Violence in the streets

I was going to write about the fantastic backpacking trip I did last weekend in the Sawtooth Mountains. But then I came home to find that a friend from grad school had been brutally attacked in the Eastern Market area of DC. Washington DC is a weird place - even the good neighborhoods are still susceptible to crimes like robbery, assault, and rape. It's been heartening to see the incredible support, much of it from people who only peripherally know TC and/or Abby, and I send healing thoughts to them and their family every day. It's an awful thing that happened to some great people (not that anyone deserves harm), and even though TC is making progress, he still has a long way to go. Some friends set up a site where people can make a donation to help the Maslins pay for medical care and child care - I wish I could have donated more, but where my finances fail, the opportunity to engage others in the cause can take over. If you can spare even a little bit, please consider donating through this Simple Registry site: Love for the Maslins. Simple Registry was started by some of my friends, who are also TC and Abby's friends, so I know it's a reputable site run by great people. Your donation will get there, safe and sound.

News of TC's attack has been all over Washington Post and the local TV stations, and some trolls have pointed out that if TC were black, his attack wouldn't be getting this kind of coverage. A sad but possibly true point, since plenty of crimes happen all over DC, in fact, all over the nation, and they get swept under the rug. Violence in Chicago has been escalating, much to the detriment of communities all over the city. Unless you have a connection to Chicago, you probably don't know anything about it. This weekend's shootings warranted a simple bulleted list of victims in the Chicago Tribune; whether any of the victims get more coverage is doubtful. We hear about the individuals who shoot up army bases, political rallies, movie theaters, religious centers, and office buildings, but the mass crimes that happen on a daily basis get little or no attention, perhaps because thoroughly covering each assault would fill the pages of the newspaper each day. It's all we would see on the local news programs or splashed across the media websites. But failing to properly acknowledge the victims makes it easier to ignore the problems that led the perpetrators to turn to violence, and the violence continues. This is not just a matter of gun control or mental illness, although addressing those issues would go a long way toward ensuring that people who should not have deadly weapons cannot acquire deadly weapons. People turn to crime because they feel they have no other options. In America, the Land of Opportunity, crime should not be the avenue anyone takes in an attempt to solve their problems. We work so hard around the world to get food, clean water, shelter, and medical care to the disadvantaged. We should be doing better by the residents of our own country. I don't know what the answers are, but failing to talk about the problems takes us backward, not forward.

I met the mountain

I brushed my teeth beneath the crescent moon

Acknowledged the mountain and the multitude of stars

Gave thanks to heavens that put me here

That gave me the chance to show the world what I'm made of

For it's no small thing to have two working legs, two working arms, capable lungs and a pounding heart

So I stepped onto the steep trail, along the dusty path, over tree roots, past pine skeletons twisted like ghouls. Birds chirped and flies buzzed. 

I had high hopes. But the higher I got, the more they dissolved.

Finally, I met the mountain. 

Climbing to a 12,662-foot peak is a hearty physical endeavour. I had prepared physically and felt ready. Borah may be meager compared to some of the great mountains of the Earth, but it requires tremendous courage. The mountain sized me up and found me wanting. The previous week had drained whatever I was prepared to give mentally. At the base of the ridge, the dam broke. I hadn't been aware that floodwaters were collecting, but now they came rushing forth. The mountain told me that today was not my day. 

My rational mind wonders abut God, but watching the sun rise just above the ridge, I felt certain I was staring God in the face. Some people climb mountains to feel that they have conquered something. Others want to stand a little closer to God. I just wanted to see what I could see, but standing in the shadow, confronting scrambles and climbs and slides, I realized I had no right to challenge the spirit in the rock. We humans don't belong in this place, scrambling like ants in the thin air. The view from that point is spectacular, but there are some things we mortals will never see. Struggling to be humble, I accepted defeat by something bigger than me and returned from whence I came. 

Dreary

It needs to rain. The sky needs to open up and let fall big drops of wet rain. All day long. Or at least for a few hours. I don't remember the last time it rained here. Occasionally a storm will blow through, big clouds that come in fast from the Owyhees to the south, but the precipitation barely hits the ground, and then it's gone as fast as it came. I miss the summer thunderstorms of the Midwest and East Coast. There, the humidity builds oppressively until KABOOM! the sky can no longer hold all that moisture and hot drops pound the ground and collect in puddles everywhere. One summer during college in Missouri, it felt like it rained every single Friday, from morning until mid-afternoon. Then the clouds would slowly thin and the sun would peek out, and then the air would get sticky hot again but the land would feel clean.

It doesn't rain like that here in the deserts of the Intermountain region or the Great Basin, except for maybe occasionally in the fall or winter. But now, in the heat of summer, it is just sun sun sun and dry heat. Clouds tease but never release their contents. It's amazing that anything is still green in these parts, a feat attributable to the snowmelt trickling down from the mountains and the irrigation systems that feed this parched land. Sunny is wonderful, but it is tiring. There's no good excuse for not playing outside (too hot? just go to the mountains or the river) and the almost-10 pm sunset forces you to stay up too late to fill the long day with as much as possible before winter renews its grip. This is the time of year when I look forward to autumn, with its days of reasonable length, comfortable weather, occasionally cool and rainy moments, and a chance to catch my breath. Right now, I'm dreaming of chilly, foggy days along the Oregon coast, damp sweater weather and cappuccinos, curling up in a big chair with a book and a blanket. A break from the unrelenting heat and sun. But there's just a month left of real summer, and suddenly it feels like I haven't done nearly enough, and there's so much left to do. Come September, summer will have felt way too short, the little time spent lounging in front of the television or in bed will have seemed a waste. Rainy days absolve that guilt, which is why we need a couple out here in this dry land. But with none in sight, all we can do is push on. 

Exhausted

May and June were the months of boundless stamina. The sun stayed out longer, the air was finally warm. The energy of emerging spring brought countless opportunities for exertion: long hikes, long runs, strength training and yoga, day after day of activity. A yearning to avoid being alone, coupled with the satisfaction of nature at my fingertips, kept me going everyday. Occasionally, internal doubts would examine my ability to press on and find it sufficient. Don't stop now - as long as I have the energy, let's keep going. I survived on fish and bread, turkey sandwiches and unappetizing salads, chicken sausage with pasta, all with a strange distaste for most vegetables.

Now, it's July. Those lazy days of summer. The promised 100+ degree temps have arrived, and with them, my ability to press on is waning. I have that heavy feeling in my sternum that drags me back into bed or flattens me on the couch. Play time is over, temporarily. The trails can wait. Watching movies in the cool AC sounds about right. Low-intensity workouts at the gym. Cooking real food, vegetables included. Rolling on the carpet with the cat at dusk. Taking time to notice the little things, to process what I've seen, to start something new and special. Nesting. 


With the arrival of spring, I sprinted out of the gate, daring life to bring it on. At 32 years old, I'm in the best shape ever. It was just May, and suddenly now it's the second week in July, and every weekend from now until Labor Day has a plan. Summers are too short; to keep up that frenetic pace would mean a season come and gone in a blink and winter arriving too soon after it just ended. The sun has arrived at the northernmost point in the sky for the year, and as it starts to head south again, I'm ready to let go of the reins a bit. Ready to be a little lazier, to embrace some quiet times, to look back inward again. To enjoy the romance of the season in all its sweaty, short-shorts, lounging-by-the-water glory. 

Why it was too much

A few weeks ago, I lamented here the deaths of a beautiful bird and a character in a foreign movie. Perhaps I'm overly empathetic, but at that point, I had also just had too much of death for a while. A couple weeks before that, my mom made the difficult decision to euthanize our aging family dog, the sweet pup we just couldn't stay mad at when she peed in the house or escaped down the street or barked incessantly, because she also did funny things and licked our faces and always had a smile on that cute pointed muzzle. But she was heading toward the light, and it was just time. She'd been with the family for so long that I have felt her absence despite living far away for many years. Then, one morning about a week before that post, the local news announced the death of two airplane pilots who had crashed the day before while delivering assistance to firefighters in the Utah mountains. And I knew one of the men. Not well - I had only met him once, on an awkward date back in November, after exchanging messages through a dating site - but still, I knew him. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Any death is sad, but when it's someone you have met, it hits a little closer to home. That one felt weird for quite a few days, especially since, when we had started talking and I found out what he did, I thought "Gee, flying small planes like that sounds dangerous." So by the time the bird and the man in the movie had perished, I had had enough of death. I guess I was crying not just for them but also for the pup and the pilot. I hope the mourning doves cooed extra hard that day.  

Brushfire

It's summer. The air is warm, and it sticks to your skin. Scents of food and flowers, chlorine and sunscreen, waft through the air, through the windows, through the countenance of the season. The hot winds blow hair into whorls as sweat beads on the temples and neck and clavicle. Magic happens now, scandalous things that make you blush and tingle beneath raised eyebrows and wide eyes. The energy of something about to happen crackles like the moment just before lighting strikes. Fires are set. They burn everything that has worn out its welcome, that has come and gone and since dried up, which feeds all that is poised to emerge from the ash-laden soil. Fed by those hot winds, the scene is set for new possibilities, the likes of which we can hardly imagine.

How not to hike up to Stack Rock

Last weekend, my friend and I embarked on a trek up to Stack Rock, an impressive rock formation near Bogus Basin. Except that there's very little information on how to actually get up to Stack Rock, despite the fact that the trail was dedicated a few years ago. The connecting trails from Bogus Basin create a 17-mile round-trip hike, something we didn't feel up for attempting. As it turns out, our final mileage didn't fall too short of that. We trusted this guy, assuming that even though the trailhead is unmarked, after starting on the trail the path would be obvious. It was not. Compare Stueby's 9.5-mile trail outline with ours: 

In order to avoid this 15.7-mile debacle, do not:

• Take the high trail along the ridgeline. You will just have to backtrack. Instead, take the trail that curls down and along to the right, crisscrossing over a small stream through some gorgeous, cool forest in the valley. 
• When you reach the intersection of trails 120 and 122, don't turn right on #120. You will just run into a woman and her 10-year-old son training for Half Dome by hiking the 17-mile trail you and your friend shunned, and they will persuade you to turn around and backtrack to the intersection. Showoffs. Instead, turn left onto #120, crossing the creek once again.
• When you reach another intersection where the main trail curves to the right, away from Stack Rock (which you can now see in the distance), don't freak out and wonder where the trail to the left goes. Just follow the main trail to the right, even though it looks wrong.

The lunch spot. Don't take the trail behind that log.

• When you finally reach the marked trailhead for Stack Rock (#125), don't walk past the open area on the left. Sit and have lunch there; listen to the sky and the breeze and the birds. This is one of the few things we did right. Don't choose an unsheltered spot for a pit stop, unless you're okay with being buzzed by a prop plane while your bare ass is out in the open. 

• When you've made your way around the Stack Rock loop, having marveled at the looming granite above you, don't decide to find out where the trail behind the trail 125 marker goes. It's not a short-cut. It's a long-cut. It will switchback through the open meadows of the foothills and dead-end at Bogus Basin Road. From there, it's 2.75 miles along Bogus Basin Road back to the car. Uphill. In the sun. With cars whooshing past you, none of them even giving you a funny look. As if two thirty-something women wearing hiking clothes and day packs walk along the winding mountain road all the time. If you walk up this road and you'd like a ride back to the car but have too much pride to thumb it, don't look healthy and capable. Do exaggerate a limp or rest woefully against the concrete barrier. 

• Don't get upset when your best-laid plans go astray. It may be a long-ass haul, but with the right company, an appreciation for some gorgeous scenery and a sense of adventure, it'll be a great day that you can brag to your friends about. This, we also got right. It was worth it:

Stack Rock: worth the trouble it takes to get there

The view from behind Stack Rock

Too much

Today, a bird flew into my sliding glass door and died. I came home to find it lying motionless on its side on the porch. A few ants had already gotten to it - big, fat ants, the kind that can be picked up and taken back outside when they sneak their way into the house. They were crawling on the bird's beak, its eye squinting as if in pain. There was no blood, no gore, just a body on the red wood in the warm sun. I dug a hole in the corner of the yard and buried it there, beneath the pine needles, where it will return to the earth.

Other birds have flown into the door before, but they flew away unharmed. This one didn't make it. And I was so sad. I would have been sad if it were any of the many house finches that hang around the feeder all day, or the robins that fend off the squirrels in the trees, or the mourning doves that tiptoe across the roof. But this bird was a western tanager, with its deep black wing weathers and golden yellow head, an orange crown spreading. I had never seen one before moving here, and its bright feathers made my little wooded yard feel so magical. Birds fly into windows all the time, all over the world. I knew that they flew into mine and I didn't do anything to make sure it didn't happen again. I did nothing to prevent this beautiful bird from flying into my door, and now it is dead.

This evening I watched a movie in which one of the main characters reveals that he has a disease and that he is dying. In one dramatic scene, he screams and writhes in pain, not from the disease, but because he doesn't want to die. And I cried for him, because I know that's how I'll go someday, kicking and screaming in protest, and I cried for the bird, this beautiful bird, because I feel responsible for its death. The man in the movie was a billionaire, but he died, just like everyone else. In this magical yard where life teems, this poor bird died. One can have it all, and still, death comes knocking at the door. Right away, I covered my door with stripes of white, yellow, and green electrical tape, the only thing I could find that would prove to the birds that something solid marks the boundary between the porch and the house, so that no more magic will be lost. At least, not if I have anything to say about it.

Now I've gone and done it

I said I would write more. That I would flex my creative muscle and make something worth sharing with the world. I thought originally that I would do it here, but if I want people to take notice, the people who can give me a writing or editing gig some day, it should be in a more elegant format. Not something that screams MeMeMe. Instead, something that gives thanks to the here and now, to the place we came from and the place we're heading, from the spot where we stand to the greatest span of the cosmos. No matter how we believe this all came to exist, we can all agree that it is incredible and inspiring, beyond comprehension. This digital space will still be all about MeMeMe with some other stuff thrown in, but please visit This Wondrous Place for something a little different, inspired partly by Radiolab, partly by Ken Burns' The National Parks series, and partly by the creative endeavors of some fabulously talented writer friends who dare to bare their souls. This Wondrous Place is where my soul lives. Please respect it.

Turn it out

Yesterday I ran the Famous Idaho Potato Marathon. Except I ran the 10K race (6.2 miles). Two friends and I had decided to run the 5K race, but the more I thought about it, the more of an itch I got to run the 10K instead. I ran a 5K race last summer, and I regularly run about 3 miles at lunchtime. Running a 5K race would not be a particular challenge, unless I tried to improve my time by running faster. I wanted something more. I haven't run 6 miles in a really long time, and although I was fairly sure I could do it, I wanted to push myself. I wanted to find my limit. I envisioned a struggle in both mind and body, a combination of zipping ahead and pulling back, a need to push through a desire to walk, just for a minute.  I just wanted to see if I could do it, no matter how long it took. My kind friends were accepting of my need for this challenge, so I switched my registration. We three would run together for the first mile, after which I would veer left while they would veer right. We would meet at the finish line - I envisioned limping through the final stretch, drained but satisfied.

I awoke on race day around 4am, hungry because I hadn't eaten enough the night before, excited fot the race, nervous that I would bonk because my blood sugar was too low before breakfast. After a big bowl of cereal with a banana and some walnuts, a piece of toast with jam, and a Gu, we lined up at the starting line. I plugged in my marathon mix, fired up the app that would track my speed and trail, and hit the road. We three weaved through the slow runners, the walkers, the kids, the strollers, along the road and over the river, where we got snagged in the bottleneck on the bridge. Then, they went one way along the greenbelt and I went the other. We had jetted off the starting line thanks to a burst of adrenaline, and I kept waiting for that to wear off so I could settle into my 5.5-mph average speed for the long haul. But the adrenaline never wore off. I never felt the need to slow. I glanced at my app, which showed an average speed of 5.71 mph, with a current speed of 6.35 mph. And I just kept going. I decided that if I kept up that pace maybe I could finish the race in under an hour. I have run for short intervals at 6+ mph, but never before as a sustained pace, and this felt good. With each new song, I felt re-energized, exclaiming "yeah, yeah!" and "turn it out! turn it out!" in my mind as I went. My chest never felt too tight, although I knew I was breathing bigger than my lungs had before, and my legs never felt tired. Reaching Mile 3, the almost-halfway point, felt like a warm-up. Three miles already? That was fast! Mile 4 felt fine - I could definitely keep going. Then I started to feel the burn, but as the trail entered Julia Davis Park, I pushed on. Yeah, yeah! Turn it out! Turn it out! I reached mile 5 as "Galvanize" by The Chemical Brothers punched in my ears.

Don't hold back
'Cuz you woke up in the morning
With initiative to move
So why make it harder

The world is holding back
The time has come to Galvanize

And I did. I turned it out. I pushed harder. Shoulders back and down. Lead with the legs, not with the chest. Settle into it. Push it. As I crossed back over the river, the finish line in sight, I tried to stretch my legs farther and sprint the last bit, but my knees protested and my lungs cringed. Sustained faster pace, I could do, but sprinting was not in the cards for me on this day. So I waved to my friends clapping and shouting from the sidelines, gave high-fives to the kids cheering on the crowd, and pulled it out. I crossed the finish line at 01:01:44. One hour, one minute, forty-four seconds. Average speed: 6.04 mph. Not too bad for a curvy girl with asthma, and definitely a personal best. I blame the heart-pounding, pavement-shredding hustle on the Gu (tastes good, weird consistency), the 6-mile hike on the Polecat Loop a few days prior, and the incline intervals I ran on the treadmill earlier in the week. I blame the extra 1:44 on the bottleneck over the bridge.

I should be satisfied with this race. I should be thrilled that I ran farther than I ever had before, and faster than I imagined, and I felt okay afterward. But the truth is that I want more. That race was fun, and it was a good workout, but it was not the challenge I had anticipated. It was not a struggle, physically or mentally. It didn't show me my limit, nor force me to push past it. So there will be more training in the coming months. Sure, I could enter some more 10K races, try to run them faster. But speed has never been my goal. It's about going farther, testing my courage, conquering something new and different. For many years, I shied away from such challenges, hesitant to push myself in order to avoid overexertion. But I am not my best in a complacent state. I am someone to be proud of when fear motivates me to do better, when I commit to something that scares me. So I signed up to hike Lucky Peak Summit (3,600-ft elevation gain, 12 miles round-trip) and Borah Peak (aka Mt. Borah, the tallest peak in Idaho, 5,262-ft elevation gain, 7 miles round-trip) this summer. Next spring, I will seek out a longer race - maybe a half-marathon? That race or Borah may prove too much for me, but I have to find out for sure.

Evening

It's muggy outside, like a Midwestern evening. Were the sky clear, the sun would be blasting through the west-facing windows, but instead, thin grey clouds obscure the hot rays, dissipating them across the dispersed water droplets and thickening the air. A tree somewhere is blooming and the sweet fragrance permeates every inch of space, except for under the ponderosas, where the piney sap and dry needles keep things fresh. Small birds hide in the trees, tweet-tweeting and chirp-chirping messages about who has the most colorful feathers, where the tastiest food is, and in the case of the mourning doves, who has just died the saddest death. The mourning doves are pretty birds, and they often visit in pairs, but they really do emanate an air of sadness. What if their call were not so morose? If they tweeted like robins or cooed like their pigeon cousins, would they seem like better party guests? Our pregnant squirrely friend chatters at us from the tree above, daring Dear Kitty to come and get her, or maybe inviting us up for a snack. Dear Kitty prefers to lie in the grass, growing less scared each day of the noisy world.

This here is the default setting. The place to go when nothing else nearby seems satisfactory and everything else is too far away. The groaning lawn mowers and shuddering air conditioners are drowned out by the backyard cacophony. One tree is growing fuzzy fruit the size of cherries, but cherries aren't fuzzy, so perhaps they will be peaches or apricots instead. A self-sufficient yard that feeds all of the senses, with plenty left over to share. This is why people move to places like this. When they purchase a house or pay to rent it, they are getting more than brick and mortar, more than central AC, more than good schools in the district. They are getting a symphony that never ends, pesticide-free fruit at 2am, and friendly neighbors who live in the trees and provide constant entertainment, unobtrusive company, and plenty of gossip about whose nest is positively impeccable and who let that riffraff redbreast show his face in these these parts. When you put it that way, we're getting a real bargain. Don't tell the landlord what this place is really worth. I'd be out on the street in no time.

If there was a better way to go, then it would find me

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes, and
I certainly haven't been spreading myself around.
I still only travel by foot, and by foot it's a slow climb
but I'm good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time.

I notice that my opponent is always on the go, and
Won't go slow so's not to focus
and I notice
He'll hitch a ride with any guide,
as long as they go fast
from whence he came
But he's no good at being uncomfortable so he can't stop staying
Exactly the same.

--Fiona Apple, "Extraordinary Machine"

If ever there were a master wordsmith, Fiona Apple is it.

Blogiversary

Seven years ago this month, I starting this old rag (that's what they used to call newspapers, except that blogs are the new newspapers). My third post, on May 6, 2005, was about the beating that our national forests were taking under the Bush administration's attempts to revert to the olden days of natural resource management. I'm delighted to see that our country's natural resources are faring at least a little better under Obama's watch, although perhaps these days the problem is more about what we're not doing.

But maybe we're just getting more creative about it. On Saturday, I went to an Unplug and Explore the Outdoors event at the Idaho Shakespeare Theater. It was a family-friendly activity intended to encourage everyone to appreciate the outdoors. Lots of kids were there, learning about bees and birdwatching and kayaking and growing your own food. The Peregrine Fund brought an American kestrel, a short-eared owl, and a Swainson's hawk for display. I've never been that close to a live owl before, and it was delightful. I have a soft spot in my heart for owls, not sure why. I also saw a pair of American coots in the river, a bunch of red-winged blackbirds, and (I believe) a pair of yellow-rumped warblers.  

Anyway, the best part of the event was the presentations by a bunch of local high schoolers who had worked with designers from the American Society for Landscape Architects to develop ideas for the new educational trail in the Barber Pool Conservation Area, located near the theater in southeast Boise. Their designs reflected all of the values that natural areas encompass - conservation, responsible land and natural resource use, aesthetics, recreation, education, and equal access for all. We're certainly failing our planet in many ways, but at least we're thinking outside the box about how to communicate the importance of nature to the next generation in ways that help them understand that we can incorporate nature into our daily lives. Going out into the wilderness is certainly special, and kids should experience that too, but bringing it closer to home, giving nature a regular presence, and making it seem less wild can be an important door-opener for more people. Designing a trail for the masses is a neat way to get kids thinking about why we should both protect these areas and share them with others at the same time.
---
On the subject of the blogiversary, I'm feeling the seven-year itch. I started this site to engage others in discussions about current events and other random interests and concerns. Over time, it has morphed into something that isn't actually interactive and is now more about personal expression. As if anyone out there is at all interested in what I have to say, but then again, it's what we all do these days. (I'll be honest: I turned off the comments long ago because the only one who ever commented was my mother. And the spammers.) This has also been my experiment in letting people in, allowing them to see the deeper parts of me that lie beneath the curls. It's something I've struggled with for so long, so thank you for indulging me. All along, this blog has been about bringing into my life the things I felt were lacking. But I yearn to write something more meaningful, to craft pieces that really do say something, now that I'm in touch with my world and with myself. I'll never be a journalist (too timid for investigation), nor a current events blogger (everyone else has already said everything there is to say), nor a novelist (not creative), but I'm toying with the idea of essays. Perhaps that's kind of what I do here already, but most of what lies on this screen isn't...good. It's sufficient for communicating to my friends what's going on in my life and my mind, because we don't actually stay in touch by phone or email anymore. We read each others' blogs and social media feeds and feel sufficiently informed about each other. But I want to write more, with prose and insight, and bigger words. Something that someone might deem publishable someday. So please bear with me as I play with some ideas out here, make some rough sketches or piece together some digital scribbles. After all, "essay" means "try" or "attempt". Allons-y.  

A foodie post

Some random food-related thoughts of late:
1. Making something savory? When in doubt, add some fresh lemon thyme. It will rock your world, I promise. No need to use a lot - a couple of sprigs goes a long way because the flavor is very distinct.
2. My turkey meatloaf kind of rocks. I make it differently every time, without a recipe, and it always comes out moist and flavorful. It never gets old. I usually use a mix of 1 lb ground turkey and 1 lb ground chicken, plus an egg, some whole wheat bread crumbs, yellow mustard, sauteed vegetables, other random wet ingredients (ketchup/BBQ sauce/salsa/canned tomatoes/milk/whatever might taste good), and a mix of dried and fresh herbs. Last time, I added some lemon thyme and it rocked my world. See? Told ya.
3. Last time I made meatloaf, I also made this mushroom kale noodle kugel as a side dish, in my one nod to Passover. Guess what I added. Yeah. It was perfect.
4. Now that the weather is warmer, I take all my meals out on the porch. It makes everything taste even better. Just wait until I invest in a grill - then, there will be no reason to go inside, ever.
5. Although my new favorite beer type is the black lager (aka Schwarzbier - try the Kostritzer), I'm totally digging the Widmer W'12 Dark Saison. Fruity and floral like a farmhouse ale but balanced by some maltiness.
6. Flavored bread, olive tapenade, canned sardines in mustard or tomato sauce, and an orange make an excellent hot-weather meal.
7. Fresh lilacs from the backyard brighten up any table.

We, Earth

My ode to the Earth is a day late, but I have a good excuse. I was appreciating the Earth with a hike in the foothills and up to Table Rock, then down through my neighborhood, which is aglitter with flowers and foliage. It was hot though, 91 degrees, a record for the day and for the earliest 90-degree day in the year. An appropriate milestone to remind us of both the fickleness of the weather systems that have shaped our planet, as well as the impacts we have on the planet by slowly altering those systems over time. Just as we should show each other love every day, not just on Valentine's Day, we should also show our planet love every day, not just on Earth Day. And it deserves a lot of love. I am often in disbelief that such beautiful places exist at all, and I feel so fortunate to be experiencing them. When it comes to the existence of a Higher Being, I am agnostic, meaning undecided, because not being sure about how this all came to be adds an extra level of magic, makes it even more special. Because how can our feeble brains possibly conceive of the full force of energy that made any of these miracles possible?

I feel at a loss of words for how to describe the deep blue of the sky, the soaring clouds riding atop the stratosphere, the daintiest of wild flowers, the trill of birds communicating across the air waves, in a way that fully captures the grandeur and immensity of it all existing in one place at the same time, not just parts but a swirling whole. How does one explain the feeling of being at once a part of the land, like a tree anchored in roots, stretching up to the heavens? Of living not upon the earth's skin but instead wearing it beneath our skin? We should honor the earth not just because we rely on it for our subsistence, but because of all the possible combinations of molecules and elements, billions of years ago the right combination occurred enough times to bring forth life unto this orb hurling through space. Somehow this mass of rock and gas went from the utter absence of life to the mind-blowing abundance of life we know of today, which is only a fraction of the abundance we know was once found in every corner of the globe. With all of the high-powered equipment we can muster, we have scanned the universe for other examples of such potent swirling masses and have come up empty. We are it, and look what we have done. Both good and bad have come from these collective hands, the hands that are so unlikely to exist in the first place. This connection to Earth that we all have, that we should all feel, isn't just about appreciating the clouds and the trees and the birds. It's about recognizing the ancient innate knowledge of a place we may never actually see, where we are the clouds and the trees and the birds.

Cow country

This is sheep and cow country, out in the Owyhees in southwestern Idaho. This area was seeded with bunchgrasses following a fire ten years ago, and ideally, eventually sagebrush will fill in the spaces. The rainforests of Washington and Oregon may be primitive and primordial and unreal, but the soaring clouds and wide-open skies out here make you feel alive.

Mini-vacation

Last weekend, I skedaddled out of town up I-84 a ways to the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area along the Oregon/Washington border. It had been a few months since I'd been out of town and I needed a change of scenery, and even though spring is really coming on strong here in Boise, I needed that scenery to be thoroughly lush and green. I just couldn't imagine spending another weekend at home pulling weeds and running mundane errands. A friend had mentioned a visit to Skamania Lodge and the beauty of the surrounding area, which sounded like the perfect kind of long-weekend getaway. Except that Skamania Lodge is a little pricey for my tight budget, and not the kind of vacation I was looking for anyway, and during the planning stage of the trip, I came across the Cascade Locks Portland E KOA right across the river, and just down the road from the Bridge of the Gods. Kamping kabin + majestic bridge = exactly what I was looking for.

Home away from home

Bridge of the Gods, looking west along the Columbia River from Cascade Locks, Oregon

My mom and I had stayed in kamping kabins (hey, it's the KOA's spelling, not mine) in North Carolina and Virginia, and although there's nothing like waking up in a tent in the middle of nowhere, these kabins provide an adequate camping experience when you need something a little more civilized. It's still just a little too cool at night for me to tent-camp, and as a young female traveling alone, I appreciate the security of being able to lock a door at night. The basic kabins have bunkbeds on one side and a queen-size bed on the other side (think summer camp) with a small built-in table and chair, ceiling lights and fan, and two electrical outlets. This one had a small space heater as well. There's a fire pit and picnic table outside each kabin, so you can still feel like you're actually living outdoors. There's a central bathroom facility with showers, a sink to wash dishes, a soda machine, and a laundry facility - now with wi-fi. Don't worry, I did not avail myself of the wi-fi, soda machine, or laundry room. I unplugged, as instructed.

Meow

On my way out west on Friday, just after coming down off the Blue Mountains, I stopped in at the Prodigal Son Brewery in Pendleton, Oregon, for a tasty lunch and wandered around town a bit. The downtown seems lovely - a hopping main street, a river walk, even a tattoo parlor.

Pendleton is home to a huge rodeo in the fall, which explains why this town seems so hopping when other towns along this stretch of I-84 seem smaller and quieter. An hour or so later, the road slinks up close to the Columbia River, where gently sloping banks feature whirring wind turbines. Another hour later, I was at the Columbia Gorge Discovery Center and Wasco County Historical Museum, which explains the natural history of the gorge and how it was formed, features artifacts from the Native American tribes who have lived along the Columbia River for thousands of years, and takes visitors back in time to the early settlements along the river where people fished, panned for gold and shipped goods up and down the banks via boat and railroad.

This is where the scenery really gets good. I expected sheer cliffs along the river, with bare weathered rock in all directions. Instead, the cliffs reminded me of an Andes mint - chocolate brown rock dusted with the early shoots of bright green grasses and other plants. And it only got greener as I approached my destination. I've seen plenty of photos and movies that feature this part of the world, but they really don't do it justice. The dramatic skies, the twists and turns of the river through the gorge, the waterfalls that can be seen right from the highway, Mount Hood looming overhead. It was definitely a change in scenery from the brownness of the bunchgrasses and sagebrush in the areas just outside Boise.

After checking in at the KOA, I paid my dollar toll to cross the Bridge of the Gods and pulled into downtown Stevenson, Washington, where I dined at the Walking Man Brewery. As I sat on the porch and sipped my beer in the cool, damp air, a man standing in the lot next door began playing the bagpipes. Ah, vacation.

Random sculpture in Stevenson

Saturday, I again crossed the Bridge of the Gods and hit the Hamilton Mountain trail, an 8-mile loop past some gushing waterfalls, to the summit overlooking Bonneville Dam, across a saddle, and down an old fire road. Clouds hung low in the sky and obscured the view of the area, and the damp wind gusted heartily, so I didn't linger long at the summit. 

Of course, it had cleared up by the time I made it back down the mountain, but by then lots of people were on the trail, and I was thankful for the relative solitude on the mountain. I had planned to do two hikes that day, at the suggestion of a coworker who knows the area well, but the first hike wore me out so much that instead I stumbled back into Stevenson for tea and a homemade cinnamon roll, then forced myself to stay awake by wandering along the locks back on the Oregon side. Following an overpriced dinner in Troutdale 20 miles west (I should have eaten at Skamania Lodge!), I built a campfire back at home base and sipped hot cocoa while reading by the light of the headlamp. I had been enjoying the solitude of my trip, not having to really talk to anyone, taking my time and doing whatever I pleased, but the weariness of the long hike got to me, and a touch of loneliness set in. I vowed to hit the road early in the morning and spend some quality time at Home Sweet Home, having done enough to fulfill my wanderlust for the moment. But I awoke refreshed on Sunday morning and decided instead to drive back east and stop at the Rowena Crest trailhead for a shorter, less strenuous hike. 

It was a good decision. I was hoping to hike the Tom McCall trail up to another peak, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other nearby peaks in the clear morning air, but the trail is closed until May 1st to prevent erosion on the wet trails. Instead, I wandered around the Rowena Plateau, marveling at the tender wildflowers popping up all over, the swallows darting along the cliffs, the turkey vultures and other raptors soaring the rising thermals, and the mint-chocolate greenness of the gorge itself. 

The hike was restorative, and after seeing both rainforest and mountain plateau, I felt that I had sampled a sufficient variety of scenery for such a short trip. This is the third vacation I've taken alone, and the first one in which I've had to feed and entertain myself for more than 24 hours. I liked living in my little cabin, building a fire first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening. It felt like I was surviving, taking care of myself without any real chance of not surviving. The modern-day vision quest, just far enough away from civilization to feel the escape, but close enough to feel safe and not alone. Next time, there will be more waterfalls, more peaks, more campfire cooking, and more traveling companions. 

Gardening update

The vegetable plants have been in the ground for two weeks now, and although it appears that someone had a bit of a snack on the bell pepper leaves, they're all still alive. The sugar snap peas are struggling though - I suspect that it's still a little too cool for them - and the rest of the plants, while still alive, don't appear to be growing yet. So, perhaps I was a little hasty in planting them outside, but all is not lost yet. The weather will be decidedly spring-like for the next few days, sunny and into the 70s, so maybe that will help. I bought a packet of wildflower seeds, which I'll sprinkle in the questionable area on the side of the house once it warms up a little more, just to see what blooms. I'm slowly making a dent in the dandelion population in the yard, starting with the ones currently blooming and getting as many others in sight as I can handle before my hand turns into a claw from gripping the weeding tool. There's something so satisfying and cathartic about digging the metal fork into the soil next to the weed, angling the handle back, and popping the plant up. Some of the root still remains, which means the weed will likely be back eventually, but at least if I get it before it blooms, it doesn't spread more seeds. The yard is a funny patchwork of dry grass, newly green grass, and tall, lush grass. It's not worth mowing the whole thing, and the idea of bringing in a couple of goats for a weekend seems amusing. Unfortunately because goats are not terribly discriminating eaters, that would likely be the end of the garden as well...The other sugar snap peas and the herbs in my window seem happy, but it's been so dry that I've had to water every day, inside and outside. I spread some pine needles around all but the broccoli outside (maybe they need it too) and that has helped keep the soil damp and the critters away.

Speaking of critters, I'm trying a new tack with the squirrels that have been raiding my bird feeder. I was going to try to keep them out, but when that seemed like a futile effort, and when I learned that one of the squirrels is a mama (or a mama-to-be), with six or eight swollen nipples, I figured it was time to welcome them into the family. The house finches seem to prefer the house-shaped feeder - they sit in the tray, rather than perching on the edge - so I filled that one with regular bird seed. The feeder that is advertised as squirrel-proof has, ironically, become the squirrel feeder. I filled it with sunflower seeds, and they climb up, grasp the bars toward the top with their hind feet, hang upside down and pull seeds out with their paws and eat them. I worry whether the mama squirrel should be attempting such acrobatics in her condition, but perhaps she knows best. In any case, I hope that the everyone will be satisfied with this set-up and the deck will once again be peaceful. The cat seems curious about the squirrels but doesn't seem motivated enough to go after them. Not that she could catch them, and since they're not much smaller than her, she must recognize that's a battle not worth fighting.

And speaking of the cat, last weekend some pine sap got stuck and hardened in the fur between the toe pads of her back left foot. She offered some very hateful words in my face while I tried to pick some of it out. I tried peanut butter, then vegetable oil, both of which mostly just made a mess. Then I tried soap and warm water, which softened the sap enough to pull some of it off. In the end, I just left it alone, and she's been pulling it off on her own. Unfortunately the fur comes with it, so her poor little paw looks naked between her toes. She's not limping though and still insists on playing outside during the day, so it looks like she'll be fine.

As spring moves in, the wildlife population seems to have shifted in the neighborhood. Mourning doves often pick at the seeds on the deck, more robins are nesting in the trees, and yesterday I heard some kind of raptor's screech echoing among the houses and the hills. The dark-eyed juncos, which winter in the lower 48 states, have all left for the cooler summer in Canada and Alaska. A coyote (?) was spotted crossing the road late one night, and a great blue heron has been hanging out in the little pond at the end of my street. I suspect that a pair of mallards has made a nest in the yard of a house across the street from the pond, because they often waddle across the road between the pond and the house. Must keep an eye out for ducklings.

This is the first time in my life that I've really noticed how nature changes with the seasons. I grew up in the suburbs but never paid much attention, and in bigger cities, the animals that live there mostly stay year-round. As mentioned in a previous post, in other places, the seasons change more abruptly, especially spring, and my allergies back east keep me indoors until summer is really upon us. Here, so far, there have been no allergic reactions, and it's nice to feel more connected to the natural world around me.

Seasonal affective disorder

Spring is slowly emerging here in the valley. Butterflies flit about, and it seems that every week, another bird species arrives back in town from its southern wintering spot. The trees and shrubs are greening up or flowering, bright bursts of yellow, pink, white, and green among the still-bare branches of those waiting for more sun and warmer temps to dress in their summer foliage. It rains a lot here, although partial clearings almost every afternoon keep the days from feeling like total washouts. The rivers flow full with threats of floods, and thick snowpacks in the mountains will keep water levels high for months.

This is a different spring than I'm used to. In the Missouri, North Carolina, and DC, everything explodes at once. The tree -lined streets flower early and heavy green pollen coats everything in sight. Those of us with allergies shun the outdoors at all times except right after a rain, the only time the air is free from this assault on our eyes, skin, and sinuses. The world there goes from brown to green seemingly overnight. In Chicago, it is brown for much longer, but the city springs to life quickly when it finally gets around to it. Here in Boise, with our mild, almost snowless winters, spring kicks in over time, piece by piece. You almost don't notice it because you don't really look for it, don't yearn for it. But still, every year when spring rolls around, I feel utterly inspired by it. I feel my heart and soul come to life, full and strong and ready to take on the world. The doldrums of December are long forgotten as the chirping birds signal another season of new beginnings. Spring is a reminder that anything is possible.

New gardening adventures

The garden is planted, small as it may be. I decided that I was being overly ambitious for my first garden, especially in a new place, so for this summer, the garden is limited to the strip along the south side of the house, below my bedroom window. The soil is dry and rocky there, so on Sunday, I mixed in a full bag each of compost and potting soil and watered it thoroughly. Then it rained Sunday night and all day yesterday, so it seemed to be in good condition for planting. Today, the plants went into the ground: a chocolate cherry tomato, a sweet red bell pepper, two sugar snap peas and four broccoli. The other two sugar snap peas reside in a pot in my kitchen window, accompanied by lemon thyme, catnip, and lavender. 

That's the fun part of gardening. The not-fun part is the dandelions that have sprung up all over my yard. I could weed for days and days, plunging the forked metal into the soil, breaking the root, and yanking the plant out, but it seems to barely make a dent. Perhaps when the weather turns to hot and dry, the weeds will go away. In the meantime, weeding seems like a good way to unwind after work each day.

All attempts to thwart the squirrel from raiding the bird feeder were unsuccessful, and once I realized that she's a momma (and decent entertainment for the cat as well), I gave in, bought two feeders for the birds, and squirrel food for her. As long as everyone stays out of the garden, peace will prevail around here.