Soul-searching in the Sierras

“Let yourself be drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.”

-Rumi

Every time I get jaded about the crowds in California, the water issues, the ridiculously short on-ramps, or the multitude of things about California that annoy me, I get the chance to escape and fall in love with it all over again. This time it is a short, three-day trip into Desolation Wilderness, into the northern Sierras, with Galen. Walk a few miles off the road in the middle of the week and you feel like the only person in the world. I have a small sense of how John Muir must have felt, wandering in the wild Sierras with pristine alpine lakes and chunks of white granite littering the skyline.

We walk for a few days. In the mornings we sit by the water and drink our coffee together. Then we pack our things onto our bags, like the little turtles we are, and find another beautiful place to enjoy. We stop to skinny dip at the cold, clear lakes in the high glacial valleys and eat lunch on top of the passes looking out over the wilderness. Galen usually takes a nap and I hop around on the rocks, looking for just enough trouble to get into. Clambering on the giant granite batholith I feel so insignificant in this world. As the moon comes up over the ridge line, I howl. My echo joins in.

I think about Zach a lot in places like this.

There is no better place to ponder existence than on the top of a mountain, except for maybe on a river in the bottom of a deep canyon.  Lately I’ve been rather frustrated with fate, or chance, or whatever you call the way the world unfolds.  I am as lost as ever. I am more confused than I have been in a long time. But in this sacred space, on top of the world, I sit with this discomfort and am comforted in the unknown. In the end, all I can do is offer my full self into this world, jumping with two feet and loving with my whole heart. And sometimes that is really hard.

Galen sits down on the saddle. He is not even tempted to get to the top, content in soaking in the view and taking a nap in a beautiful spot. We are so different. He smiles at me as I scamper up the mountain, trying to find the highest spot, unable to sit still and enjoy the one we are at. He lets me run up all of the peaks, and he patiently waits for me to get tired and come back to him. I don’t know if he will understand what motivates me to keep going, and I am not sure if I will ever understand his unrelenting patience.

I have never had anyone trust in me so much. I don’t know that I would ever come down off of these mountains, except that Galen is waiting for me, so eventually I do. He would wait for me for days, months, even years. I am sure of it.

Once again, he is right. I climb down the mountain to meet him. We pick up our packs and walk to a small lake in the cirque. As the day transforms to dusk, the birds turn into bats and the world becomes a little quieter.  The moon reflects on the still and silent lake.  Granite giants tower over us. I lie awake in bed, wishing I had my ukulele to play to the moon.

 

Idaho Summer

August has been a run away freight train that I feel like I barely have a grasp on. My illusion of control has been shattered as I desperately try to hang onto the train that threatens to leave me alone on the tracks in the middle of the wild places. At the same time I feel more alive and energized than I have felt in years. It is a daily whirlwind of emotions, which at the end of the day I feel emotionally hungover as insomnia creeps out and refuses to nourish my exhausted soul.

So through this I am working desperately to hold onto the sweetness of August. I had a couple of amazing river trips, one of which was a First Descents Middle Fork Salmon trip. This trip we brought 11 young adults, all of whom had had a journey with cancer. It was intense to say the least. Everyone spent time kayaking, many kayaked the entire river. To see the effect of this trip was humbling. It rejuvenated me, and gave an even deeper meaning to my job.

This trip showed me of the incredible energy we all possess. These adults taught me so much about living in the moment and embracing our vulnerability. It is something I hope to hold onto for my whole life.

I was reminded of the things I love about myself that I had forgotten for so long. I rediscovered parts of me that I thought I had lost.  It is incredibly refreshing to find a mirror to your soul. Something that unearths the deep roots of your being and reminds you that you are amazing, exactly how you are. And then, the painful but powerful realization that moments are fleeting and glances are momentary.

If anything August has taught me to savor these brief moments. The end of summer tastes like sweet peaches and smells like the smoke of an out-of-control wildfire, burning deep in the heart of our wildest spaces.  It has forced me to be present, but as I leave it, as this memory begins to fade, I struggle to stay present.

I have no idea what tomorrow holds, or the next month, or year. As much as we all like to think we do, we really have no clue. So today, I am grateful for the sweetness of peaches and the smells of wildfire, reminding me what it feels like to be fully present and alive.

Loreto, Baja California Sur

 

We wake with the sun. This morning my head peeps out of my sleeping bag with the smell of fresh coffee brewing and I watch pods of dolphins swimming. It could not be more picturesque. The baby dolphins are young and swim next to their mothers, matching them dive for dive. Antonio, one of our guides, calls us to coffee and I slide out of bed. The mornings are brisk but the desert sun is quick to warm.

Today we will cross the deep channel from the islands back to the mainland. From there we paddle south, trying to find protection before the Norte hits us. Their are eight of us, two Mexican guides, Jorge and Antonio, a mother and daughter from Berkley, two Sea Trek guides that are learning the ins and outs of this new company, Galen and me. Everyone gets along well, and even after just two days we feel like a little tribe. After a delicious veggie scramble with beans and fresh tortillas we pack our boats. The simplicity of the trip is a relief. We bring what we can carry in our boats and no more. Of course sea kayaks can fit a lot more than a backpack, so we are never hungry or short on luxuries.

Jorge gathers us around to explain the day’s route. One by one we carry the loaded sea kayaks to the water and push off. In the shallows you can see all the way through the turquoise waters to the ocean bottom. A manta ray passes underneath Jorge’s boat. Galen is fishing so he sits in the back, trailing a big silver lure behind the kayak. So far all he has caught are rocks but that is not for lack of trying.

A few hours of paddling and we stop at a beautiful white sand beach. Remote as we are along the Baja peninsula, a resort sits at the edge. Our guides tell us the story of this place, the narrative of most of the resorts along the Baja peninsula.  Resorts with big, green golf courses that have no water. The marine park is protected as a national park but that protection does not extend inland. With the recent upturn of the economy many of these development projects have started up again.

We spend some time exploring the beach and the small town nearby, snorkel around a little bit, eat a delicious salad and hop back on the water. It is  just a short paddle to tonight’s camp. On the way we see a blue whale spout and dive. An angry sea lion barks at us as we paddle past his beach. We arrive at camp, unpack our boats and set up our kitchen. Jorge, Antonio and Art go fishing for dinner.

The Norte is coming in now. We have been lucky and had windless days paddling, now we hunker down on our small but protected beach. A natural hot spring emerges out of the ocean at low tide, fresh caught fish sit on the beach waiting to be cleaned, embers begin glowing as the sun sets on the Sea of Cortez, turning the sky purple, pink and orange before bathing us in darkness.

For one moment, everything is still and perfect.

 

The City

“Somehow the great cities of America have taken their places in a mythology that shapes their destiny: Money lives in New York. Power sits in Washington. Freedom sips a Cappuccino in a sidewalk cafe in San Francisco.”

~Joe Flower

Marin County is a lovely little bubble. The views are superb, open space is everywhere, the shops are charming and appallingly expensive, the food is all organic, free-range, hand-patted, and made with love.  We are surrounded by tall trees, ocean and bay views, huge ridge lines and small creeks where the salmon still run. It is quite a nice bubble.

Last week I left that little bubble with a little venture into the City.

To be completely honest, the City terrifies me. It is noisy, horns are always honking, people seem constantly irritated. I walk around completely tensed, bristling at every shout, cringing with every screech of a cable car. So to voluntarily take the ferry into the city to wander around for “the cultural experience”, well, that was a big deal for me.

So, I got dressed up in my second-hand but ultra-cute pea/trench coat with some adorable boots and an umbrella, and ferried into San Francisco.

Now to be honest, it was actually an excellent adventure. First off because Galen picked me up in the afternoon and I didn’t have to figure out how to get home; second because it was free museum day and I just wandered around museums, pondered art, drank fancy-ass coffee and had a mean Puerto Rican lunch.

There is definitely a learning curve though. A person like me gets chewed-up in spit out in big cities such as San Francisco. I hope to share some tips I learn so that I can refer back to my blog the next time I cross the bay (there will be a next time though!)

1.  Preparation is KEY. In order to go into the City, one needs the right attitude. The right attitude starts with the right attire. Something professional, demure and sleek; something that doesn’t stand out in a crowd, but instead says, “I spend all of my time here, so don’t mess with me. I know this city better than anybody and currently am in a mad rush to get to my very important tech job where I make millions of dollars and spend it all at farmer’s markets and “experiences”. Public transportation….pshhhh, no problem. I commute. I commute all damn day.”

2.  Absolutely don’t make eye contact with anyone. I make this mistake ALL the time, and then end up in very long rambles with another person and often another imaginary person. Or I end up giving money or spending money on something or the other.

3.  Smiles are nice, but there is a reason people don’t smile in the city. Smiling too much means you end up in a similar situation as making eye contact.

4.  Have an action plan, and then of course be flexible. But don’t, don’t, do not WANDER AIMLESSLY around a city. There are all of these secret streets that everyone knows about that signify one neighborhood or the other, but I am just not savvy to that sort of thing. So I end up in neighborhood with a lot of conversations with imaginary people and of course my phone is dead or my data is turned off and I am not sure where I am, or if anyone around me knows where they are, or how to get home. Which brings me to tip #5.

5.  Charge your phone.

So, I challenge you now to leave your little bubble and discover your city, wherever that may be. And then feel really good about going back into your bubble. And maybe you will find a cool cafe that does this:

Cappuccino in the City

Sight (in all its glory)

“I’d like to have enough time and quiet
To think about absolutely nothing,
To not ever feel myself living,
To only know myself in others’ eyes, reflected.”
― Alberto Caeiro, The Collected Poems of Alberto Caeiro

This is my view this afternoon. Drinking tea and making goals for winter vacation. And the best part is…I can see!

It is still a bit strange to lie down for bed at night with complete awareness of my surroundings. Soon, I will get used to it, but currently the absence of haze and blur that remind my brain it is time for bed is disconcerting. There seems to be too much visual stimulation.

Conversely, I find it much easier to wake up in the morning, without the comfortable fog distorting my vision. I am astutely aware of where I am, how beautiful the sunrise is, and exactly what time it is.

Thanksgiving was wonderful. Three days of early-season skiing with friends. Delicious food with Galen’s family. Anticipation for the new niece or nephew (ready for delivery any day now)! And always, thought-provoking conversations with friends and so much laughter my belly still hurts.

I am starting to feel like me again and it feels good.

Flagstaff, AZ

“My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue, an everlasting vision of the ever changing view.”

Carole King

Looking forward.

I am enjoying the last morning of near-sighted vision, hopefully forever. I flew in from Denver yesterday, where I was welcomed with a blanket of snow. It was a fun trip visiting with friends and family, drinking nice wine and getting rooftop views of downtown.

Now I am trying to prepare myself for eye surgery. It is so strange for me to think that I may not need glasses or contacts. I have worn glasses for twenty years. In so many ways my near-sightedness has defined me. I am thrilled to think about waking up and being able to see stars. I will no longer have to worry about my contacts washing out mid-rapid, and blindly trying to navigate my way down. It is surreal to imagine waking up and feeling completely capable, able to walk without touch, and recognize faces. Yet, I feel a small sense of identity loss as well. Glasses and contacts have always been a part of who I am. It seems silly, but with all the newfound freedom I hope to gain, I also feel a small loss of self.

I am opting for PRK, minimizing my risks as much as possible. It is a short procedure with a relatively short recovery.  This morning is going by quickly as I work on getting my affairs in order for the next week. I will try my best to update this blog with regard to my eye surgery, but I am not sure how well my eyes will be able to tolerate screens the first few days.

So wish me luck as a laser vaporizes tissue from my cornea. Sounds kind of terrifying when I think about it that way. See you (I hope!) on the other side.

SFO

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.”
― Edith Sitwell

Bag is packed. On the move, yet again. A short flight over the Rockies to see family and friends. Then another short flight to see more family and friends, get my eyes fixed, and finally catch a ride up to northern California to move out on our boat.

Moving, once again.

As I cozy up to these sticky, plastic, airport seats with a chai tea in one hand a crossword in the other, I can’t help thinking about home, and what that word means. Is home a familiar place, or a person, or something you can own and tangibly have?

The ones I love are scattered across the globe like confetti. I guess that just means I have many homes. And I have a person and he is my home, yet we continually struggle to find OUR home.

In some senses airports have become my most familiar place, second perhaps to Henry, my not-so-trusty Astro van. Airports are the places I find myself going to see the ones I love. They are, in many ways, a representation of my life: always going somewhere, but never really anywhere.

This winter I am trying to change that. I am working to define my home. What is it, who is it, where is it?

Dillon Beach

“No one looks stupid when they’re having fun”

-Amy Poehler

The swells look huge. Big, blue shadows grow behind us, and at the shout “outside!”, nine women paddle out hard, toward the looming shadow. As we approach this massive giant, it begins to foam white. I paddle harder. Just as the wave is beginning to break I reach the top, take a massive boof stroke and find myself flying down the back side. Looking to the left and right I see the other women sliding down the back side of the wave. Two boats are upside down, caught in the break. They roll up effortlessly. One other is off on the wave, carving, slashing, bracing and holding on for dear life.

So this is kayak surfing.

My first time catching a wave on the ocean, I roll over. My paddle catches in the whitewash and I can not get it out of the water. I panic, pull my skirt and swim. As I push my boat towards the rocky-beach, I feel a huge immensity of relief.

A year ago this would have brought me to tears. Any swim I took, I dwelled on it for months. It didn’t matter if I had perfect lines or if I nailed every other roll. If I swam once, that stretch was a failure that I could not get past. The more I beat myself up for swimming, the more often I did it. It was a cycle that I could not free myself from.  Kayaking was no longer fun.

It was not really until I went kayaking with a group of girls this spring, that I realized how much I was cheating myself. It seemed every rapid that someone would swim and the unthinkable would happen. They would laugh! They were having fun!

I had no problem when other people swam, in fact, I was always happy to help them get their gear all together. So why was I holding myself to a different standard? And by holding myself to this standard, I was taking something away from those able to enjoy kayaking, swimming, and everything that goes with it.

After that trip I made a resolution. Kayaking should be fun, otherwise I need to stop.

As I make my way out of the ocean after a day of surf kayaking, my hands are bleeding, my neck rubbed raw from my dry-top and my nose effectively flushed with salt water. Every muscle hurts and my legs can barely move from being trapped in a play-boat that is just a little too small.

We drag our boats up on shore and dump out all of the sea water we managed to have taken onboard. Everyone is laughing about the unintentional cartwheels, the near-collisions, reveling in the glassy, green waves and the foaming, frothing, whitewash. I swam twice, rolled five times. I was by far the worst kayaker on the water. Smiling to myself, I deem it a successful first surfing session.

Sausalito, CA

Most people treat the present moment as if it were an obstacle that they need to overcome. Since the present moment is life itself, it is an insane way to live.

Eckhart Tolle

It is a beautiful day out. One of the last days I will have to drive into town…maybe one of the last days I will have to drive all winter long!  Leaves are falling, the morning is crisp, and it looks a little too windy for a paddle.

From the docks at SeaTrek I can barely see the top of the boat we are calling our home for the next few months. Her name is Mana, or Manatee. She’s a beautiful 36′ motor boat, ideally set up to live-aboard, complete with a three-burner stove, a small oven, even a washer and dryer. At night you can look out across the bay and see the lights from the City, as well as the twinkling lights along the docks, where the other boat-people live. She is five-minutes walking to Galen’s work, or a five-minute paddle if the sidewalk seems too congested.

This morning I feel a world of possibilities opening up. New places to discover and old places to see from a different view. A good amount of trepidation, and the feeling you get in your stomach, right before a big adventure is about to start…

Woodacre, CA

“It is in no man’s power to have whatever he wants; but he has it in his power not to wish for what he hasn’t got, and cheerfully make the most of things that do come his way.”

–Seneca

Fall is in full force. A time to sit with a cup of tea and think. Time to slow down, to breathe, to accept what has passed and not think too heavily on what is to come. In California, fall is finally here.

This river season was incredible. Spring in Grand Canyon was all backwards, April was warm, May was cold, June was rainy. Many morning we woke up and clouds hung low between the red walls of the canyons. The desert was a brilliant green and if not for the unmistakeable limestone cliffs, one could have thought it was a tropical river.

Idaho showed me ashy rivers, warmer than usual because of the hot and dry summer. In August, fires burned all around us. Smokey skies covered our stars and instead the night brought pockets of orange and red flame burning on the hillsides all around us. The animals had left. We felt entirely alone.

I left Idaho in the midst of the biggest forest fires I had ever experienced. My trusty van, Henry, and I made our way back to Arizona for the final Grand Canyon trips of the season. A long Indian summer with some spectacular rain storms. And now, the season is done and here I am; in Woodacre with time to sit and appreciate fall.