, I am asserting myself this winter, shedding my newbie status. To give myself a proper snow science education, I will watch the snowpack develop like a story, each snowfall leaving clues to the slope stability. Of course, I am excited about the snow, and so, go to extremes. For example, I aim to take the AMGA backcountry ski guide test in the next four to six years. I will need at least that long to gain the experience necessary to safely guide weekend warriors and wealthy ski bums (!!!!#$%k?) into sick backcountry terrain. Then, I will move to Alaska. Um, I mean, the real reason I want to go dig pits is so when we warm up to the bar afterwards, I can tell people we were "digging pits," which means we are cool backcountry kids. Another bonus to digging pits with Robert: his friends, who will meet us at the trailhead, are all in my age-range for dating.

Robert, who finally has his boots on, has been skiing the local backcountry for the last ten years. I have asked him to come out with me today so he may impart his wisdom. Andrea, who has not yet purchased her avalanche beacon (a piece of equipment that signifies entry-level membership in the backcountry ski community) has come along out of curiosity.

When we arrive at the trail head, Robert's single friends are not there. We are half an hour late. They have headed up the snowy trail without us. Andrea, Robert and I begin our uphill snowshoe. We stop to wait for Andrea. Recently moved to Colorado from sea level, she has not yet acclimated. I am happy not to be the last one up the mountain. Matter of fact, this is the first time I am not the last one up the mountain.

Once, I apologize for stopping trail-side. I am sweating and need to peel off a layer, self-identify as a gear-monger, even explain to Robert the etymology of the term monger, using the term fishmonger, a.k.a. fish seller, to illustrate my meaning, adding that monger did not have a negative connotation until after the influence of British colonialism. I have no idea if this is true. I only know that I probably have the heaviest pack and always bring excess gear. Thusly, I am a gear-monger in the contemporary sense, a chronic over-packer. Once again, with words, as with life, I am trying to do too much. We continue up-hill.

We meet up with Robert's friends: two handsome men and four large dogs. As the trail opens up below Baldy, a mountain named after a man's head, I pull all my tools out of my bag. One of the men is either surprised that a petite woman like myself has such an extensive snow science kit, or notices my prideful display of equipment as his opportunity to cater to my enlarged ego. He seems to be flirting, excited by my saw, which is actually Andrea's saw. (She bought it, as per my instructions the previous day.)

I do not correct the handsome man when he assumes I own the saw. I smile, and with exaggerated demure, shrug, and say, "I like gear and I Iike books." I show him my paperback copy of Staying Alive in Avalanche Terrain. One member of our team, whose identity will not be revealed, breaks out a tiny, zippered bag, a different kind of snow science kit, a glass piece, one for experiencing the crystalline nature and flow of snow.

While the men dig, I boot pack up the slippery, steep slope. The sun is rising, giving this Eastern facing slope a glossy sheen. I practice self-arrest with my shovel as I slip. This looks allot like goofing off, sliding down a hill on my butt, dragging my shovel behind me and screeching like a girl, but it is actually an important self-rescue technique that I am practicing. Eventually, when the snow-hole is big enough, I pretend to know what it is that I am doing. Andrea and I get down into the pit to trace our fingers up and down the layers. We look at snowflakes through my magnifying glass. The crystals are pretty, round and melting off a prism of colors at their edges.

I juxtapose the digging of pits with my upcoming knee surgery. Here is where I leave out the snow science: slope aspect, temperature, gradient. It would be too much. You can read snow science in Staying Alive. Since morning on the trail, I have known this story will eventually end with me in a café, my leg propped up on a chair.

While snowshoeing back down the trail, I fall behind Robert and Andrea. Stepping downhill reminds me of my knee's uncanny ability to hyper-extend and get caught in a painful lock-up. I move gingerly, the last one in the group. How will I do all I that have set up for myself… A backcountry ski guide? Am I lost in an aging ski bum's marijuana induced fantasies? But weaknesses are sometimes strengths. I can make this trick-knee of mine into something valuable. Ski magazines print first-person accounts of A.C.L. reconstructions every year! A very standard topic. I could sell this.

As I snowshoe down through the shadows of pines, the sky begins to grey. My mind quiets with the rhythm of my own slow, steady pace. I imagine being conscious during my surgery, gripping the operating table when the surgeon inserts and turns his screwdriver. He is removing a titanium screw from my tibia. It has been wiggling its way out for over a year, since I skied with a loaded patrol toboggan, too soon after my first surgery. The pages of my calendar are penciled with marks like the footstepped pattern of a dance. Schedule surgery, but do not miss any days like this, days digging pits, days skiing after the Halloween storm, three feet of fresh powder, days out moving my legs and sweating. A last minute cancellation opens up an appointment for me, tomorrow.

Doctor's orders: off skis for three weeks. Ski school instructor training begins in two weeks. Again, I am trying to do too much, but somehow, I believe it will work out, just as long as I can maintain my balance. My Grand-Aunt could stand up on the seat of a motorcycle and drive the handlebars with her feet while she juggled. Despite my hope for an easy story to tell, I have no gory record of my knee surgery. I was sedated and anesthetized.

I don't remember anything about yesterday's surgery. I am heavily drugged, sitting in the café across the street from where I live. The steamy café is busy with skiers come back down the hill, this being the opening weekend of Eldora Ski Resort. Our small mountain town is revived. Bound by the friction of high performance synthetics, their thighs whoosh past my table. Having lived my whole life in tourist destinations, I safely assume the skiers have driven up the canyon from Boulder.

My leg is elevated, propped upon a chair. On my table, beside my soy maté latté, I lay a slightly tattered edition of Ski Journal. On the cover, the tiny shadow of a skier hovers over blue waves, speeding away from his shadow-tracks in the meringue fluff… probably in Alaska. Over the magazine's cover photo, I lay a small cellophane pouch, sterile and labelled…

NAME : DUNGAN, MARGARET A

ACT# : 10409

DOB : 08/07/76 AGE : 33

DR : MCCARTY, ERIC C MD

DOS : 11/20/09

The 4"x8" blue cellophane window displays a large screw. Here, at the café, I have balanced all the props to create the perfect scene: elevated leg, screw, ski mag, even random skiers co-operate like extras on a movie-set as they bustle in the café. The scene speaks, a dialectic of ski culture: conversations about knee surgeries and how much fresh snow, where and when, and gear mongering and how much we love to eat after a day of skiing; I want everyone who walks by my table to see, I am writing about "digging pits." I take a sip from my mug and the steam hits my face, reminding me of how I sniffled yesterday in the snow, breathing hard in the cold air. Now, sedated and eyeing my screw, finally, I am not trying to do too much.

Rockin' 190cm

2009-11-07T22:14:00.000-08:00

This winter, go back with me, old-school style, to the fashionable long ski... Yes, you can take a vicarious ride on my newly acquired classic Nordic skis. Once I get some wax on these babies and a pair of size 7 1/2 boots, I will be rockin' these 190'cm planks. On sale, ten dollars, made exclusively for Silva by SKIS Inc.

When I was a kid, my cousins, brother and I measured our skis for the appropriate length by holding up our wrists. If the pointed tip of the ski touched our wrists, we could be sure the ski was the right length. Over twenty years have passed since my childhood ski days. After the invention of parabolic, midget skis and helmets that plug into iPods, nostalgia and pretty wood colors motivated me to snag these HUSKI classics sporting three-pin bindings. [All thanks to this week's Boulder High School Annual Nordic Ski Swap (Check link for dates). ] According to the wrist rule, these skis are exactly the right length.

Daydreams of light and fast ascents get my magic snowbones itchin'-- that is to say, I share a common anxiety with my other, fellow skiers. Together we kneel and ask into dark, starry Nederland nights, "When will it snow!" The season is upon us. Anticipate blog updates of backyard backcountry ascents on these long, light Huskis.

The Details: Soft wood upper, fiberglass bottoms, no metal edges; but with roughly 70mm underfoot, this may be the ideal uphill powder ski. Requires copious waxing.

The Question: Will it turn?

The commerce of trading, acquiring, and selling ski gear is an annual fall affair.The ski-swap has long been a fall bargain-ritual celebrated in times of my youth. From the obscure Macintosh Apple growing region of Apalatian-Skylands mountain ski resorts, now, I celebrate the apple cider-sweet ski-wap in Boulder, where Nordic has it's own, dedicated, well-attended bazar.

Having grown-up on mostly hand-me-down gear, I am a fan of ski-bum deals. To fulfill my list of "seasonal gear upgrades," I am spending hunt-time on Craigslist Boulder, The Sports Recycler and using word of mouth to find warm, thin-billed, three-pin boots for use with these old Rottefella bindings.

Finally, these skis are beautiful. Check out the picture link.

(Peace to the East Coast Crew. These skis will definitely NOT turn on ice. -From the little girl who danced in her pajamas to Run-DMC and Aerosmith singing "Walk This Way" 1986-87,)

-The Kayak Ninja

2009-07-16T04:26:00.000-07:00

After weeks of rain, summer has finally arrived. The water in the Lehigh river is chilly after all the showers and grey skies. We guides at Whitewater Challengers are happy to have enough water to keep the rafts floating. There is not much worse than a day of dragging rafts down the river bed. When I tell guests, "If you don't go over there now, you're going to have a long walk," I mean it! Especially when the grounded raft is heavy with the weight of full grown men... They can drag their own raft. Funny thing is, these macho guys usually get stuck when they are splashing other rafts and not paying attention to the guides who are pointing like traffic cops for the yahoos to go to the RIGHT of the island. They go left, they get stuck. Natural selection?

Well, today I had a day off from guiding. I went to work on a writing project about the perfect residence for a kayaker. Two friends of mine, a kayaking couple, live in a cabin recognized as a historical landmark. The old-time crafted cabin sits just above Stoddartsville Falls. Whenever the water levels rise, you can find Greg in his back yard, dropping down the 20 foot waterfall. Mike Bailey, photographer for the project, and I visited Stoddartsville today to prep for the big photo shoot and collaborate for upcoming projects in the kayaking world. We are looking forward to meeting up with Jenny and Greg, the cabin's residents, and their sweet chocolate lab Kayla, for a day at the Stodd when the water runs high. Love the bluebird skies, love the rain... it makes these rivers run big!

A Love Tap from Grandma Poudre

2009-06-01T15:39:00.000-07:00

My first time kayaking Lower Mishawaka to Bridges on the Poudre River resulted in another lesson taught by a benevolent and patient river. The water was flowing at 3.5 feet, not huge, not meager. I borrowed a Dagger Nomad, a Cadillac of kayaks made especially for creeks, to charge through the unfamiliar aspects of this classic Colorado river. Unlike rivers paddled during my humble beginnings as an East Coast boater, these Colorado rivers have features I just do not know how to wiggle my way through. Gradient, squirrely eddies, and my greatest nemesis... rocks, especially rocks that one must cozy up to in order to squeeze into the best line. Every river has its own unique personality. Lucky for me, the Poudre is kind.

I'm just getting to know old lady Poudre. At the put-in, the ice melt felt to me, for the first time, not like a horrible, freezing torture, but refreshing and clean. My few other dips into Colorado water were comparable to chewing ice cubes after having a root canal. This time on the Poudre, I was so exhilarated by the water, I dared to paddle without my 5 mil. wet suit (Mistake #1. Colorado boaters will benefit from a full dry suit.)

Much of the run was engaging, with some luscious, friendly wave trains and just enough of those funny cross currents to keep me paying attention and using my brace. Lots of happy-slappy splashing made me smile, but it also made me shiver. By the time I made it into the eddie above Pine View Falls, I was tired, frozen, and ready for a rest. Afraid of being left behind, instead of taking my time to breath, I followed Mike out of the eddy and down his line... Almost. (Mistake #2.) Through the fast paced entry of the rapid, I was feeling quite proud of myself, getting through the mishmash of waves and setting up toward the big river left rock that creates a "Disney slide" of water. Theoretically, this slide could spit me out through the churning pocket of water bellow.

I hate rocks. I have a habit of staying away from them. I came close to the big rock, but not close enough to ride the slide. Instead, trying to punch through the messy water just beside the slide, I was slapped over, falling to my left and eventually riding the slide upside down as my helmet grated along that darn big rock. So much for "Disney slides." I was actually trying to roll up at exactly the moment the back of my head made contact with the slide. I landed in the squirrely water below and tried two more times to roll up. Mmmm... the roll never happened. (Mistake #3. I want my own creek boat, which I will predictably and consistently return to an upright position.)

When I popped up to the surface of the water, I found myself bobbing through waves that suddenly seemed much bigger than they did from inside my Cadillac. Friends like guardian angels in dazzling, fruit flavored boats shouted directions: "Swim to the center!" Luckily I missed whatever ugliness was waiting for me on river left. Then, "Kick, back to the left!" My legs were like lead in the cold. Patrick, whose boat was closest, offered me his bow and helped me to the left as I groaned with every kick. A sound like labor pains or a dying moose came from my mouth in between the sips of air I tried to take during the brief moments at the peak of roller coaster waves. "Swim for it, do it now!" he said. I saw another ugly blur of water just below me, was it a pour over? I didn't want to find out, so I did my best impression of an Olympic swimmer for three flailing strokes and made it to the grass.

Dizzy as a drunk, I wobbled up the steep incline and sat, limbs splayed out and useless. No experiment with drugs ever left me as numb and dizzy as this icy soak had. As my friends went down the river to search out my gear, I savored my life. That grandma Poudre sure let me off easy.

So the lesson in all of this ice water? Patience. Grandma Poudre was patient while schooling me, even when I was not patient with myself. I need more training, more gentle cozy-ing up to her pillows of water and precarious rocks. I want to read her river face, know her details, and learn her quirks... and that takes patience. I will be back in my boat tomorrow.

Fort Collins: Kayaks, Bikes and Breweries

2009-05-31T10:02:00.000-07:00

Café s are my interim sanctuaries. Outside the Starry Night Café here in Fort Collins, I have a few hours to transform myself from a kayaking ninja into a writer. Maybe the cappuccino does it. There is even a swirly fern pattern traced into the froth by a meticulous barista. Nothing says "civilized" like a café , where I take respite from my savagery, glorious though savagery is. Without a "real" shower for days, I have been cleaned in a more pure way... I've been christened in the cold waters of the Poudre River. At least my friends who kayak can appreciate this funky detail.

I've joined up with Mike Konschnik, filmmaker/photographer/ director of Dirty Dozen Productions. In between sessions of paddling the Poudre, he shared with me updates on some of his film projects. Stay tuned for my interview with Mike and more on the Dirty Dozen crew. First, we'll get in more river miles.

Ahh, the café , where I realize I am just as much a writer as an whitewater fiend. Water and gravity make bliss. Caffeine and sore muscles are relaxing.

Check out http://www.dirtydozencrew.blogspot.com/

Leaving Ned

2009-05-18T14:09:00.000-07:00

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Today is the grand opening weekend of the Happy Trails Café in their new location, just across the street from the train cars where they used to be. I have been saving my punch card with two free coffees earned up from a winter of hibernating in their train cars, the perfect place to write until sunset.

During the short walk to the cafe from my house, humming birds zip overhead. The breeze reminds me that up here in Ned, spring is chilly. Inside the new café, the yellow walls carry in the sunshine. On the counter is a bouquet of lilacs, brought up from “down bellow,” Boulder, where May is summer-hot. On this perfect, sunshine day, it is easy to appreciate living high.

I will miss living here. Something about getting ready to leave a place like Ned makes me look back, as if by writing it all down, I can take it with me.

I want the nights at the First Street Pub, dancing in a trance, slipping out the back door to smoke in a circle under a grey-blue sky so cold that the stars branch out like quartz crystals, heavy and ready to fall with the coming snow. Back in the dark warmth of the pub, long, gypsy skirts swirl over the worn dance floor, moving together like a quilt of spinning disks. Mischievously late in the night, we girls skip home through the snow and howl at the neighbors’ dogs.

I want to keep the lessons of driving through deep snow… and one brief moment of grasping my steering wheel. As my truck and I slide towards the creek beside Hesse Trail, all my body weight pushes through my wrists onto the steering wheel. My truck, the rusty, red beast, slides on its underbelly, nose first over a muddy ledge.

And I want that holler coming from my throat at the end of that same long day, when an old Ford F350, driven by a man with an eye for geometry, yanks out my little truck from the creek bed like a fish on hook. Meg and I, prepared for success, have a box of beer waiting for whoever will be our hero. We salute him with a roadside toast. PBR never tastes so good.

I want to keep skiing in May with Kaelin up Caribou. I want to keep the surprising details, like sophisticated connoisseurship of microbreweries among the patrons of Backcountry Pizza, no cell phones, and the normalcy of hitchhiking up and down the canyon. And how on the weekends, Ned fills with people looking a little different and acting a little different... neater, I guess. They definitely shave more often than most of the locals up here. They come for something they cannot find “down in Boulder.”

Catching Up: Living in the Vortex House

2008-12-14T09:01:00.001-08:00

Autumn is long gone and changes are afoot. (I've replaced my laptop, so now I can make this post.) For the last few months, I've been living in a beautiful house in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains over Boulder. At night the view from the hot tub is a glittering city below. This hippy house is full with 8 residents. One young lady and myself are considered "couch surfers." That means we don't really have a room. It makes for super cheap rent and an impermanence that suits my migratory lifestyle.

I've included some pictures of the house. It is the most beautiful place I've ever lived. It was built by an architect for his own personal use and all the details add up to quality. Up the windy mountain road, it looks like a valley of mansions that could easily be the Swiss Alps. But more than the beauty of the place, I have enjoyed the company of this community of musicians and rebels.

I'll be moving out Dec, 20th and heading back to Jersey to visit for the holidays. 2009 will bring many exciting changes. Most notably, I will be moving to Old Town Nederland, a quirky mountain town close to Eldora Mountain Resort. I'm learning how to tele ski (telemark) and recovering well from my ACL surgery. More later on the great snow...

Happy Holidays!

Manifesting Loss?

2008-09-22T15:50:00.000-07:00

It's weirdly funny. After my last post, I wrote about how, despite the freedom I feel with less stuff, I would NOT think it's great to come back from the public library rest room to find my laptop missing from my workspace. (That post will never be shared. It's GONE.) I was challenging my notions about anti-materialism and imagining the loss I'd feel. Just a day latter, I lost my laptop. I think I might have spaced out when rushing to a friend's house and left it on the roof of my truck as I drove away.

The universe is helping me shed some of the excess from my life, I only wish some other thing had been shed instead of my very pretty Mac G4.

I did not cry. I am learning non-attachment. Stuff is all in flux and structures are unreliable (read Eckhart Tolle). The laptop cost more than my old Toyota 4Runner, but that truck will fall away too someday. Hopefully not too soon.

Circulate CHI By Having Less Stuff

2008-09-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

I'm still living in my truck. I'd like to just make a joke about it... "Extended urban car camping" is what I like to call it. I've learned some interesting practical skills on how to be stealthy while sleeping in a vehicle. More on my secrets when I'm done with the experiment.

The most interesting thing I've learned is how to gauge what is necessary. There are so many things we are encouraged to buy. We are told by marketeers that our lives will be improved if we posses their product, any product, but so much of the stuff we can buy affects us in exactly the opposite way. It hinders our lives in two ways.

Firstly, in an immediate, practical way, we are drained of energy: not having room for stuff, paying to store it, and then feeling guilty for not using it, or drained of energy in our attempt to use it, always trying to fulfill the promise we've made to ourselves that we actually DO need it. Secondly, having unusable stuff, extra stuff, unessential stuff also drains life force from us by polluting the Earth. There is so much overproduction of goods for the American market that the environmental impact of this production (especially of plastic thingies that will sit around for generations) is piling up: in landfills, in storage units, in huge houses that take loads of energy to heat. These two ways of stagnation can be viewed as the microcosm and the macrocosm of the movement and blockage of CHI.

This is my lesson. It's not just a lesson that I can rant about because I understand it on an intellectual level. I've been able to do that for years. ; ) Now that I've actually narrowed my living quarters to the space of my Toyota 4-Runner, I feel the immediate, practical benefits of not having so much crap-o-la.

For those of you who need to taste this special kind of freedom, I recommend the liquidation of your material goods as a potent remedy for malaise. There's energy that goes into owning things; ownership is a kind of responsibility. You need a place to keep the stuff, you need to keep a place. Or, you need people to guard and protect these things for you. Think about the money-energy it takes. The rent you pay or the taxes you pay. Now think about the psychic-energy you spend keeping track of this stuff. Do you a have a stash or a pile in your garage or attic.? How often does the thought of the pile creep into your consciousness? Or is it just hovering in your subconscious mind, preventing new, potent thoughts from arising?

Take stock: that baseball glove you got when you were thirteen. It doesn't fit anymore. Give it to a kid who will use it and let the energy be set free. You'll stop dreaming about the past and you'll feel the vitality that is surging around that space where you kept it because the stuff, the physicality of it, will have a new purpose. It will be recycled in a "spiritual" or "psychological" way as well as a physical way. You might even go out and throw a ball for the kid and feel the energy move through your body.

Or that dressmaker's form that you bought. It's in you closet taking up space. You thought you wanted to learn how to sew, but what you really wanted was a beautiful, handmade dress. Stop beating yourself up for making a mistake. You were trying to make your dreams fit into something more practical, more doable. Now let someone else's dreams come to life... the energy will swirl when that friend of yours who really does love to sew gets that dressmaker's form from you. You'll feel the energy move and make space for your most authentic desires to be manifest.

If you're not using the stuff and it's just sitting there, you have some stagnate energy that needs to be swept out. It will free up other energy points in your life that may feel stuck and you can't understand why. Whether you're wanting a shift in career, relationship, or financial power, all these regions of your life are interconnected. The glut of stagnant stuff-energy, the energy of possessions, may be the reason you are stuck in another area of your life.

Think of a circulatory system like the one in your body. If a clogged artery blocks the flow of your blood-energy, the stagnation can affect the brain via stroke, even if the blood clot starts behind your knee. When the movement stops in one place, it stops in other places. A train track is similar. If the train one stop ahead doesn't keep moving down the line, other stations get blocked up. If there is something in your life about which you are unsatisfied and you've been working on moving your energy toward you goals to no avail, look at what other areas in you life might be easier to move the energy and get some change flowing.

According to Taoist Chi Kung tradition, he unhealthy energy that gathers in the body due to stagnancy is called blocked CHI. Your body, your life's journey, and your ability to move energy are all an interweaving of material and ethereal. If something's gotta give, you can start by moving some stuff. You can be sure that some of the unseen, mysterious energies coursing through the spiritual plane of your life will move along with the physical plane.

There are many books out there describing the "how-to's" of organization, etc. I won't go into that here because I'm sure you can figure out how to get rid of stuff if you want to. Instead, I'm here to let you know how great is my experience of freedom. I'm here to remind you of the times you've already experienced this kind of power-freedom in your life. It's exhilarating to get rid of some stuff, so before you treat yourself to some impulsive buying or retail therapy, remember the health of simplicity.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.

2008-09-11T14:29:00.000-07:00

I realize I'm about to get up on the pulpit. It's a danger inherent in blogging. What I really want is to give you a gift, an experience of freedom to remind you of that amazing life-path you are following. I want to inspire you to keep going, to keep feeling that juiciness in you life that makes everything a miraculous wonder.

So what's a blogger to do? Is it possible to turn my experiences into a gift that you might actually enjoy reading? At the same time, can I avoid the danger inherent in every blog... the egomaniacal Web Log, part diary, part personal pulpit, without any accountability to a readership because of the random nature of web clicking.

Indulge me... I'm new at this social-interaction-via-the-web-thing and haven't yet figured out how this Blog is something useful for you AND me. I do indeed want to entertain you, dazzle you, maybe even inspire you. So, if it's not doing it for you, let me know. Ask me questions. Post a comment and I'll be happy to give you what you want.

And Now, the Pulpit:

Voluntary Simplicity

2008-08-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

Voluntary Simplicity- On the Road

Where should I be from 8:00 AM to 10:00 AM? That is my morning question. Free parking in the municipal lot ends at 8:00 and the public library doesn't open until 10:00. In Boulder, most parking spots are purchased or have a two hour time limit, which makes being an indigent nomad difficult. I've been living in my truck since I arrived in Boulder Saturday.

Before the move out West, while packing to take the long drive, I had to leave behind half of the bulk I'd brought with me for a summers stay in Pennsylvania: toys and non-necessities, plastic storage bins filled with extra clothes, a spa's worth of toiletries, an old fashioned camera, an inflatable exercise ball, trail maps, cooking spices and a food processor are among the items that come to mind. Many of the things I left behind don't come to mind, a sure sign that they are inconsequential.

On the long drive from New Jersey to Colorado, I had ample time to not only contemplate but viscerally experience the affects my material hoarding has on my life. While trying to sleep in the cab of my Toyota 4-Runner, I was always shoving stuff over so I could have a little niche for my sleeping bag. When it comes to basic tasks like making breakfast in a parking lot or charging my cell phone, digging through excess baggage is a drudge. Now that I am reconnecting with the basics of my life, I want to keep simplifying. I'm feeling the freedom of not having so much stuff to take care of. I want it gone... so I've decided to keep living in my truck and to say goodbye to my excess.

Freedom and the Open Road

2008-08-21T05:09:00.000-07:00

I'm leaving today for Colorado. I'll be driving my trusty and rusty '86 Toyota 4Runner for the next four days.

You might feel the longing for the open road. There's a freedom in getting up to go on a long distance adventure. Needs become clear: food, shelter. Those will be the basics for the next few days, in addition to the gasoline to keep the adventure running.

Freedom. I'd like to be able to say that this road trip is a supreme example of the freedom I have, but it's not. I'm returning to grad school, finishing up a dreaded project I began four years ago. I will be living off my credit card along the way because I am financially weak. I will be missing my family and friends back East, and part of me doesn't want to go!

Still, I am free, not because I can go on some road trip, but because of my mindset. I know that I can do this and survive... even enjoy the experience. I have an inner strength that will carry me through the unknown that is waiting for me. Freedom is where one's head is at. Wish me luck.

Welcome!

2008-08-04T09:44:00.000-07:00

This is a chance for you to take a peak into the process of creating an Artful Life, one that reflects deepest desires and connects with one's true path. Inspiration for the Write-Wild Blog are twofold:

First, YOU will know the route to your freedom as I describe my own journey. As we move through the terrain, your attention is drawn to spectacular views, of both inner-landscapes and wilderness vistas.

Second, the Write-Wild Blog fulfills a need for connection with others scouting the trail towards their bliss.

What is an Artful Life? How do we nurture the quality of Wildness? Are poetic urges challenged by a basic human drive for survival? What do we make of the little deaths, the day-to-day sacrifices to job, family, duty? These topics and many more are ripe morsels to savor in the Write-Wild Blog, where I will post glimpses from the field.