Wallow in the Moments

The other day I was listening to "1812 Overture" by Tchaikovsky and it brought me to tears. What beautiful music! I was so moved by it. I know that God was in the notes and tones himself. The overture was written by Tchaikovsky in commemoration of the Battle of Borodino between the Russian defenses and Napoleon's advancing armies. I've heard this song so many times but only the "best" part which is the last 4 minutes, where the cannons fire and the feel of patriotism is overwhelming. Until that day, I've never listened to the "1812 Overture" all the way through. When I did it made the best part of the song much better. It made the cannon fire that much more intense. I started to understand that even though you may not like all of the song, you realize, while listening, that undeniably all the parts come together to set a certain tone that prepares you for what is to come. Why can't we always just listen instead of going for what we want all the time.
So many times we compromise in the journey, the excitement, the depressing moments, and the uncertainty of life with all of its twists and turns. We continually never listen to the "Song of Life". We want just to listen to the good parts; parts that don't make us feel uncomfortable. Our natural inclination is to fast forward through the bad so we can get to the good. Life on fast-forward is what has become commonplace, and understandably so. No one wants to be stuck on bad moments.
I desire that you may know you took the journey through the bad and the good and dealt with it the best you knew how. Don't desire for life to pass you by, because it gets shorter with every passing day. Wallow in the moments good and bad and learn to love this life God gave us. Understand the time you're in right now may be confusing but is a natural fact of life . And the song you're singing, whether happy or sad, needs to be sung and finished in order for you to move on. A man once told me to embrace my uncomfortable feelings and stay in them for awhile, because they will teach me much. Mourn, then find peace.

Shouldering the Pack

I crawled reluctantly out of my sleeping bag as the sun was just creeping over the granite domes of Yosemite National Park and checked my watch. "5:30 AM." I said out loud to myself as if I was waking someone else up. I know that the earlier I wake up in Yosemite the more mileage I can get in before I have to start fighting the 20,000 people coming up the trail that decided all at once to come see the beautiful sights of Yosemite. How could I blame them. The views are spectacular and you can get a huge juicy burger at the trail head concession stand after a long days hike. Who wouldn't want to hike in Yosemite.
It takes me a little longer to get packed up the earlier I wake up, but before long I shoulder my pack, grab my morning breakfast bar, and saunter stiffly down the trail picking up speed as my muscles loosen and warm up. After an hour of hiking I round the corner out of a beautiful meadow and the aroma of hashbrowns and eggs hits me like I just stepped into IHOP at the height of the morning rush. I also hear voices. Off to my right is Sunrise High Sierra Camp and they are rollin out the meal wagon for all the overnight day hikers who've forked over the green to be catered to in the backcountry. I walk up the granite cut steps to the camp and proceed to fill my waterbottle from the spigot while watching patagonia ladened Californians and Europeans sip their morning coffee that was brought in on mule back. I am slightly jealous that Juan Valdez didn't bring me my coffee this morning and I find myself devising a secret plan to steal some breakfast from these wealthy mountain goers by sneaking around the back and trying to look like I am a paying customer. My water bottle overfills onto my hand and I come back to reality as the ice cold liquid runs over my wrist. Are these people missing out on a whole different experience in the backcountry? I don't know, I couldn't really say because everyones comfort level differs. I chatted with a woman for a minute and learned that she enjoys the Sierras, just not the sleeping on the ground thing. Before I made any stupid moves to snag one of the luscious donuts that were sitting out, down the steps I went and back onto the trail.
Two hours later I was standing atop of Clouds Rest Peak. The view of Yosemite National Park was absolutely breathtaking. You could see almost all of the major mountains in the park. Coming down, as I got lower and lower the crowds grew thicker and I had bad thoughts remembering getting lost at Disneyland when I was 6. I raced down to Yosemite Valley on the paved trails and after a quick jump in the Merced River to cool off I got on the YART transit system down to Merced, CA. I'm pretty tired of hiking. After almost 400 miles it starts to not be super fun anymore. I've met a lot of people who are dead set on getting to Canada, but I realized that I can't make it at my current pace before the snow hits. Time for a new plan. See you in Oregon.

Easy Street?...Hardly.

I thought that I could do it. I thought that I could quickly finish this project that I started. But as I've heard before, anything worth having, does not come easy. I don't think that I've ever endured something as mentally and physically taxing as hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. And I've only hiked 95 miles of it! Pisses me off that I get on the trail and experience all the good times and good people and what takes me off is a stupid infection from an abrasion in my leg that I didn't take immediate measures to clean. I received the wound while dodging a rattlesnake who I'm pretty sure, in my mind, was about ready to pump all his juicy venom into my sweaty, dirt covered leg. It was a large diamondback rattlesnake which are very plentiful in the Anza-Borrego Desert in Southern California. The manly thing was that before he could sink his seething fangs into my leg meat, I grabbed his head and looked him in the eye as he hissed, rattled, and squirmed to get away. I said, "You may have venom and fangs but I have balls and brawn. " I growled at my attempted murderer and threw him into the ravine where the coyotes would feast upon him.
Ok...maybe I exaggerated just a tad. To be honest I pretty much ran like a little girl (or boy, for my sexist brothers and sisters), lost my footing, stumbled and fell. That snake freaked the crap out of me. I won't lie. The sad thing is that you get abrasions at home from falling playing with your dog and it is not big deal, but when you haven't showered for 4 days and you clean the cut with dirty hands because you're trying to conserve water in the desert, you are just asking for a bacteria potluck. Remember that when your lower leg swells to the size of a cantaloupe you should probably stop hiking, see a doctor, get a shot in the butt, grab the bottle of anti-biotics, and ice that swollen limb. That is precisely what I did.
I've had a blast hanging with Melinda Hebbel in Loma Linda, CA. I've almost convinced myself to move down here to where the sun shines 340 days out of the year. The missing 25 days are due to smog, brush fires, and the black clouds that hang over the city when the Lakers lose. But, Bend, OR is calling my name. It's pristine mountains, streams, and lakes are a little more inviting than the scorched landscape of Southern California. Sure, there may be lots of surf to ride, rocks to climb, and the possibility of meeting a sugar momma attending medical school here in this Adventist Mecca of Loma Linda is exponentially higher than the rugged landscape of Central Oregon where some women struggle shaving even the hairiest of legs. Their claim is that they have to wear jeans all the time.
Why did I start the Pacific Crest Trail? I don't know...Maybe to get away and deal with a little bit of life that came at me too fast. I'll think about it and get back to you.

3 Dopes On A Rope

My eyes stare longingly at the weave of the yellow climbing rope wondering if the strands of nylon will hold my oversize frame. I’ve always believed that I was a young hardcore male like the rest of my friends. I owned a cap gun at 8 years old, a sport utility vehicle at 20, and roused the gumption to kiss just a girl or two. But it all becomes very apparent how much of a wimp you really are when you get 300 feet off the ground dangling in mid-air on a rope hanging by two ascenders that don’t look like they would hold even the skinniest Calvin Klein model. I gruntingly moved the ascending contraption up the rope another 2 feet and weighted it with the extreme ease. I forget that each ascender could hold more than 2000 pounds of weight. I looked up towards my goal just in time to get my photo taken by Kyle Drake, Junior, Oregon State University. Kyle smiles and tells me that I’m looking good…I flash him a nervous smile. Shannon Gibb, Junior, Walla Walla University is right next to me hanging in the same feeble state pulling gear off the rock trusting her life to the same two ascenders. I wonder how I got the easy job of just getting up the rope without having to clean the protection off the wall. Inside I feel sorry for her and very discourteous as she grunts up the rock. I was getting the feeling you get after you forget to open the door for the girl and she stands outside to wait for you, but you don’t catch on until later when she brings it up in an awkward conversation. You could’ve been nice…but you weren’t. I think about it for a second and then write it off as luck of the draw and continue ascending.

Kyle, Shannon, and I have climbed, skied, and worked together for the last few years and this climb would be Kyle and my third attempt on the Monkey’s Face at Smith Rocks, OR. Smith Rocks is one of the birth places of sport, traditional, and aid climbing. It is a virtual mecca for many professional climbers and weekend warriors alike. Monkey’s Face is home to some of the hardest climbing routes in the world and has seen many capable climbers pawing and scratching over its sheer faces, way more capable than myself at least.

On this attempt, the plan was to climb the West Face Variation route which is two pitches of gear placing, a pitch of aid climbing, and a final pitch of bolted sport climbing to the top. Unfortunately there were already climbers on the West Face Variation so we headed up to the classic Pioneer route which back in the 60’s was the first line ever climbed on the face.

We arrived at the base of the Pioneer route around 2:30 pm and began to set up our gear. Kyle racked his gear quickly and jumped on the “sharp end” rope for the first lead up through the gap separating the main buttress and Monkey’s Face. He stopped long enough to belay Shannon and I up to the ledge just below the Monkey’s mouth and then led out in the next pitch of aid climbing. Kyle has more experience than both Shannon and I combined so we are fine with letting him set ropes and aid climb. He got into the mouth of the Monkey, set the ropes at the anchors, and Shannon and I launched out into open space jugging (ascending) up the rope to the mouth. Every second I spent hanging there in this new experience I was thinking back to easier times in my life like learning how to blow G.I Joe’s up with fire crackers or how to crack open a sunflower seed in my mouth.

I pulled over the ledge and got locked into the anchors with the help of Kyle. We both sat down and watched Shannon struggle with the gear, trying desperately to clean the route. By no fault of Shannon, by the time she pulled over the edge it is getting dark and so we made the tough but quick decision to bail off.

Kyle rappelled first followed by Shannon and I was left alone for a short while contemplating the 200 foot rappel down to the base of the route. I prayed a little since it was just God and I. Then I heard, “Off Rappel!”, from Shannon and that was my cue to lean out over 400 feet of exposure and descend the rope. The fact that I couldn’t see anything actually calmed me as I slipped lower and lower on the rock. I flicked off my headlamp and descended into darkness. The lights of the surrounding towns and the night sky were amazing. I once again remembered why I climb.

Back on the ground we readied to pull the ropes and head for the car, but as Kyle went to yank the ropes through the anchors he couldn’t budge them. We adjusted our angles and tried different pulling and flicking techniques. For the next hour we tried to alleviate the ropes from their bind but to no avail. I went through a range of emotions because it was my brand new rope stuck on this stupid rock. I made the normal human mistake of trying to blame someone for the mishap but remembered that sometimes there is nothing you can do about the situation leading up to an accident. If anyone was to blame it was me. I was the one that rapped off without checking to make sure that the ropes weren’t twisted. I even remember seeing them twisted and saying to myself that “it shouldn’t be a problem.”

After Kyle ascended back up the rope to get a better angle, he called down to me that he was coming down and we would come out tomorrow morning to pull the ropes. He was right…there was nothing we could do about it in the dark. With headlamps dwindling we made our way over the ridge and back down to the car.

Back at Kyle’s house we discussed our day over bowls of pralines and cream and chocolate moose tracks ice cream. Good judgment helps you live to climb another day. Dale Goddard and Udo Neumann of Performance Rock Climbing say that “Feeling miserable about your failures only haunts your future efforts with the ghosts of bad experiences past.” That stupid primate has defeated me once again but I don’t plan on letting it defeat me for good. Bring it.

Australia can have the Great Barrier Reef!

Australia has some pretty beautiful things even though I've never been there. I've heard the great barrier reef is phenomenal if you can handle sharks and the Sydney Oprah house is spectacular if you're into that sort of thing. One thing I think the American, Camera toting, tourists missed was developing relationships with the locals.
I spent the last few days with a girl who tiptoed into my life. I've never wanted to develop a relationship with someone at the summer camp I work at, but somehow it just happened. Every Sunday I knew that I would get a chance to see her again at camp line calls when we received our new group of kids for the week. I never really wanted anything from her but a good laugh at first and then toward the end of camp I started to want a little more. On the last day of Big Lake youth camp she planned an Australian "Tim-Tam Slam" for me. It's basically hot chocolate and a wafer cookie wrapped in chocolate with some improvisation involved. You bite off the two ends of the cookie, suck up the hot chocolate, and jam the cookie into your mouth before it melts and falls apart in your hand. This was an experience I had only heard about before. She smiled as I jammed the melting gooey goodness in my mouth and rolled my eyes back in my head as a feeling of pure ecstasy swept over me. There was something different between us at that moment. Before I realized how I felt about her we were sitting in a sketchy or "Dodgey" (she would say) Mexican restaurant in Portland, OR laughing at jokes about burritos and learning more about each other. I had spent the previous two weeks by myself on a 3500 mile road trip across the 10 states and had finished out the trip in Portland definitely wanting some companionship. We spent a day together hiking Multnomah Falls, trying out designer furniture, and getting lost in Downtown Portland. I showed her the mecca of REI and explained why I like the outdoor equipment store so much over lunch at a Mediterranean cafe.
We parted ways and I fully expected never to see her again. I couldn't get the girl off my mind for the rest of that week and when she stepped off a train from Portland in my hometown the next week I knew this wasn't going to be just a simple friendship. We spent the next day touring around the neighborhoods and schools of my childhood. I learned more about her through a CD purchase and a simple 99 cent store stop and shop. We drained the evening light and faced the morning light watching "Blades of Glory" with Will Ferrell. We didn't want to face the reality that she was ultimately going back to Australia.
I tried to make out a face through the tinted bus windows as I watched the her pull away on the Greyhound bus going back to Portland, the lump in my throat settled in for the long haul. We made a decision that long distance relationships really suck and gave the matter to God. Through my confusing feelings I still wonder what we had and what will come of it...

Shorts and Boxers?

I love Mexican food. I have a special place in my heart for it. I've eaten it twice this week all the while sitting on my butt doing nothing really but trying to get set up to finally graduate from college. Portland was kind of a nice finisher to a great road trip. I met a friend I met at summer camp there named Alina. We had a blast walking through the furniture shops of downtown Portland looking at the all the furniture that we couldn't afford even though they labeled it as "affordable design". What has our world come to when people will pay one grand for a sheet of stainless steel that has been brushed with a circular grinder and then four legs welded on. Heck, if you have a friend with a machine shop you could do that for free. Let's think logically here people. I did like the aluminum chairs though. I could lift them with one finger. Greenpeace was out in force trying to recruit members. A guy ironically named Bryan poured out his heart about the enviromental organization. I think that I might of been the first person to actually stop to listen to what he had to say. I looked around at his other friends pleading with passers by and no one else was giving them the time of day. I could be wrong, but I don't really think that a whole lot people want to be associated with the semi-militant organization that straps themselves to trees and lays down in front of dozers. I love what they do and we need people like that in the world, passionate people are few and far between. I just wish we could talk about God like we do our precious rainforests. It is an interest parallel.
There was lots of laughing and sarcasm all day long with my Australian friend from Big Lake Youth Camp. It seemed that we ate too much but after hiking Multnomah falls I felt that we had gotten our exercise and stopped thinking that I was gaining weight. That evening we went on a wild hunt for a Russian Restaurant. Unfortunately when we found it the establishment was gutted and the lights were off. We chose a sketchy mexican food place that actually had decent food. We stayed up late together at a friends house laughing at how tired we were but not wanting to go to bed cause it was so hilarious the things that we were saying.
After morning breakfast and hugs goodbye I headed for Richland, WA in order to make it in time for my physical with Dr. Cain. Talk about and awkward situation. The doctor ordered "Drop your pants." "Shorts and Boxers?" I said in a high pitched puberty voice. "Stupid question." I thought. "Yup." he said kurtly. There is a sense of exposure that is unmatched at this point. You know that he is comparing you to the hundred other patients he's done this to that day. But I realized that eventhough I have pride issues and ego problems this is not a situation that will ulimately determine my self worth. That situation comes later... On my wedding night. Ok...too much information.
I made it back to the Tri-cities only to want to leave for another trip as soon as possible. Just let me catch up on my sleep and get over the nightmares of running through doctors offices with my pants around my ankles looking for tongue depressors.

Face-Slapping Tired

Man is not designed to drive 785 miles across three states in one night, especially on lonely, desolate roads through the heart of Nevada. I did get a little company from the Austin, Nevada police force though. This blink-n-miss town was located just off a small mountain pass and as I dropped down out of the hills “The Fuzz” caught me going 35 in the 25 mile an hour speed zone that was the length of a football field. I knew that they probably spend their nights rabbit shooting and flashing innocent locals with those stupid side mounted search lights that cops so often misuse. I forced out a kind “Evening, officer.” And he gave me the typical, “License and Registration… Do you know why I pulled you over?” I felt like saying, “I don’t know officer...Was it my long flowing beautiful hair, which is Illegal in some states, or cause I don’t have a gun rack?” But instead I gave him a meek, “Yes I dooooo.” In a descending sad tone. I gave him my license and he went back to his cruiser for the typical check that I’ve been through so many times I can’t count anymore. While I waited I saw a drunken man saunter out of the bar a hundred feet away, jay walk across the street, and crank his car stereo to a song that was so vile I wouldn’t let Marilyn Manson listen to it. “I’m glad that justice was served tonight.”, I remember thinking, as he handed me my license back and with a verbal warning told me to slow it down.

The last few days have been a blur of mountains, ski resorts, and clearance sale winter apparel. If you are looking for a place to get a $250 brand name jacket for $85, Colorado ski towns on Labor Day weekend are the place to be. Breckenridge, Colorado was where I chose to spend the Wednesday night after my crazy Tennessee trip. I drove all over “Breck”, as the locals call it, trying to find a place that was truck camping friendly. Every place that had potential displayed signs that read “No overnight parking on city streets, Vehicle will be towed at owners expense.” I began to think that maybe I wasn’t the only cheapskate college kid to have tried this before, especially at a world class ski resort. Oh, but you can’t keep a good man down. I eventually drove further into the mountains on a gravel road to French gulch, climbed into the back and zonked out. I woke up in the morning to a strange sight of old rusted metal sifters and worn out water pumps left for dead. I didn’t realize this at the time but I had camped out one of Colorado’s biggest gold mines or at least the one the warranted the most gold. In the mid- 1800’s “Tom’s Baby”, the name of a 14 pound gold nugget, was pulled out of the mountainside. This find triggered a huge gold rush to the surrounding area and French Gulch became a boom town with saloons, hotels, and supply stores. From the very beginning in the early 1800’s to the late 1960’s when the mine closed, French Gulch produced over $400 million in Gold.

I bummed around Breckenridge like an out of work ski bum…wait…I am an out of work ski bum! I realized that while I was sitting in Starbucks and that prompted me to ask the Barista what she did to stay alive here. She told me that she was a snowboard instructor in the winter and worked part time mixing coffee to pay for her season pass. I really enjoyed the area and the people in Breck. This town is probably close to the top of my “move to” list even before Boulder, CO. After getting a sweet deal on an Obermeyer down ski jacket in Frisco, CO just North of Breckenridge I took off for Leadville, CO. Kyle Drake rants and raves about Leadville, so I decided to give it a go. It was on the way to Aspen anyway so I drove the two hours over a few passes, by one of the biggest mining operations in the United States and finally arrived in the small mining town. Kyle told me to visit Melanzana, an outdoor clothing store that manufactures all their own goods in house versus sending them to Vietnam, Sri Lanka, or some other country whose work we can exploit. Unfortunately they were closed but I’m going to definitely check out their website.

There was nothing keeping me in Leadville so I made a run for Aspen crossing over the beautiful Independence Pass where I decided to sleep for the night and watch the sunrise. I woke up at 6:30 to catch the light but I could’ve slept for another hour and half because the mountains are so high the sun takes its sweet old time peeking over the ridges. So I read for a little bit in the dawn light, had worship, took some photos, and raced down the west side of the mountains to the overpriced town of Aspen, CO.

Aspen is a ski town in a world of its own. The people there walk with a strut, wear $300 dollar jeans, and the women have diamonds so big that it probably makes it difficult to zip up their ski jackets. I walked around for awhile but grew disgusted because this is not what skiing is all about. It was a good thing that I met Arthur Ketchum, an old high school and college buddy, so he could give me hope that Paris Hilton will not start to set the standard for ski resort style and décor. Earlier in the week, I sent Arthur my cell number over Facebook but when he called his number didn’t show up on my phone and he didn’t leave it in his message. I had fully given up on meeting up with him and had stopped at a bakery for breakfast on the outskirts of Aspen. I was grabbing my water bottle out of the passengers’ seat when I looked up and who is walking toward my truck but Arthur himself. I yelled his name and greeted him with a hug. We were both amazed at our happenstance, but then again everything occurs for a God given reason. He told me that he worked down the street and was on his way to get a morning pastry. We chatted for awhile over apple fritters and then he took me to his work where he is a computer programmer. He programs electronics systems that integrate all the aspects of electronics, ambiance, climate, and lighting in a home. The systems are incredibly expensive so most of their clients are foreign princes, snoop doggs, and very wealthy business men. All the people that worked for the company were very friendly. Arthur’s roommate and work partner was a very friendly guy who was a very convincing proponent of Mate Tea. With gourd and metal tea straw in hand he explained the benefits to the life improving process of tea drinking. I left the business with a feeling that there are some down to earth people in Aspen and was in high spirits as I drifted down Interstate 80 to Moab, Utah.

I really didn’t expect Moab to have the effect on me that it did. I was thinking middle of the desert, only mountain biking, 4 x 4’s , and lots of dust. Sounds like Tri-cities, my hometown. Though when I began to move through the sandstone cliffs driving into the valley I was awestruck and I felt myself going back in time. I was imagining a war painted Indian atop his beautiful and trusty steed watching me from atop the cliff like I’d seen so many times in the old west movies. I spent the evenings sunset taking photos of Delicate Arch in Arches National Park with about 80 other people who were very adamant on getting the perfect photo. When the light was right it always seemed that some Italian or German tourist would be standing in the middle of the arch taking a personal photo. All the photographers would be mumbling under their breath with their cameras to their eyes waiting for them to move. It never failed, just before the light would dissipate “joe pro-photographer” would scream, “Can you get out of the way, please!” The tourists would cuss in their native tongue and would slowly meander away. “Welcome to America.” I said to myself after this process repeated itself a few more times.

Despite the Labor Day crowd I really enjoyed Moab. I got to know Jason from the local climbing shop, Gearheads, who gave me tips for free camping and good bouldering spots around Moab. He told me that if you don’t mind not having town culture, a good movie theatre, and lots dust in your nose, Moab is the place to be.

That night I camped out in the bush and in the morning on the way back out I heard gunshots. Needing some help cleaning my Fathers rifle that he loaned me I stopped and cautiously approached. I was greeted by retired gunsmith Walter Scott who grabbed the rifle and told me what was wrong and helped me get it in working order. “It really needs a good cleanin.” He told me. He said that he was out here target practicing because he wanted to be able to shoot better through his “Old Timer Shakes” when the country fell apart. After shooting a few rounds through my rifle we struck up a conversation that involved more political speak than I really care to talk about. He was a far rightwing republican that could not understand why we were letting Hispanics takeover the United States of America when our four fathers worked so hard to make us free. Some of it didn’t match up together but I wasn’t really willing to argue with a disgruntled seventy year-old republican with a semi-automatic pistol in hand. “To each his own.” I said to myself as I walked back to my truck hoping not to get a bullet in the back.

I spent the rest of the morning hiking in Arches, taking photos, and playing guitar in the sandstone canyons. It was wonderful. I vowed to bring my wife back here someday for good times. I left Moab and drove for 12 hours to Susanville in Northern California. I rolled in at two o’clock in the morning Sunday of Labor Day weekend. Wal-Mart parking lots are always a welcome sight when you’re face-slapping tired from driving. I figured with all the Land Yacht Motor Homes with extendable pieces parked in the lot no one would mind if a little tiny Chevy Avalanche snuck in between them.

I woke up this morning having not gotten quality sleep and needing very badly to purge all the caffeinated beverages that I had drank the night before. Starbucks is like my home away from home. I’ve been here for about three hours now…I hear the road calling.