Wednesday, August 12, 2020

Cancelled: the New Normal

A plan is merely a pipe dream these days. Damn near every time I think I've set something in stone, it crumbles before fruition. Regulations proliferate, closures continue, and comfort levels vary unpredictably in terms of socialization and exposure. Cancelled is the new normal.
I was wildly excited for my "plan" to backpack to Bear Camp in the Mt. St. Helens backcountry this week with my road dog Claire. Unfortunately, she was just exposed to the C word at work and is isolating. Once again I found myself with plans dissolved and empty days to fill. Claire was the permit holder for our site, and I can't honestly say I'm comfortable with the idea of backpacking alone (yet?!). Instead, I've decided to start a step below and embark on my first solo camping trip.

I've lived alone for years, hiked alone, traveled alone: road trippin', hopping planes, sleeping in hostels and hotels across the US and abroad, but somehow I've never camped by myself. I'm excited to do something outside my routine and round-the-way radius. Ironically, I'm actually sick and tired of doing shit alone. But as we crest the 5 month mark of quarantine, I'm itching to at least do NEW things alone. Somewhere else. Anywhere else, so help me God...
I moved out of Seattle desperate for all the things I've acquired here: a slower pace, privacy, time alone to nurse my creativity, easier access to the outdoors. All in all, my time in Olympia has been the perfect antithesis to my previous life. I'm ever grateful for the intermission.
The first year here was great, the second okay, and now I'm beyond ready for the next adventure. It's not exactly the easiest time to uproot your entire life; I wonder constantly what forming community and connection in a new place will take during these socially distanced times. I can't know until I try, but the fear of incidentally isolating myself even more does weigh on my heart. I have wonderful friends here and of course, in the city. Still, the road is calling and departure is nigh...(more on that soon!)

I honestly think part of the existential crisis of ageing is the lack of "newness" and a persistent sense of deja vu that nags at the psyche; a feeling that so much of what is happening or even being said from day to day is a version of something I've already experienced. Seeking newness, novelty, and edging out the boundaries of my comfort zone are attempts to slow the process-or at least my awareness-of getting older. 
Western pasqueflower

Sweet mock-orange
Photos from my (solo, haaaa) hike to Glacier Basin last Friday. Certainly one of the easiest and most accessible trails I've done at Rainier, while still avoiding the huge parking lots at the visitor centers. An amazing place to witness the wildflowers and to continue practicing plant identification. I also encountered more bear scat than I've ever seen, but no sightings. WTA trip reports have recorded more bear sightings than ever before in the park this year, as evidenced by this insane photo from nearby Spray Park.

7 miles

1470 ft. elevation gain


Forever favorite


Thursday, August 6, 2020

Hieroglpyhics and Harry's Ridge

Suddenly another month has passed since my last post. I always have things to say-if you know me, you knowwwww this. The girl can talk. I don't always have the motivation necessary to scribe. 

I go through such phases with sharing my writing. With everything actually. I swing between two states of self (Gemini placement anyone?): an open book who wears her heart on her sleeve, achingly earnest, to a private, self reliant, and suspicious loner. 

I often wonder what my writing is "doing" if it's just a shout into an empty canyon. At times an echo back in the form of self reflection. Recently I received two emails (Hi Ruthie and Andrew!) about this blog. I told both readers that posting here often feels like the proverbial tree falling in the woods. Is anyone around to hear? Did they need to be, to make it real? More over, does any of it even matter?

"And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep."

Actually, this blog gets quite a lot of views-but the comment feature has been disabled for months if not a year now, and I can't figure out how to allow anyone other than Blogger members to comment. I know people are reading, even when it feels like I'm dumping sentences and personal musings into a vortex of infinite space. The occasional comment from someone in India or Virginia used to be some sort of confirmation of felled trees in the forest of More Life Less Waste, I suppose.
It doesn't help that I (like many others) remain suspended in an ongoing existential crisis. What are words and writing worth if the planet is dying, and people are too? Disease, violence, race wars, bombs, global warming. What if everything is going to end much sooner than we imagined? What if a long, rounded out life just isn't in the cards for my generation, or those after?

The only answer I've come to in pondering these (dark, real) thoughts is another question- who are we, if not our memories?

What I write is mine. My legacy of lived experience is my baby-quite likely the only one I'll ever have. Cultivating a consistent allegiance to record keeping is the only way I know to honor the memories and experiences of my time here on Earth. 

I see my words as tombstones in the graveyard of time. Moments lived and disorderly thoughts wrangled. Feelings-real but fleeting, fraught with unpredictability, recorded for reflection and remembrance.

It may be delusional, but continuing to share anything I write publicly is basically my hieroglyphics. I find great comfort in imagining a post-apocalyptic world wherein future Earth dwellers stumble upon these memories and experiences and find something in them. If that happens in this lifetime too, even better.

We tend to paint the past with the paintbrush of nostalgia. Conveniently forgetting the painful parts whenever possible and elevating the things that we don't have anymore. Our memories become muddled versions of reality. Being hyper consistent about journaling, and sharing what feels right to share, is the best way for me to get a firm grip on things before time passes and suddenly I've forgotten what really was. How it felt, what it meant to me. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Learning from our personal history is the only way to course correct and hop off the wheel of Samsara, a purgatory of repetition.

To record and to remember are deeply important core values in my life. And though things can feel overwhelming in all that remembering and picking apart, it nonetheless feels like a worthy and actually necessary task. So please take today's post as my verbal re-commitment to regular entries. To find a rhythm to sharing, despite the feelings of impending doom and potential meaninglessness.

My sage Natalie Goldberg says to "Shut up and write anyway." Today I listened.

"If everything was forgotten, what were you? Weren't you all that had happened before? And if you didn't remember it, then you lost part of you too. And instead you would be patchwork pieces of you..... Everything else behind her had blurred into floating impressions already."
-Martine Murray

Last Saturday I pulled out of my driveway at 5:47am in hopes of reaching Harry's Ridge at Mt. St. Helens before too many others. I hadn't been on this trail in two years. The first few hours were good, but slowly more and more people began to emerge, returning from back country camping or sunrise on the ridge, and catching up to me from the parking lot. Too many unmasked, unaware humans for the last 2 miles of this hike, where passing becomes more difficult. Ah well, the drive was fully worth it for the intoxicating smell of fields of lupine in perfect bloom. My absolute favorite flower.

8 miles
1550 ft elevation gain

St. Johns wort blooming

Monday, July 6, 2020

Chief Owhi and Owyhigh Lakes

With the 3rd of July off work and a weekend camping trip rescheduled, I left my casa just after 6am to meet Francis in Bonney Lake. We fueled up on cold brew and arrived at Owyhigh Lakes trailhead, just past Cayuse Pass, with only two wrong turns in tow. Honestly, is it even a hike if you don't drive the wrong way down a forest road at least once?

At this point I'm fairly certain that Francis thinks I'm a masochist as I've repeatedly under-exaggerated hikes I invite him on. Rainier tends to be that way though, with most trails starting at a minimum of 5,000ft. Nothing to scoff at when you live at sea level. Ah well, Franny certainly gets the trophy for coolest cucumber and most easy-going company a hiker could hope for.

Despite high elevation, extra mileage, and slippery snow fields near the top, our resting view at the lakes was astounding. I've never done this trail, and I think it's largely unknown to most because it's one of those rare hikes within Rainier that doesn't actually feature a view of beautiful Tahoma. Instead, a set of dark jagged peaks loom in the distance (Governors Ridge and Tamanos Mountain), forming a perfectly picturesque backdrop for the alpine lake duo. This range of the Cascades is very reminiscent of the Italian Dolomites.

Pasque flower blooming in the meadow

Owyhigh (O-Y-High) Lakes were named after Yakama Chief Owhi. Who exactly named these lakes in his honor is unclear; the National Park's brief mention of Owhi doesn't seem to be accurate, given what I was able to find about him through a deep dive on the web. Owhi doesn't even have a Wikipedia page, which is upsetting and something I plan to correct. I was able to learn more about his history through articles on his son, Qualchan, historical references on local tribal websites, and History Link, which I often use to verify non-revisionist (i.e. non-colonialist) Washington history.

Owhi was born into the We-ow-icht family. Both he and Qualchan were highly respected warrior chiefs of the Yakama nation. They participated in the Walla Walla Counsel of 1855, warning the American government against its continued advancement onto and occupation of their native lands. Ultimately, the collective Indigenous nations represented at the counsel agreed to establish 'permanent' boundaries that would cost them over 6 million acres, supposedly securing their borders and sovereignty in exchange.

Three years later, Colonel George Wright led the infamous Horse Camp Slaughter in Spokane, killing 800 horses owned by the confederated tribes of the area. His men also set fire to their grain storehouses, effectively starving the local Natives. In response to this massive loss, Owhi arrived at Wright's camp to discuss a renewed peace treaty. Instead, Wright immediately had him shackled and sent word for his son Qualchan to surrender if he wanted to see his father alive.

Wright had become convinced (or at least claimed) that Qualchan was responsible for the death of local government agent Andrew Bolon, employed as an "Indian Affairs" officer. Historians have since proven that it was not Qualchan who murdered him.

Regardless, Qualchan arrived as soon as he heard of his father's entrapment, waving a white flag of surrender. He was hung less than fifteen minutes after he reached Wright's camp. Owhi was held prisoner for a few days, until he broke free of his captors and attempted to run. He was shot and killed.

Alongside the murders of these distinguished warrior chiefs, father and son, at least six other natives were hung at Wright's camp in Spokane that week alone. Sin-too-too-olley, "river of the small fish" became known as Hangman's Creek. This progression from the massive horse slaughter to the deaths of Owhi and Qualchan is regarded as the beginning of the end of indigenous resistance in the Pacific Northwest. It was far from the end of the calculated violence and attempted extermination under Wright's watch.

Beautiful Alaskan Cedars

Red Elderberry

Hoping for marmot sightings but no such luck

Double frog joy in the snow fields

8.5 miles
~2,000 ft. elevation gain

Friday, June 26, 2020

Divinity for the Faithless

Conventional is not a word I use to describe myself. I've been more than happy to buck the status quo as often as possible, and if we're being honest, I've gleaned a staggering amount of smug satisfaction from being such an anti-mainstream non-traditionalist. For all the times I've joked about my lack of belongings and my desire to pick up and disappear in the middle of the night, I've felt in my bones that the tail lights of my midnight Uhaul peeling out were more reliable a future than anything else. 

"Why does freedom pull so tightly at our hearts? It is because freedom is tightly bound to the human desire for ascension- our natural drive to rise from our circumstances and actualize our goals, our potential, our highest self."
-Brendon Burchard

Lately though, as more and more of my friends cross huge life thresholds towards marriage, family, and big moves, or we grow otherwise farther apart in station & circumstance, I've experienced more persistent doubt than ever before. The quiet voice inside has become more urgent and less apathetic. It's actually difficult to admit how frequently I now wonder whether my years spent grasping too tightly to an unyielding idea of freedom may end up stranding me on an island of my own making (Wilson?!...are you there Wilson?!)

What is this unwelcome self-doubt about? I've always taken sincere pride in being an independent and free spirited human. I like those qualities, I revere them in myself and others! Is it quarantine, my age, or being single for toooo long? Or am I simply falling into the good old comparison trap?

"I wondered about this particular destiny, if it was really ours. Maybe there were others to be pursued. Maybe destiny was a limitless, open road."
-Linda Hogan

It has not been my way to assume or predict what the cosmos have in store for me. Not knowing has always been quite liberating. But now that I find myself in thought of the future more consistently and with more impatient consternation, I've been wondering: Can you believe in a divine plan for yourself without believing in God?

What divinity is there for the faith-lacking or Godless among us? Those who are comfortable with the idea of a great, swirling energy source in support of the Universe, but not much more. Who'd like to believe that they were born for a reason and with inherent gifts to offer, but who desperately need to exercise plenty of freedom along the way. Glorious room to experiment, screw up, and otherwise cast our own magic as we unfurl our unique road map. 

For me, faith equates to believing that the best is yet to come. And divinity as I see it, is really synchronicity, even serendipity, and joyful alignment with our highest self.

I suspect that the answers to my questions lie in the Middle Path. I'd like a dose of both destiny and free will, please and thank you, Universe. Seriously-can I get some direction here on the next phase of my life? Specifically where to live, or meet a good man? Can I tap in and out of a divine intervention to preserve my wild freedom yet seek assistance when trapped? What are the rules after all?!

Do things really have to fall apart to fall together, as Pema famously wrote? How close to a rock-bottom of total confusion do we have to hit before clarity and inspiration comes bounding in? It seems harder than ever to plan for the future in a world so overrun by extremism. Things feel less promised, certainly less secure.

Further, what if you miss the train to your destiny by only a moment, or make one wrong turn? How do you make peace with the paths not taken and near misses that feel like failures to launch? The distinction between an intuition to pause and fear holding you back can be hard to discern.

But as Wu-Tang scholar RZA wrote, "Confusion is a gift from God....The confusion is there to guide you. Seek detachment and become the producer of your life."

I know that no one else, be it angel, spirit, or partner, will magically appear in a shroud of mist to guide me. Support or inspire? Yes. And though I take RZA's words to heart, it feels like I've been sitting in confusion for a little too long, pretending that I'm not waiting for lightning to strike. My restless spirit and proclivity for longing are well documented on this blog, that's for sure. It's as if I've been on a Vipassana retreat for much, much longer than the standard ten days (though, with snack breaks).

Hey- I guess at some point you either give up or you give in. Faith seems to be mostly a matter of surrender. Believing in the mysterious timing of your life while also having some serious doubts seems very human and mostly okay. Sitting in confusion is certainly better than sitting in grief or anger.

Rest assured! I will continue to ponder the divine plan that may be working in silence around me. Through me? Luckily, I have an endless curiosity to lead me forward. I just need to stay aware so I don't make the mistake of blocking my own blessings. Keep my eyes open for signposts and signals along the way-and be willing to leap whenever the thrill feels expanding or sweetly serendipitous. I don't know about you, but I often have to reminder myself to just do it. Whatever I've been planning or drafting, even if it's farrrr from perfect, do it regardless. It's hard to produce results without earnest participation.

"We, ourselves, are capable of rewriting the play or changing our roles by applying intention, grasping the opportunities that arise from coincidence, and being true to the calling of our souls."
-Deepak Chopra

* Photos from a past hike at Mt. Rainier because I haven't been on an outdoor adventure since the Ladies Roadtrip three weeks ago. I can't wait for the road to Sunrise to open! As well as HWY 504 out to Mt. St. Helen's. Quite a few of our mountain passes are still burdened by snow. Claire secured a back country permit to camp in the Helen's blast zone at Mount Margaret mid-August, which I'm really excited about. *

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

Ladies Roadtrip

Roadside attractions

Buffalo Eddy

Along the Snake River

The Blue Mountains in the distance

Blessings from Asotin, WA

Atop Steptoe Butte

Anna, Queen of the world/my heart

Reuben's Hazealicious IPA: 4/5 bottlecaps

Palouse Falls

Palouse River

Gingko Petrified Forest